by Quinn, Paula
Chapter Nine
Julian sat playing draughts with an old Irish sailor called O’Toole.
He arrived at St. Luke’s a couple of hours ago on a whim. In fact, the truth be known, the idea had only come to him after he had seen Caroline and Lucas home after their excursion to the Menagerie today.
Lucas… St. Luke’s.
Hyde Park.
The choir.
The pamphlets.
The Nightingale…
How had he missed something so obvious? And once the idea had rattled around in his mind, it was just one small leap to make a guess at the identity of the writer of the stories that had the city abuzz.
When he arrived, he asked who was in charge and was told it was Reverend Camp who could be found at that moment in the kitchen. Julian went in there and asked a working man scrubbing a pot clean where the reverend was.
“I am he,” replied the man. “How can I help you?”
Julian was taken aback. The reverend didn’t wear his robes of office, just every day working men’s clothes, and here he was with sleeves rolled up doing the work of a scullery maid. He instantly liked the man.
“No, I am here to help you,” Julian had told the man. “I am at your service for the night.”
Julian was told, to his surprise, to simply sit and talk with those who came in.
“These folks don’t want pity,” the reverend said, “just a bit of dignity, a warm feed and a reminder that the good Lord sees everyone the same. Just spend time with them, then let me know I’m right.”
So, he did.
The longer he spoke to them, the more he realized he knew these stories, knew these men and women – he’d read their tales in The Argus.
Caroline was The Nightingale.
Confirming that made him fall in love with her just a little bit more. What a remarkable woman.
A chuckle forced him to concentrate on his game. O’Toole looked at him then took up one of his white counters and, with a clip-clip-clip-clip-clop, Julian found himself on the losing end of the game.
“Ye’re lucky the reverend don’t allow gamblin’ in here. Ye’d have owed me a quid,” the man chuckled.
Julian laughed and shook the man’s hand. “So, tell me, what’s an Irishman doing in London?”
“Most would say I’m up to no good.”
Yes, Julian was aware of the suspicion held of the Irish. Many of them had Jacobin sympathies and others openly supported Napoleon.
“But what do you say?”
“I says I’m just bidin’ my time until I’m well quit of the grog. It’s been three weeks since a drop of liquor touched my lips.”
“Are you feeling better for it?”
“Aye, that I am.”
“Is it hard?”
“It’s bloody hard. Hardest thing I done in my life. But harder still if I can’t keep a job. The reverend says he’ll find me a position if I keeps meself clean for three months and show up here regular.”
“How about another game?” Julian suggested. “You might let me salvage some of my pride and at least try for the best out of seven.”
O’Toole got to his feet.
“No offendin’ yer lordship, but I reckon old Ned over there will give me a better game.”
Julian chuckled, not in the least bit offended. He stood and shook O’Toole’s hand just as Caroline came through the door.
She hadn’t seen him yet and had been immediately engaged in conversation. He enjoyed watching her unguarded, talking to one of the regulars who had become her friends. How would she feel about seeing him here? Would she consider it an intrusion? Did he presume too much?
After today, he hoped to convince her he was serious about them pursuing a future together.
Now Caroline searched for someone. Her eyes scanned the tables, then they fell on him. The smile she gave him was, indeed, a gift he desperately wanted to be worthy of.
He waited as she approached him.
“I understand you’re looking for The Nightingale,” she said quietly.
“I’ve found her, and I hope I’ve found much more.”
“How did you know it was me?”
He told her it started on the trip in the barouche. Suddenly, he could see things through her eyes and he found himself looking at London in a way he had never done before.
Once he started talking, he couldn’t seem to stop. Caroline listened without interruption.
Julian told her of his harsh early childhood in Yorkshire, not one deprived of the immediate necessities of life, but deprived of familial love and affection. He spoke of how his father sent him to school in London to have his northern accent trained and beaten out of him. He supposed he ought to thank him at least for that, the blows notwithstanding, for his learned manner of London speech overcame the prejudices of those who discounted the accent – and intelligence – of the working class.
He told of his desire to do more than his father did. Yes, the old man worked hard – but it was only to enrich himself. There was more Julian could do by putting his skills to work for good.
He told Caroline about how Wheal Gunnis had revitalized the village of Stannum and the plans to help the Viscount of Carmarthan to create a model community with plenty of work and good housing.
“I’ve spent a good hour talking to Reverend Camp about that. He has a few firm ideas in that regard. Do you mind?” Julian asked. “That is, you’ve done so much work here, I don’t want you think that I’m stepping on toes—”
Caroline put a finger to his lips.
“Why else are we here, but to do good?” she told him.
At the end of the night, Caroline refused to let him search for a hansom cab on his own at so late in this part of London, which was how he came to be enjoying the warmth of her carriage – and his arm around her. The Horse Guards Tower Clock chimed eleven as they passed St. James’ Square.
He leaned in for a kiss. It was soft, almost chaste. The fact that she permitted it at all delighted him.
“I feel like Cinderella,” she whispered.
“Why do you think I kissed you at eleven o’clock?” he replied. “Carriages turn into pumpkins at midnight as I recall.”
“Does this mean I don’t have to worry about losing my glass slipper at the Midwinter Ball next week?” she asked as the carriage rolled to a stop outside her door.
Julian picked up her hand and kissed it.
“If you do, I know where you live, and I’ll deliver it personally.
*
“Mama! You look like a princess!”
Caroline turned away from the full-length mirror to look at her son, dressed for bed. It had been a special treat for him to stay up and see his mother dressed in her finery.
“Thank you, darling boy,” she said, dropping a kiss on top of his head. “Now, off to bed. If you go and don’t make a fuss for Nanny, I shall bring home some cake from the party.”
The promise was enough for Lucas to do her bidding.
Caroline did feel like a princess. For the first time since her husband’s grave illness that led to his death, she wore fine jewelry. Aquamarines that glinted silvery-blue shone in a choker about her neck.
Her hair was dressed and set with pearl-topped gold pins. The pear-shaped diamonds at her ears were pieces she had forgotten she owned, and she delighted in how they set off her blue gown and its shimmery white watered satin underskirt.
And any fears she had about the suitability of her appearance disappeared when she saw Julian who waited for her at the bottom of the stairs.
“You look divine,” he said, taking her hand.
Yes, she did feel like a princess; not Cinderella, but Sleeping Beauty because it had taken one kiss from Julian Winter to awaken her from a five-year slumber.
She knew Carmarthan Hall was nearby. She’d passed it before, but she hadn’t appreciated the scale of the townhouse until she saw it all alight.
To her surprise, she was immediately met by people she recogniz
ed, delighted to see her returning to society.
“You do know I intend to monopolize all of your time, Lady Lavene,” Julian whispered in her ear.
“Have a care, Mr. Winter,” she teased. “Your reputation as one of this Season’s eligible bachelors will be over.”
“I think that was over the very first day we met,” he said.
Caroline wasn’t sure about that, but the fact they had spent every day in each other’s company since the excursion to the Menagerie certainly added to his claim.
Julian nodded over to the dance floor where Lydia Stonely danced in the arms of a dashing young Dragoon in his dress uniform. On the far side of the floor, Aunt Harriet could be seen looking on approvingly.
“And what of your young cousin?” Caroline asked. “She was hoping to make a match this Season, too, was she not?”
They searched among the crowd and eventually found Margaret in animated conversation with the young Laird Dougal McFife.
In their strolling about, Caroline had noticed amongst the decoration around the room were cut outs of small birds decorated in gold leaf. She wondered why and was about to ask Julian if he knew when David Manston, Viscount Carmarthan, commanded the attention of the room. He was joined by his viscountess, who looked beautiful in a sapphire blue gown, her curly black hair piled high and kept in place with a silver band. Nearby stood Sir Daniel and Lady Abigail as joint hosts.
“Your Royal Highness, Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight is a special occasion for my wife and me,” he said. “It is our first Season in London and you have graciously made us feel welcome. Our most heartfelt thanks go to Sir Daniel and Lady Ridgeway for helping to make this a memorable occasion.”
The viscountess now spoke up. “You may wonder about the decorations tonight,” she said. “They were chosen for a special reason. They are not canaries or the rare Gold Oriole as you might suppose. These are nightingales. It is rare to see them in London in the winter, but rarer still is the voice that sings so poignantly.”
The viscount took up the tale.
“As you know, the newspapers have been filled with speculation about the identity of The Nightingale whose voice has been given to drawing attention to those less fortunate in our fair capital. Each of our little gold birds has been crafted individually. If they take your fancy, they can be yours for a gold half-guinea which will be collected and given to St. Luke’s Mission in Cheapside for their good works.”
Caroline was grateful for Julian at her side, his arm around her waist, otherwise she feared she might have fainted.
“Is this your doing?” she asked.
Julian had a twinkle in his eye and raised his champagne glass to their hosts and then to Lady Abigail.
“I had assistance,” he said.
“Finally,” said their host, “due to popular demand, we do have gaming tables tonight and we encourage you to win well and donate a percentage of your purse. It’s a good cause this winter. Your generosity will buy blankets and food for others less fortunate – the orphans and widows, and the families of brave men on land and at sea who are fighting Napoleon.”
Applause filled the ballroom. The orchestra struck up for the next dance. Caroline watched guests taking a closer look at the ornaments and making selections already. Perhaps they would decorate a hearth for Christmas. They would certainly fill hungry bellies in less opulent homes.
“Did you wish to dance?” Julian asked as couples took to the floor again.
Caroline shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m so out of touch with the current dances.”
“Good. I’m not sure how fine a dance partner I’d make. I badly injured my knee a few months ago.”
She’d noticed his occasional limp and it was on her lips now to ask about its cause when Julian offered her his arm instead.
“Shall we find somewhere quiet instead, Lady Lavene?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
A blush came to her face easily. Flirtation and romance which she had thought gone, now returned, thrilling her as much as it once had as a debutante.
“Lead on, Mr. Winter.”
He led her upstairs along a gallery into a long candlelit library, where a small fire burned in the grate. On the table was a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Beside it was a small black leather box.
It was not happenstance that brought them here.
“Fate, Lady Lavene,” he said, as though he’d read her mind. He opened the box. Inside was a gold ring mounted with a large emerald surrounded with diamonds.
“Each of us have been searching for family and owning only one half of the whole. I’ve fallen in love with you, Caroline. Will you marry me and allow me to be your husband and a father to Lucas?”
Julian raised her hand to his lips to kiss it, and physical desire as well as love thrummed through her being. She was struck by how right this moment was, how good it was to feel whole again.
She realized her sigh was not an answer, so she gave it.
“Yes, Julian. Yes, my love. I will marry you.”
The champagne remained untouched. She slid off her evening glove for Julian to slip the ring onto her finger.
He leaned forward for a passionate kiss and she returned it readily. The act itself was not unfamiliar, but she enjoyed learning it over again. His lips and tongue traced hers, his embrace filling her with desire, love, joy – all the finest of emotions.
And outside the library window, above the melody of the orchestra below, Caroline fancied she heard the sound of a nightingale singing.
Epilogue
December 25, 1806
Steady drizzle could not mar the morning. St. Luke’s Church was ablaze with candlelight so the whitewashed wall and arches made of marble seemed to glow with golden light.
Caroline hesitated a moment before entering. She glanced at Julian who looked down at her and smiled. It warmed her from within. Julian carried her – their – son at his hip effortlessly.
Lucas pointed at the nativity at the end of the nave and they moved towards it. This year, the display meant more. There was truly hope of new beginnings, of joy, of family.
They got no further than the choir stall when Mrs. Camp, dressed in her choir mistress’ robes, spotted her. She gave Caroline a meaningful glance, a twinkle in her eye that guessed rightly at the reason for their attendance here today. They had not even spoken of it, but Caroline knew Julian wouldn’t object to them being married here in this church.
It wasn’t the largest of London’s churches, nor among the fashionable that attracted the great and the good to its services, but it was the place she was at home.
Some of the Mission’s regulars were dressed in their Sunday finest also and the most tuneful dressed in their choir robes, which included, to her surprise, O’Toole. The man had had a haircut and his salt and pepper beard was trimmed neatly.
More than that, there was a vitality to his face, his eyes bright and clear. She knew Reverend Camp had been gently steering the man away from the demon drink for some time, but this was the first time she noticed the change.
He leaned over the choir stall to speak to them.
“I’m right happy for ye, lass,” he said. “I’m wonderin’ if ye wouldn’t mind indulgin’ this old drunkard here and when the time’s right, givin’ me the honor of walkin’ ye down the aisle.”
Caroline squeezed his arm, unsure whether she could answer without tears. Fortunately, Julian answered for her.
“Then keep your calendar clear for four weeks hence. Mr. O’Toole.”
O’Toole’s hand shot out. Julian shook it.
“Ye do right by our Nightingale here and ye won’t find a more loyal friend than me, sir.”
Reverend Camp approached, his wife at his elbow.
“Good to see you again, sir,” he greeted Julian. “Am I correct in understanding you might wish to discuss a matter with me after the service today?”
“Indeed, sir, I would. I… that is Caroline and I would like you to perform a wedd
ing.”
“Then let me do the honor of reading the first of the banns today.”
The first chord of the organ announced the beginning of the service. Caroline started to lead the way to their pew when Julian touched her on the arm.
“See who is here to join us?”
Filing into the pew were the Ridgeways, and next to them were the Viscount and Viscountess Carmarthan, accompanied by Alexandra’s brother, Phillip.
“Our first Christmas… I can’t think of better than celebrating it here together.”
THE END
“Christmas is a necessity. There has to be at least one day of the year to remind us that we’re here for something else besides ourselves.”
—Eric Sevareid
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Ellen Carter
Heart of the Corsairs Series
Captive of the Corsairs
Revenge of the Corsairs
Shadow of the Corsairs
King’s Rogues Series
Live and Let Spy
Spyfall
Father’s Day (A Novella)
Also from Elizabeth Ellen Carter
Dark Heart
About the Author
Elizabeth Ellen Carter is an award-winning historical romance writer who pens richly detailed historical romantic adventures. A former newspaper journalist, Carter ran an award-winning PR agency for 12 years. The author lives in Australia with her husband and two cats.
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Chapter One
Harry Caverton, more properly his grace the Duke of Trensom and all the other titles that went with it, stepped out of his luxurious carriage into snow nearly a foot deep.
