“A lump of coal—that’s for you, Thomas.” His oldest brother threw it at him, and Thomas caught it good-naturedly.
“Excellent fielding,” John said. “Do you all still play cricket?”
“We do,” Thomas said, and the cousins went off on a long aside about cricket games past and present.
Lord Merrickson roared at them to cease, though without rancor. Lady Merrickson greeted John and Captain Ingram with a warm smile. John took on the cross-eyed, smitten look he always wore in front of Jane’s mother. Jane did not believe him in love with her mother, exactly, but awed by her. Many gentlemen were.
Captain Ingram, on the other hand, was deferential and polite to Lady Merrickson, as was her due, but nothing more.
As Ingram moved back to Jane, she noted that his greatcoat was gone—taken by one of the footmen. His uniform beneath, the deep blue of a cavalryman, held the warmth of his body.
He leaned to her. “Do they ever let you insert a word?” he asked quietly.
Jane tried not to shiver at his voice’s low rumble. “On occasion,” she said. “I play a fine game of cricket myself. Or used to. As John said, I am much too prim and proper now.”
“No, she ain’t,” the middle Randolph cousin, Marcus, proclaimed. “Just this summer she hiked up her petticoats and took up the bat.”
“A pity I missed it,” John said loudly. “We ought to scare up a team of ladies at camp, Ingram. Officers wives versus …”
Marcus and Thomas burst out laughing, and the oldest cousin, Digby, looked aghast. “I say, old chap. Not in front of Jane.”
“Your pardon, Jane.” John looked anything but sorry. He was unusually merry tonight. Perhaps he’d imbibed a quantity of brandy to stave off the cold of the journey.
“I am not offended,” Jane answered. “But my mother might be.”
Lady Merrickson was not at all, Jane knew, but the admonition made John flush. “Er …” he spluttered.
“Whisky!” Digby snatched up the bottle and held it high. “Thank you, John. All is forgiven. Marcus, fetch the glasses. Mr. MacDonald, the black bun is for you, I think.”
Grandfather snatched up the cake wrapped in muslin and held it to his nose. “A fine one. Like me old mum used to bake.”
Grandfather’s “old mum” had a cook to do her baking, so Jane had been told. His family had lived well in the Highlands before the ’45.
Outside, the piper Grandfather had hired began to drone, the noise of the pipes wrapping around the house.
“What the devil is that?” John demanded.
“I believe they are bagpipes,” Captain Ingram said. His mild tone made Jane want to laugh. “You have heard them in the Highland regiments.”
“Not like that. Phew, what a racket.”
Grandfather scowled at him. “Ye wouldn’t know good piping from a frog croaking, lad. There are fiddlers and drummers waiting in the ballroom. Off we go.”
The cousins, with whisky and glasses, pounded out of the dining room and along the hall to the ballroom in the back of the house. John escorted Jane, hurrying her to the entertainment, while Captain Ingram politely walked with Grandfather. The terrace windows in the ballroom framed the bonfires burning merrily a mile or so away.
Three musicians waited, two with fiddles, one with a drum. They struck up a Scottish tune as the family entered, blending with the piper outside.
Guest who’d been staying at the house and those arriving now that the First-Footer ritual was done swarmed around them. They were neighbors and old friends of the family, and soon laughter and chatter filled the room.
Grandfather spoke a few moments with Captain Ingram, then he threw off his shawl and cane and jigged to the drums and fiddles, cheered on by Jane’s cousins and John. Ingram, politely accepting a whisky Digby had thrust at him, watched with interest.
“I am not certain this was the welcome you expected,” Jane said when she drifted near him again.
“It will do.” Ingram looked down at her, his gray eyes holding fire. “Is every New Year like this for you?”
“I am afraid so,” Jane answered. “Grandfather insists.”
“He enjoys it, I’d say.”
Grandfather kicked up his heels, a move that made him totter, but young Thomas caught him, and the two locked arms and whirled away.
“He does indeed.” Some considered Jane’s grandfather a foolish old man, but he had more life in him than many insipid young aristocrats she met during the London Season.
The music changed to that of a country dance, and couples formed into lines, ladies facing gentlemen. John immediately went to a young lady who was the daughter of Jane’s family’s oldest friends and led her out.
“Lady Jane?” Ingram offered his arm. “I am an indifferent dancer, but I will make the attempt.”
Jane did not like the way her heart fluttered at the sight of Captain Ingram’s hard arm, outlined by the tight sleeve of his coat. Jane was as good as betrothed—she should not have to worry about her heart fluttering again.
Out of nowhere, Jane felt cheated. Grandfather’s stories of his courtship with her grandmother, filled with passion and romance, flitted through her mind. The two had been very much in love, had run away together to the dismay of both families, and then defied them all and lived happily ever after. For one intense moment, Jane wanted that.
Such a foolish idea. Better to marry the son of a neighbor everyone approved of. Prudence and wisdom lined the path to true happiness.
Jane gazed at Captain Ingram, inwardly shaking more than she had the first time she’d fallen from a horse. Flying through the air, not knowing where she’d land, had both terrified and exhilarated her.
“I do not wish to dance,” she said. Captain Ingram’s expression turned to disappointment, but Jane put her hand on his sleeve. “Shall we walk out to the bonfires instead?”
The longing in his eyes was unmistakable. The captain had no wish to be shut up in a hot ballroom with people he didn’t know. Jane had no wish to be here either.
Freedom beckoned.
Captain Ingram studied Jane a moment, then he nodded in resolve. “I would enjoy that, yes.”
Jane led him from the ballroom, her heart pounding, wondering, as she had that day she’d been flung from her mare’s back, if her landing would be rough or splendid.
Chapter 3
As much as he wished to, Spencer could not simply rush into the night alone with Lady Jane. Such a thing was not done. Lady Jane bade two footmen, who fetched Jane’s and Spencer’s wraps, to bundle up and accompany them with lanterns. The lads, eager to be out, set forth, guiding the way into the darkness.
Five people actually tramped to the bonfires, because the youngest of the cousins, Thomas, joined them at the last minute.
“You’re saving me,” Thomas told Spencer as he fell into step with them. “Aunt Isobel wants me standing up with debutantes, as though I’d propose to one tomorrow. I ain’t marrying for a long while, never fear. I want to join the army, like you.”
“Army life is harsh, Mr. Randolph,” Spencer said. “Unmerciful hours, drilling in all weather, not to mention French soldiers shooting at you.”
“Not afraid of the Frenchies,” Thomas proclaimed. “Tell him, Janie. I want to be off. I’ll volunteer if Uncle won’t buy me a commission.”
“He does speak of it day and night,” Lady Jane said. She walked along briskly but not hurriedly, as though the cold did not trouble her at all. “Do not paint too romantic a picture of army life, please, Captain, or you might find him in your baggage when you go.”
“Perhaps Major Barnett should speak to him as a friend of the family,” Spencer said, trying to make his tone diffident.
Jane laughed, a sound like music. “It is Major Barnett’s fault Thomas wants to be a soldier in the first place. John writes letters full of his bravado. Also of the fine meals he has with his commanding officers, and the balls he attends, which are full of elegant ladies.”
Spencer
hid his irritation. Lady Jane held a beauty that had struck him to the bone from the moment he’d beheld her—her dark hair and azure eyes more suited to a faery creature floating in the mists of a loch than a young miss dwelling on a country farm in the middle of England.
If Spencer had been fortunate enough to have such a lady waiting for him, he’d write letters describing how he pined for her, not ones about meals with his colonel and wife. As far as Spencer knew, Barnett did not have a mistress, but he did enjoy dancing and chattering with the officers’ wives and daughters. Man was an ingrate.
Barnett had mentioned the daughter of his father’s closest neighbor on occasion, but not often. Never rejoiced in receiving her letters, never treasured them or read bits out. Nor hinted, with a blush, that he couldn’t possibly read them out loud.
He’d only spoken the name Lady Jane Randolph that Spencer could remember a few weeks ago, when he’d announced he’d be returning to England for New Year’s. He’d obtained leave and had for Spencer as well.
Spencer had been ready to go. Melancholia commanded him much of late, as he saw his future stretching before him, bleak and grim. If he did not end up dead on a battlefield with French bullets inside him, he would continue life as a junior officer without many prospects. Bonaparte was tough to wedge from the Peninsula—he’d already taken over most of the Italian states and much of the Continent, and had his relatives ruling corners of his empire for him. Only England and Portugal held out, and there was nothing to say Portugal would not fall.
Even if Napoleon was defeated, there was noise of coming war in America. Spencer would either continue the slog in the heat and rain of Portugal or be shipped off to the heat and rain of the New World.
Even if Spencer sold his commission in a few years, as he planned, what then? He itched to see the world—not in an army tent or charging his horse across a battlefield, but properly, on the Grand Tour he’d missed because of war. But Bonaparte was everywhere.
More likely, Spencer would go home and learn to run the estate he’d eventually inherit. He didn’t like to think of that day either, because it would mean his beloved father had died.
John Barnett, rising quickly through the ranks, courtesy of familial influence, had this beautiful woman to return to whenever he chose, one with a large and friendly family in the soft Berkshire countryside.
And the idiot rarely spoke of her, preferring to flirt with the colorless daughters of his colonels and generals.
If Bonaparte’s soldiers didn’t shoot Barnett, Spencer might.
The village was a mile from the house down a straight road, easy to navigate on a fine night, but Spencer shivered.
“Are you well, Captain Ingram?” Lady Jane asked in concern. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have come out. You must be tired from your travels. Holidays are not pleasant when one has a cold.”
“I am quite well,” Spencer answered, trying to sound cheerful. “I was reflecting how peaceful it all is. Safe.” No sharpshooters waiting to take out stragglers, no pockets of French soldiers to capture and torture one. Only starlight, a quiet if icy breeze, a thin blanket of white snow, a lovely woman walking beside him, and warm firelight to beckon them on.
“Yes, it is. Safe.” Lady Jane sounded discontented.
“Janie longs for adventure,” Thomas confided. “Like me.”
“I, on the other hand, believe this a perfect night,” Spencer said, his spirits rising. “Companionship, conversation. Beauty.”
Thomas snorted with laughter, but Spencer saw Jane’s polite smile fade.
At that moment, village children ran to envelope them and drag them to the bonfire.
The footmen eagerly joined friends and family around the blazes. A stoneware jug made its rounds to men and women alike, and voices rose in song.
Jane released Spence’s arm, the cold of her absence disheartening. She beamed in true gladness as village women greeted her and pulled her into their circle.
Spencer watched Lady Jane come alive, the primness she’d exhibited in her family home dropping away. Her face blossomed in the firelight, a midnight curl dropped to her shoulder, and her eyes sparkled like starlight—his faery creature in a fur-lined redingote and bonnet.
Barnett has a lot to answer for, he thought in disgust. She deserves so much more.
But who was Spencer to interfere with his friend’s intentions? Perhaps Barnett loved her dearly and was too bashful to say so.
The devil he was. When Barnett had greeted Jane tonight, he’d betrayed no joy of at last being with her, no need for her presence. He was as obtuse as a brick. Barnett had Jane safely in his sights, and took for granted she’d always be there.
Man needed to be taught a lesson. Spencer decided then and there to be the teacher.
Jane had forgotten how much she enjoyed the bonfires at New Year’s. The villagers had always had a New Year’s celebration, and when Grandfather came to live with Jane’s family after Grandmother’s death, he’d taught them all about Hogmanay. None of the villagers were Scots, and in fact, had ancestors who’d fought Bonnie Prince Charlie, but the lads and lasses of Shefford St. Mary were always keen for a knees-up.
Jane had come to the bonfires every year as a child with her brother and cousins, and tonight, she was welcomed by the village women with smiles, curtseys, and even embraces.
The villagers linked hands to form a ring around one of the fires. Jane found her hand enclosed in Captain Ingram’s large, warm one, his grip firm under his glove. Thomas clasped her other hand and nearly dragged Jane off her feet as they began to circle the fire at a rapid pace.
She glanced at Captain Ingram, to find his gray eyes fixed on her, his smile broad and genuine. His reserve evaporated as the circle continued, faster and faster. He’d claimed to be an indifferent dancer, but in wild abandon, he excelled.
Jane found she did too. Before long, she was laughing out loud, kicking up her feet as giddily as Grandfather had, as the villagers snaked back and forth. This was true country dancing, not the orchestrated, rather stiff parading in the ballroom.
The church clocks in this village and the next struck two, the notes shimmering in the cold. Village men seized their sweethearts, their wives, swung them around, and kissed them.
Strong hands landed on Jane’s waist. Captain Ingram pulled her in a tight circle, out of the firelight. A warm red glow brushed his face as he dragged Jane impossibly close. Then he kissed her.
The world spun, silence taking the place of laughter, shouting, the crackle of the fire, the dying peal of the bells.
Spencer Ingram’s heat washed over Jane, dissolving anything stiff, until she flowed against him, her lips seeking his.
The kiss was tender, a brief moment of longing, of desire simmering below the surface. Jane wanted that moment to stretch forever, through Hogmanay night to welcoming dawn, and for the rest of her life.
Revelers bumped them, and Spencer broke the kiss. Jane hung in his arms, he holding her steady against the crush.
She saw no remorse in his eyes, no shame that he’d kissed another man’s intended. Jane felt no remorse either. She was a free woman, not officially betrothed, not yet belonging to John, and she knew this with all her being.
Spencer set her on her feet and gently released her. They continued to study each other, no words between them, only acknowledgment that they had kissed, and that it had meant something.
Thomas came toward them. “We should go back, Janie,” he said with regret. “Auntie will be looking for us.”
He seemed to have noticed nothing, not the kiss, not the way Jane and Spencer regarded each other in charged silence.
The moment broke. Jane turned swiftly to Thomas and held out her hand. “Yes, indeed. It is high time we went home.”
“A bone to pick.” Spencer closed the door of the large room where Barnett amused himself alone at a billiards table in midmorning sunlight. His eyes were red-rimmed from last night’s revelry, but he greeted Spencer with a cheerful nod.
“Only if you procure a cue and join me.”
Spencer chose a stout but slender stick from the cabinet and moved to the table as Barnett positioned a red ball on its surface and rolled a white toward Spencer.
Spencer closed his hand over the ball and spun it toward the other end of the table at the same time Barnett did his. Both balls bounced off the cushions and rolled back toward them, Spencer’s coming to rest closer to its starting point than Barnett’s. Therefore, Spencer’s choice as to who went first.
He spread his hands and took a step back. “By all means.”
Spencer was not being kind—the second player often had the advantage.
He remained politely silent as Barnett began taking his shots. He was a good player, his white ball kissing the red before the white dropped into a pocket, often clacking against Spencer’s white ball as well. Spencer obligingly fished out balls each time so Barnett could continue racking up points.
Only when Barnett fouled out by his white ball missing the red by a hair and coming to rest in the middle of the table did Spencer speak.
“I must tell you, Barnett, that I find your treatment of Lady Jane appalling.”
Barnett blinked and straightened from grimacing at his now-motionless ball. “I beg your pardon? I wasn’t aware I’d been appalling to the dear gel.”
“You’ve barely spoken to her at all. I thought this was the lady you wanted to marry.”
Barnett nodded. “Suppose I do.”
“You suppose? She is a beautiful woman, full of fire, with the finest eyes I’ve ever seen, and you suppose you wish to marry her?”
“Well, it’s never been settled one way or another. We are of an age, grew up together. Really we are the only two eligible people for miles. We all used to play together—Jane, her brother, her cousins, me.” Barnett laughed. “I remember once when we dared her to climb the face of Blackbird Hill, a steep, rough rock, and she did it. And once—”
Spencer cut him off with a sweep of his hand. “A spirited girl, yes. And now a spirited woman fading while she waits for you to say a word. She’s halting her life because everyone expects you to propose. It’s cruel to her to hesitate. Criminal even.”
'Tis the Season: Regency Yuletide Short Stories Page 2
