The Joy of Christmas Present: Sweet Regency Romance (A Dickens of a Christmas Book 2)

by L G Rollins

  Lady Emma folded her arms tightly against her. “My friend is what, exactly?”

  Miss Spencer was . . . well, he couldn’t rightly say. She was pleasing enough to look at, he supposed, in the high-collared, muted dresses she seemed to prefer. But he couldn’t say what kind of a conversationalist she was since they’d still had yet to truly have one.

  “She is high-spirited,” he finally said.

  Lady Emma’s stiff posture fell away, and she leaned in, almost eagerly. “When have you ever seen her act thusly?” Her question was not mocking, but sincere.

  “Well . . .” Pepper in his coffee came quickly to mind.

  “Don’t misunderstand,” Lady Emma hurried on, “I agree. Only, she hasn’t been nearly as vivacious since her father passed.” Her expression turned sad. “I dearly miss who she was before.”

  Fredrick’s heart ached a bit for Miss Spencer. He could relate to the pain of losing a beloved parent. He understood all too well how it changed one, how it took the joy out of life.

  A door opened and he turned toward the sound. Miss Spencer slipped into the corridor and over toward him and Lady Emma. Except—

  She certainly wasn’t wearing any high-collared, muted dress now. Instead, she was attired in mint green; a white ribbon showcased her slim waist, and a matching one in her hair brought out the softness of her curls. Freckles covered her nose and cheeks. Why did auburn-haired women always freckle more than anyone else he knew? Regardless, though society most likely turned their noses up at the so-called ‘imperfections,’ Fredrick found them quite endearing on Miss Spencer. They continued down her cheeks, neck, and past her collar bone—which was bare for the first time ever. Her neckline was not scandalously low, not by any means, but neither was it the high, overly decorous collar he’d seen her wear thus far. The dress, on the whole, fit her well, outlining the curves he’d not realized she had before now.

  “Helena Spencer.” Lady Emma’s tone was scolding. “What do you think you are about?”

  “Since you insist on finding me a husband, I wish him to be a man who likes me, and this is how I care to dress.”

  “Nonsense. You know why that dress is a bad idea.”

  Fredrick couldn’t see anything wrong with how Miss Spencer looked, so he kept his mouth shut and let the two women have it out.

  “I won’t marry a man who believes I only care for staid, bland dresses. Suppose I am then stuck wearing them for the rest of my life?”

  “After you’re married, no man will care how you dress.”

  Fredrick didn’t fully agree; if he had a wife who looked like Miss Spencer did now, he’d very much want her to dress just like that as often as possible.

  “Moreover,” Miss Spencer pressed on, “I only wore those stuffy dresses to avoid gossip. Clearly, that hasn’t worked out. So why continue?”

  Lady Emma turned toward him suddenly. “Your sisters insisted that a man’s perspective would be helpful. So then, tell us, is Helena more likely to make an honorable match dressed like this? Or as she has been dressing?”

  He had been hoping they wouldn’t ask his opinion. He should have known better.

  “I can see why you asked Miss Spencer to dress . . .” His instincts told him ‘boring’ and ‘stale’ were not words he should use right now, so he searched his mind for something else. “. . . with such dignity.” Neither woman seemed upset by that word, so Fredrick hurried on before they changed their minds. “But I agree with Miss Spencer. She should dress in a manner true to herself. It will help her catch the eye of her most promising suitor.”

  Lady Emma pursed her lips. “Is that so?”

  “I believe so.” Plus, Miss Spencer looked stunning. He almost wished he could tell her as much, but given their complicated past, he couldn’t see such a compliment as being anything but awkward. Nonetheless, though it may be a demeaning commentary on his own sex, there was no doubt in his mind that she was far more likely to attract a gentleman’s attention—dishonorable and honorable alike—when she dressed as she was now.

  Lady Emma didn’t have an immediate reply, but neither did she argue.

  “It’s settled then.” Miss Spencer was apparently ready to claim her friend’s silence as surrender. “Let us go down and join the party.” With that, Miss Spencer placed her hand atop Fredrick’s arm.

  Heat blossomed where her hand touched him. Fredrick became instantly aware of how close she stood beside him, of her skirt brushing against his leg. It was only due to years of walking with his sisters and mother that allowed him to act out of instinct and begin walking down the corridor. Lady Emma took his other arm. It was a most natural thing to do, as they were all headed the same direction and, as the gentleman present, it was expected he would see them delivered safely to the drawing room. And yet Lady Emma’s presence was hardly worth noting for how aware he was of Miss Spencer.

  He shouldn’t be so flustered by Miss Spencer’s touch. Had he not walked beside any number of other women during countless occasions?

  Why then, did his whole world suddenly feel as though it was spinning?

  Helena knew the minute she’d slipped away from Emma and decided to change into the mint green dress that her decision would draw attention. She just hadn’t fathomed how much attention. On Lord Chapman’s arm, she entered the drawing room along with Emma. At first, barely a glance was cast their way. But then, first one guest then another stopped and stared, much as Lord Chapman had when she’d first left her bedchamber. She should have known then that her decision would have such a consequence.

  Keeping her gaze up—she was never one to cower under scrutiny—she left Lord Chapman’s side and glided as elegantly as she could manage over to Lady Andrews. They greeted one another and then talked for a few minutes before Lady Andrews excused herself. By then, at least, no one was still watching her, though Helena caught a few quick glances her way. As Lady Andrews left, Lady Shakerley stepped up beside Helena.

  “Good show, dear girl,” she whispered low. “I only wish I’d been there to see Emma’s face when you came walking out looking so breathtaking.”

  Helena smiled. “She gave me an ear full.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Never you mind though because I gave it right back.”

  Lady Shakerley laughed. “Then I’m doubly sorry I missed out. Now,” she draped an arm protectively across Helena’s shoulders, “don’t you mind Miss Wynn or anyone else. You just focus on being the beautiful, confident woman your father raised you to be.”

  A small wave of sorrow rose up at the mention of her Father. Graciously, it was not overwhelming this time. Thankful she’d found a friend in Lady Shakerley, even more so since her father had passed, Helena drew herself up, blinked a few times, and nodded her agreement. He had raised her to not hide in corners or sit silently by as others controlled the conversation.

  As the afternoon rolled on, Helena visited with Lady Eleanor, Lord Forbes, and Lord Andrews, then she spoke with Lord Ellis, and Lord and Lady Shakerley. During a conversation with Lady Andrews, Helena learned that the house’s name, Hedgewood Manor, was appropriately reflected in the large hedge maze spanning the grounds to the South. However, the knowledge of whether or not the maze was first and then the house named to match, or the house named and then the hedge maze grown to match was lost to history.

  At one point during the day, Helena even took a small turn about the room with Miss Wynn; though their conversation was a bit stilted, they got along well enough. Perhaps Emma had been more right about Helena coming for Christmas than even she’d realized. In Town, one was always meeting new people. While that had its advantages, for one with an undeserved reputation, like Helena, it also had its disadvantages. But here, at least she was in company with the same people enough that they had no choice but to begin to see past the rumors—or so she hoped. Only time would tell.

  Lady Andrews was droning on about how unpatriotic it was for her neighbor to set napkins—French napkins—at the sup
per table during a ball several months prior when Helena heard Emma call her name. She made a quick apology and slipped away. It wasn’t that she supported France, far from it, but she’d heard the argument against using napkins enough times for it to have become tedious. Now, if someone could figure out how to end the war and bring their soldiers home, then she would be quite riveted.

  Helena reached Emma’s side, but before she could say anything, her friend took hold of her arm, just above the wrist. It wasn’t an iron-grip hold, but it clearly signified that Helena wasn’t getting away until Emma’s purpose had been revealed.

  Without a word to her, Emma only turned back to those around the card table. “I am so sorry, but I have a dreadful headache coming on. I simply cannot stay and finish the hand.”

  Lord Chapman and one of his sisters—one of these days Helena would learn how to tell the difference—sat on either side of Emma, clearly partnering in their game. Across from Helena was Topper. Emma gave none of them time to respond.

  “I know it’s unforgivable to cry off in the middle of the game and leave you all in the lurch, but I am sure Helena would not mind taking my place at the table. She is much wittier than I and will prove a better partner for you, Topper, I am sure.”

  So this was why Emma had called her over—to force Topper to partner with her. Helena wasn’t sure if she should feel bothered with her friend, or simply thankful. Topper had proven himself to be a considerate gentleman on more than one occasion.

  Emma stood and so did both gentlemen. “I think I just need a bit of a rest before dinner.”

  It was probably best if Helena didn’t bother to argue. Topper expressed his concern over Emma’s headache but also agreed to partner with Helena for the rest of the game.

  Helena slipped into the chair across from him and picked up her cards. It was time she began searching for a husband in earnest.

  Playing a high numbered card, she faced Topper fully. “Tell me, sir,” she began, “have you ever visited the Royal Menagerie?”

  Chapter Eight

  Helena had spent the better part of the past two hours conversing with Lord Forbes. Though he’d been an agreeable enough partner, Helena felt tired and drawn out. She’d forced herself to smile and carry on during her card game with Topper that afternoon. Then she’d conversed with Lord Ellis during dinner and well past the time when her back had begun to ache and her eyes were feeling heavy. After withdrawing and leaving the men to their port, Helena had almost excused herself, but an ardent shake of the head from Emma had stopped her. When the men had finally joined them, Lord Forbes had been last to enter the room and had taken the only remaining available seat—which Helena was certain was the only reason he’d sat next to her.

  As soon as Lady Andrews had excused herself, Helena had followed suit. She had no misconceptions over her aim—she both wanted and intently needed a good match, but that didn’t necessitate she find love.

  Love was better suited to younger women than her. Women who had fathers to root out money-diggers. Women who had mothers to introduce them to the best sorts of families and young men. As a woman who was nearly on the shelf, who had neither mother nor father, and who didn’t have the means financially to care for herself if ever the Shakerleys grew tired of her company, Helena was not a woman who could wait for love.

  It was just as well. In her experience—at least those that she’d observed in her friends and acquaintances—hearts were rather fickle things.

  Helena reached the bottom of the stairs. The great entryway was empty, save her, and was so quiet she could hear the soft voices of the other guests still entertaining themselves in the parlor. She could also hear the clink of dishes from the back of the house. No doubt, this large a house party made enough dishes and laundry to keep any scullery maid busy from dawn to dusk.

  The clinking paused momentarily and then was followed by the most enormous crash. Helena paused with one foot on the lowest stair. Good heavens, but that had sounded destructive. Angry shouts floated up from the direction of the kitchen, growing closer the longer Helena listened.

  Curious, she moved back into the entryway. She’d seen the staff at Hedgewood Manor act in nothing short of the most proper ways. That she could hear yelling now was quite out of the ordinary.

  A little girl tore into the entryway. She was watching behind herself and not where she was going and ran directly into Helena.

  With a shriek, the little girl jumped to the side and tried to dart around her, but Helena caught her with a hand on her arm.

  “Just what is the meaning of this?” Helena asked, unable to hide the bit of laughter that pushed through her words.

  The little girl looked up. Her eyes were wide and filled with tears. The sight tore at Helena’s heart. Such an expression of terror she’d never before beheld. That it came from someone so young was heartbreaking.

  “Mary!” someone called. “Get back here, you little—” The housekeeper appeared, her words cutting off the moment she saw Helena. Hurrying forward, she grabbed hold of the little girl, Mary, and tugged her away from Helena. Mary’s face only grew all the more pale. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss. We didn’t mean to bother any of Lady Andrews’s guests.”

  Helena nodded. For the first time, Helena’s eyes dropped away from Mary’s pale face and she took in the young girl’s dress—old, faded, horribly patched, and drenched.

  “What happened?” Helena asked.

  The housekeeper seemed unsure about explaining to Helena. But after a moment’s pause, she said, “She tipped over the laundry, this one did.”

  Well, that explained both the crash and the suds clinging to the girl.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, miss,” the housekeeper hurried on. Turning Mary by her shoulders, she pushed her back toward the kitchen. As they walked away, the housekeeper spoke in a hushed, stern tone. “You weren’t hired to cause everyone else more work. I’ve half a mind to throw you and your brother back out into the cold where I found you.”

  “No, ma’am, please—”

  Helena could hear no more as they moved deeper into the manor.

  She watched them go, her heart weighed down with worry. Suppose the housekeeper really did throw Mary and her brother out? She’d like to think that the housekeeper was only making threats, only seeing to it that Mary never did something like spill the laundry out again. It was December, after all. Surely the housekeeper wasn’t that hard-hearted. But Helena couldn’t be sure. She didn’t know the woman in the least. Her tone certainly made her sound intent on seeing Mary gone. And Helena could not forget the undeniable fear on the little girl’s face.

  Helena picked up her skirt and hurried after the two. “Pardon me,” she called out.

  The housekeeper stopped with her hand against a door, probably the kitchen door, and waited as Helena caught up.

  Helena opened her mouth but hesitated. What could she say to convince this woman that keeping Mary was the sensible thing to do? Helena had no authority at Hedgewood Manor, so it wasn’t as though she could simply insist on Mary staying.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” the housekeeper asked at length. Her words were proper, but her tone was still heavy and curt.

  “Actually, I was thinking”—but not thinking fast enough to come up with something better than a stuttering start—“you should keep the girl on. For now, at least.” Apparently thinking up convincing arguments on her feet was not one of Helena’s strong suits.

  “Oh?” was all the housekeeper said.

  Mary looked up at Helena, a sliver of hope etched in her eyes. It was all Helena needed to see.

  “Certainly. But more for yourself than anything else,” Helena said, an idea finally forming. “After all, I am certain with a house full of guests and all the festivities soon to be upon us, you have much to see after just now.” Helena could tell by the look in the housekeeper’s eye that she was far too right. “I feel confident that Mary won’t make such a mistake again. And having h
er would be better than having no scullery maid in that position at all.”

  The housekeeper seemed to be mulling it over. Finally, she drew herself up. “I suppose if she cleans up the mess herself and sets everything to right once more, there would be no need to terminate her and her brother’s employ just yet.”

  Mary’s whole frame lifted. “Oh, thank ye, ma’am.” She spoke in a heavy Irish accent. She turned to Helena. “And thank ye, miss!”

  The housekeeper shook her head disapprovingly and pushed open the kitchen door. “Get along with you now and see that you leave the misses alone.”

  Mary curtsied twice, then thrice, then another few times as she stepped through the open door and made her way back into the kitchen. Past the little girl was the biggest, soggiest mess Helena had ever beheld before. Near the hearth, a grand pot rested on its side, mounds of white linen spilling from its mouth along with what must have been many buckets worth of soapy water. Helena was fairly certain that was one of her own undergarments draped atop the rim of the pot.

  Mary may still have her position, but she would no doubt be up quite late into the night seeing to this mess.

  “Never you fear, miss,” the housekeeper said, allowing the door to swing shut, blocking Helena’s view of the kitchen, “this shall be taken care of right away. And,” she lowered her voice a bit, “I would be grateful if you didn’t bandy what you’ve seen about.”

  “You can depend on my discretion.”

  “Thank you, miss. I shall see that the girl is properly reprimanded. This won’t happen again.”

  “Excuse my boldness, but was this the girl’s first misstep?”

  “Well, yes, I believe so.”

  “Then I would think that she has been reprimanded enough. No doubt she will see to it that the laundry doesn’t tip over again.”

  The housekeeper drew herself up a bit. “Miss, I don’t mean to speak out of turn . . .”

  Oh dear, Helena had probably pushed further than she ought. But the way little Mary had looked at her, so afraid of being sent away, she couldn’t help herself.