God Rest Ye Merry Spinster

by Rebecca Connolly

  He was extremely tempted to cross himself for good measure as he proceeded down to the main part of the house.

  As filled as the house had been with people when he’d arrived, and as bustling as it had seemed, now it was almost eerily silent, at least in the main entry. Not a single person, family, servant, or guest, could be seen. A house of this magnitude, and he was the lone individual in the vicinity?

  Bizarre.

  Perhaps Elinor had warned them all off, and they’d fled for their morality, abandoning him to an unfamiliar estate for Christmas alone.

  He would not have put it past her.

  A sudden burst of childish laughter suddenly reached his ears, and, intrigued, he headed towards the sound.

  One of the drawing rooms had apparently been taken over by any and all festive greenery that could be had, and a pair of girls seemed more inclined to deck themselves in the greenery than do anything productive with it, and therein lay the source of the giggles.

  He smiled as one of them began twirling while the other wrapped her in ribbon to accompany the evergreen bough draped across her, and he glanced around the rest of the room.

  His breath froze in his chest, seizing up rather painfully.

  The girls were not alone in the room. Also seated within were three grown women he didn’t know, along with Mr. Partlowe, Mrs. Partlowe, and Elinor Asheley herself.

  All of whom stared at him.

  And he stared back.

  Not knowing what else to do, he bowed a bit awkwardly. “Forgive my intrusion,” he said, somehow managing to sound less awkward than he felt. “I heard the girls’ laughter.”

  Mrs. Partlowe smiled with a degree of friendliness, while her sister seemed to grow even colder. Mr. Partlowe could not have cared less and returned his attention to the greenery before him.

  “Have you settled in, Mr. Sterling?” Mrs. Partlowe asked in a carefully polite tone. “I know it can be a bit overwhelming coming into a full house like this, particularly when one is unfamiliar with it.”

  Hugh returned her smile, inclining his head in her direction. “I am, thank you. The home is lovely, and finely decorated. And as for it being full, I have yet to see that myself. I do know you have found yourself recently inundated with unexpected guests, for which I can only apologize for my part.”

  Elinor made a soft sound of disgruntlement, returning her attention to the greenery in her lap. A quick kick from her sister silenced the sound, though Mrs. Partlowe still looked completely innocent.

  “Might I introduce my cousins and my aunt, Mr. Sterling?” Mrs. Partlowe offered, smiling as if to make up for her sister’s disgust. She gestured towards the three women he did not know, all of whom had risen from the floor and waited for their presentation. “Mrs. Asheley, my aunt,” she went on, as the youngest of the women curtseyed, confusing him to no end. “My cousin, Mrs. Layton.” The taller woman with fair hair bobbed quickly, a dimple appearing in both cheeks. “My cousin, Mrs. Grover.” The darkest woman managed to curtsey, though her obviously expanded girth made such things difficult.

  “Anna, Hannah, Alice, this is Mr. Hugh Sterling, an acquaintance from London. His carriage was stranded in the poor road conditions, and he will be staying with us for Christmas.”

  Mrs. Grover chuckled, one hand going to her abdomen. “I pray you were not expecting tranquility, Mr. Sterling. Such a thing does not exist at Deilingh.”

  Hugh smiled at the good-humored woman and bowed. “I consider myself fortunate to find any place hospitable and welcoming for unexpected company, Mrs. Grover. I need no solitude in such circumstances.”

  “No, you are quite used to a rather riotous time of things, are you not?” Elinor muttered from her spot on the floor, separating branches of greenery carefully.

  Someone hissed rather like a cat, and Hugh did his best to ignore it, wherever it had originated.

  Mrs. Partlowe cleared her throat loudly. “Mrs. Asheley is my uncle’s second wife, Mr. Sterling. I would not mention it except I saw your confusion when I referred to her as my aunt.”

  Had he been so careless as to reveal his surprise? Gads, he would never survive such a chaotic turn in this place if he did not have more reserve in his expression.

  “I would never intend…” he began, apology ready on his lips.

  “Tosh,” Mrs. Asheley overrode, waving a hand. “I am quite used to it, I assure you. You need not bridle your tongue among this company. Two of my stepdaughters surpass me in age, and the girls you heard laughing are my daughter, Mariah, and my husband’s granddaughter, Catherine. Can you greet Mr. Sterling, girls?”

  The fair-haired girls gave identical curtseys, which wobbled, and immediately went back to their antics.

  Hugh smiled at that. The children, it seemed, had the right way of things.

  He returned his attention to the adults present. “It is a pleasure to meet you, ladies.”

  Mrs. Layton’s dimples flashed again. “Glad you think so. You will find many, many more ladies to meet while you are here. Do not grow overwhelmed by the volume. None of us take offense readily, or we would all be offended every moment we are together.”

  “Some of us find offense thrust upon us,” Elinor commented in a pleasant voice that would fool no one.

  Hugh glanced over at her out of sheer reaction, knowing he should not.

  Her glare at him was icier than the weather outside could ever be, and he was tempted to return to his waylaid carriage for safety.

  He cleared his throat and, against all instincts towards self-preservation, stepped more fully into the room. “Might I be of some assistance in here?”

  “Doubtful,” Elinor replied without missing a beat.

  This time Elinor received a kick that was not so discreet.

  “What my sister means,” Mrs. Partlowe said quite firmly, “is that we are all rather hopeless, and it would be monstrously unkind to drag you into this melee. But do please be seated, if you think our conversation might interest you.”

  There was no way in the world to know if it would, but considering the only people he really knew in this house were the ones in this room, he might as well stay. One of those people would love to see him drawn and quartered, it was true, but knowing that at least prevented his being surprised by such an attack.

  And surely there were enough sensible family members present to restrain her.

  He couldn’t say anything resembling such about the others at Deilingh, as he wasn’t acquainted with them as yet.

  What if there were more Elinors within?

  A shudder rippled through him, and he opted to sit on a nearby ottoman for safety, all the actual seating of the room being currently occupied with various items of greenery.

  “Is it not a bit early to hang the holiday greenery?” he queried of the room in general. “Christmas Eve is nearly a week away.”

  He saw Elinor stiffen, and he wondered, faintly, if everything he said would irritate her, and if it did, if he could manage to rate the level of irritation based on what he said. Not that he would return to his former villainous ways, but if, in being a respectable houseguest, he could still manage to sin against her sensibilities.

  Without actually sinning at all.

  “It is indeed,” Mrs. Asheley replied from her pile of evergreen boughs. “And while we do tend towards bending the traditional ways in some things, in this we are mostly traditional. We merely organize and prepare greenery for now, and it will go up the evening before Christmas Eve.” She shrugged, smiling. “It gives us an occupation that keeps us out of mischief, I suppose.”

  Mrs. Layton laughed and gave her stepmother a wry look. “Who in here do you suspect of getting into mischief?”

  Mrs. Grover winced and indicated her abdomen. “This one, for one. The child thinks it’s already Christmas Day and is dancing on my ribs.”

  The married women all grimaced sympathetically, while Mr. Partlowe looked mildly uncomfortable by the conversation.

  Elinor frowned
in confusion, then looked at Hugh, probably against her will, and the frown deepened markedly.

  What had he done? He was simply sitting as he had been invited to, and she looked as though he had threatened a puppy.

  Hugh returned his attention to the more pleasant members of the family, smiling with as much kindness as he could. “My mother would be beside herself. She fully holds to the tradition that no greenery could even be in our house before Christmas Eve. She was convinced it would bring us bad luck in the coming year.”

  “More than she already had?” came Elinor’s low reply, though it seemed he was the only one to catch it.

  The other ladies laughed instead. “And where do your opinions on the subject lie, Mr. Sterling?” Mrs. Asheley asked as she began to fold some boughs into each other.

  Hugh shrugged a shoulder. “I am rather of the opinion that a person makes their own luck, ma’am. For good or for ill, we hold the power in ourselves to determine our fate.”

  “That’s a distressing thought for some,” Elinor said without reserve, her tone sounding mild for the first time. “What if a person has led a disastrous life and their fate is to match it? Hardly encouraging, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The pointed nature of her look left no doubt as to whom she was referring, not that Hugh had questioned it one way or the other. He met her gaze as squarely as he could, tipping his chin down enough to be quite direct.

  “Do you believe in redemption, Miss Asheley? Or that a person can change when brought to an awareness of past mistakes? Or are we doomed to live as we have lived, even if we no longer wish to?”

  Her eyes widened and she sat back on her heels, staring at him in outright bewilderment.

  “That sounds like a question for our uncle, Mr. Perry,” Mrs. Layton said with a hint of a laugh. “He is very much concerned with all things spiritual, particularly with regards to one’s soul. He would never abide by the more pagan idea of fate or luck.”

  “No, indeed,” Mrs. Grover agreed, nodding firmly. “But Mr. Sterling does ask a rather good question, I think. What is Christmas for but hope and the chance to improve one’s self?”

  Hugh heard them, acknowledged their answers, but kept his attention fixed on Elinor. It was her answer he was most curious to hear, if she would take it in the proper spirit. He had backed her into a corner, he knew, and he was quite pleased to have done it. What would she do now, before her family, when the target of all her hatred had questioned her so?

  Her wide, blue eyes blinked, the smallest of furrows appearing between her trim brows. He watched as her throat worked, and noted, for the first time, what a slender, pale, elegant throat it was. She wore a small gold cross there, and the cross itself sat tucked rather neatly right in the notch at the base. Why that should attract his attention, he couldn’t say, but attracted he was, and it took all his power not to lower his eyes to that maddening cross to examine it further.

  Much safer to stay with her eyes, swirling with confusion, distaste, and a hint of, dare he say it, interest. Fascinated by him, was she? Well, if she stopped attempting to have him beheaded at every waking moment, she might truly have something to be interested in.

  And those eyes the color of a fair sky in winter might look a little less cold and a little less indignant.

  Merciful heavens, was he finding attractive features in Elinor Asheley? He might have to speak to that Perry uncle of theirs, if the man was in holy orders. Clearly, Hugh Sterling had been overpowered by a demon.

  No, that wasn’t fair. Elinor Asheley was an attractive woman, as any man with eyes would attest. It was only the snarling manner of her nature that kept anyone from feeling the need to do so.

  Or the ability to.

  “Well, Miss Asheley?” he pressed, not entirely sure why he was doing so. He only knew that her answer mattered in some way.

  Somehow.

  Elinor wet her lips carefully, then straightened. “A person can change, certainly, and redemption is possible. For some.”

  He almost smiled at her caveat, but somehow, he managed to avoid it.

  “The only question I have,” she continued, her eyes flashing with an intriguing light as they stayed on his, “is the quality and sincerity of that change. What is to prevent a person from changing yet again? Perhaps into something far worse.” She quirked a daring brow, her lips forming an impetuous line.

  Oh, she was clever, and this time he had to smile, just a little. “Or into something far better.”

  The furrow between her brows deepened into an outright scowl, despite the fact that all of the other women in the room were nodding in agreement with him. Or perhaps because they were nodding in agreement.

  Hugh raised a brow back at her, echoing hers to him.

  He watched the fiery woman inhale, then exhale with would-be calm before pasting a bland smile on her face.

  “Mr. Partlowe,” she said suddenly, “you’re an educated man.”

  Her brother-in-law seemed surprised to be addressed and looked up from his focused work on the boughs in his lap.

  “I like to think so,” he carefully replied.

  Elinor raised the bunch of mistletoe in her lap, tilting her head in question. “When did the hanging of mistletoe begin?”

  Mr. Partlowe thought for a moment. “Well,” he eventually began, “the practice of gathering mistletoe at all in England started in the second century by ancient druids, as far as we know. At the beginning of winter, they gathered the plant from what they considered to be the sacred oak. It was seen as a symbol in that culture, one of harmony, hope, and peace.”

  The others in the room were listening now, and, sensing he had a moderately captive audience, the young giggling girls aside, he warmed to the subject. “Sprigs of mistletoe were hung in various homes in the hopes of heralding good fortune in the coming year. Did you know that mistletoe could also be used for medicinal purposes?”

  “I did not,” Elinor commented in all sincerity, shaking her head.

  “It’s true,” Mr. Partlowe insisted. “The plants were also used for medicinal purposes. It was believed they could promote female fertility and be an antidote for poison.”

  Elinor nodded now, her eyes wide. “Fascinating, Mr. Partlowe. And…”

  “But,” Mr. Partlowe went on, ignoring her attempts to end his explanation, “in Norse mythology, the mistletoe was a sign of friendship and love. It’s widely believed that it is this tradition that has led to the current customs regarding mistletoe.”

  Hugh bit back a laugh as Elinor stared at her brother-in-law, the cursed plant still in her grasp.

  “Indeed, what a thought,” she replied, her tone tight. Then she cleared her throat. “And is it bad luck if the mistletoe falls?”

  Mr. Partlowe reared back a little, his thick brows rising. “I couldn’t say for certain, the details of such are unclear.”

  “Would you think it would be a bad thing?” Elinor pressed, returning her attention to Hugh, keeping her tone ambivalent, even if her gaze was murderous. “Perhaps unlucky?”

  What in the world was she getting at? Why would he be blamed for mistletoe falling anywhere? Was she plotting to curse him with falling mistletoe in the hopes that he would flee the house and her life forever in dismay? She would be disappointed, if that were the case.

  Mr. Partlowe had no such suspicions. “That seems reasonable, yes,” he mused. “Most likely ill-fated love, if you believe in such customs.”

  Elinor smiled, if one could consider such an evil curve to an otherwise impeccable set of lips a smile. “And what if one should have mistletoe thrown at them?”

  Ah, there it was.

  Now Mr. Partlowe looked alarmed. “Well, I can hardly see how that would be a good thing either, particularly with the customs being what they are…”

  Hugh continued to stare at Elinor without shame, daring her to follow through with the unspoken threat after building it up to such an extent.

  She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and he t
hought, for the space of several heartbeats, that she might actually do it.

  Then the moment passed, and she shrugged, dropping her gaze back to the white berries and greenery in her lap. “Let us hope that no mistletoe should fall, then.”

  “Or be thrown,” Hugh murmured, not bothering to also avert his gaze.

  Elinor Asheley was a fascinating creature, and it surprised him to admit it. Her golden hair was plaited in a crown of sorts, though a few ringlets hung in front of her ears and a few curled tendrils flowed from the base of the crown itself. The effect gave her an almost angelic appearance, which was quite disconcerting.

  Almost, because she had yet to smile as he imagined an angel would. Disconcerting, because Elinor Asheley was no angel. Fascinating, but not angelic.

  Her eyes flicked up to his and widened when she caught him staring.

  Was he still staring? He must have been, but why?

  Just… why?

  Elinor scowled with more darkness than she had yet, but her cheeks flushed pink with such haste that it seemed to startle her. She huffed and got to her feet, storming out of the room, notably taking the mistletoe with her.

  Hugh smiled as she left, wondering about that blush he’d seen.

  Perhaps that was why he stared.

  Not likely, but perhaps.

  Chapter Three

  Assumptions may get a body into trouble. One must never ever assume anything, unless one would have assumptions made about themselves. Or is that judgment? This author is not entirely clear, though surely, they are interchangeable in this case.

  -The Spinster Chronicles, 16 September 1817

  This was going to be the worst Christmas ever. Elinor was absolutely certain of it.

  She had no idea what Hugh Sterling was about, but his attempts at polite conversation had irritated her beyond belief. She was destined to bruise from her sister’s repeated kicks, but it was worth it to risk running her mouth as she wished. Hugh Sterling would not dare to insult her in her own home, so she would take every advantage offered.