Holiday Duet: Two Previously Published Regency Novellas

by Grace Burrowes

  “We were not expecting the young misses until tomorrow,” the footman said, as if that lobbed some unexploded ordnance of fault back at the new arrivals.

  Margaret made her way across the foyer, her footsteps echoing hollowly, for of course, every pair of eyes was on the little drama at the door.

  “The children have to be chilled and hungry,” Meg said, “as are, without doubt, Miss Trumble and her companion. We can offer you hot tea, sandwiches, and cakes, or I’m sure the kitchen will send up a tray if you’d like to await his lordship in a guest parlor.”

  Miss Trumble inhaled, which caused a generous bosom to heave upward. “I have done that which I was charged with doing. If I were to take tea, I’d do it in the servants’ hall, as is proper. I refuse to tarry, however, and will send his lordship my direction that he might remit the agreed upon remuneration to me. Come along, Miss Dinwhiddie. We have fulfilled our duty.”

  The footman barely had time to open the door before Miss Trumble and Miss Dinwhiddie swept from the premises on a gust of cold air.

  “Did we fail inspection?” Charlotte asked, a tea cake in her hand.

  The little girls stood very close to each other. Meg could not tell if they were relieved to be abandoned by their minders or terrified.

  “We in no way failed an inspection,” Meg retorted. “But I suspect we have two more pairs of hands to aid us in our labors. I’m Lady Margaret.” She knelt to unbutton the smaller girl’s cloak. “Who are you?”

  “That’s Amanda,” the larger girl said. “I’m Emily. Where is Uncle Marcus?” She posed her question with a hint of hope and a helping of dread. For a child to inquire of an adult’s whereabouts was quite forward—also quite brave.

  “Your uncle wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” Meg said, “which is why the holiday decorations aren’t finished yet. He will be overjoyed to have you safely under his roof.” She added a smile to that assurance and passed Amanda’s cloak to the footman.

  “I’m c-cold,” Amanda said. “And h-hungry.”

  Aunt Penny sent Meg a look over the children’s heads.

  “Of course you are,” Meg said, moving on to Emily’s cloak. “You have come a great distance at a disobliging time of year. We will have you warm and fed in no time. Aunt Penny, Charlotte, perhaps you can keep the young ladies company in the nursery until a tray can be sent up.”

  The footman cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, my lady, but we haven’t lit the fires in the nursery yet. The maids are still making the beds and whatnot.”

  Charlotte came over and bobbed a semblance of a curtsey. “I’m Charlotte. I hurt my knee, but Aunt Penny has lent me her magic sword of doom.” She thumped her cane. “You can help us put the ribbons around the carrying candles once you’ve had something to eat.”

  “I’m c-cold,” Amanda repeated with an ominous wailing note in her voice.

  “Then you must have a proper cup of tea,” Aunt said. “And James, perhaps you could purloin a few afghans from the library. A princess on the day of her coronation needs appropriate robes.”

  “A princess?” Emily asked.

  “We princesses toil away in our tower,” Charlotte said, gesturing to the top of the steps. “It’s warmer up there, and we can see the whole of our courtyard. Princesses also dine on tea cakes to keep up their strength. Follow me.”

  Charlotte’s inherent friendliness and talk of tea cakes were apparently enough to lure Emily and Amanda to the buffet.

  “You have raised a kind girl, Lady Margaret,” Aunt Penny said, “and a lively one.”

  “That is a compliment?” Meg asked as Charlotte passed each girl a plate.

  “A very fine compliment. Those little girls have a tale to tell, and I don’t believe it’s a happy one.”

  “The ending will be happy,” Meg said. “Lord Marcus will see to it.” Lord Marcus and his Yuletide bride.

  “Huh.” Aunt left Meg’s side and supervised the plundering of the tea cakes, a task to which she was admirably suited, in Meg’s opinion, and soon the hammering had resumed, the footmen were removing the remains of the buffet—likely to be enjoyed in the kitchen—and Amanda, Emily, Charlotte, and Aunt Penny were at their eagle’s nest/tower/magic carpet overlooking the foyer.

  The day was going well, and if Meg let her gaze stray to the front door in hopes of seeing a tall, occasionally cranky lord who also kissed like every foolish woman’s dream, well, nobody need know of that folly.

  She was admiring the precisely patterned cloved orange completed by her smallest elf when the door opened to admit the object of her imaginings. Lord Marcus, greatcoat damp with snow, took one look around the foyer and delivered Meg a thunderous scowl.

  “Lord Marcus, good day.”

  He shoved his coat at the footman. “At the risk of arguing with a lady…”

  “They’re here!” Charlotte caroled, coming back down the steps at a fast hobble. “Princess Amanda and Princess Emily have arrived to their castle!”

  Lord Marcus’s scowl resolved in an utterly blank expression. “Not so soon.”

  “Yes,” Meg said, aiming a ferocious smile at him. “Your nieces are safely arrived and already helping with the decorations. Try to contain your joy.”

  To his credit, his mouth quirked. “And you have all in hand, of course.”

  “They are up there,” Meg said, gesturing to the landing. “Make them welcome, or I will deal with you sternly.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He started for the steps and then paused, leaning near. “I know where I want my kissing boughs.”

  “You do?”

  He came close enough to whisper in Meg’s ear. “Everywhere. I want those damned things everywhere.”

  He trotted up the steps as Meg stood at the bottom, not knowing whether to laugh or toss her orange at him.

  Marcus’s first impression upon walking into his foyer was one of utter pandemonium, a pitched battle with chaos, and the forces of order about to sound retreat. He’d approached the house to the sound of hammers banging incessantly. Bits of greenery had littered his front walkway half covered in the falling snow. Small children were scampering up and down ladders, calling to one another in impenetrable cockney accents, and a wreath half as tall as Marcus had been propped near the front door.

  Inside, matters went from bad to worse. Chattering replaced the hammer-chorus as only a half-dozen little girls could chatter. Bright red, green, and gold ribbons dangled from sconces and curled in snippets on the marble floor. The scent of fresh oranges blended with the piney fragrance of the greenery, and some child with more enthusiasm than talent was singing about Good King Winces-slob.

  In the middle of this tribute to misrule stood Lady Margaret, calm and smiling, resplendent in her raspberry dress and green shawl. She confirmed the arrival of Amanda and Emily and offered a smile that promised doom to uncles who reacted with anything other than ebullient joy at such marvelous news.

  Marcus climbed the stairs, feeling anything but rejoicing. The children were a day early, the weather was turning up nasty, his house was besieged by small people speaking in foreign tongues, and he wanted nothing so much as to be alone with Lady Margaret.

  Duty first, of course. He consulted with her ladyship regarding the kissing boughs—plural, of course—and rounded the landing at a smart pace.

  At the top of the steps, on the balcony-cum-balustraded-corridor, Aunt Penny occupied a quilt on the carpet, three small girls tailor-sitting at the remaining corners of the blanket. Pale beeswax carrying candles were scattered on the quilt, red and green ribbons tied about the brass carriers.

  “Ladies, good morning.”

  All three girls looked up, Charlotte wreathed in smiles, Amanda and Emily with caution. Amanda looked back down at the ribbon now twining about her fingers.

  Emily scrambled to her feet. “Good day, Uncle Marcus.” She executed a curtsey as Amanda rose and smoothed down a hopelessly wrinkled pinafore.

  “Good day, Uncle Marcus.”

&n
bsp; What to do? Bow? Hug them? Bow over their hands? The disorder Marcus had observed in his house abruptly took up residence in his heart. These small people were now his responsibility, and he hadn’t any idea how to greet them.

  Soft footsteps on the stairs behind him presaged Lady Margaret’s arrival. “Foreign princesses have crossed the hostile plains in the dead of winter to seek refuge in your fortress, my lord. What say you to your royal guests?” She took Marcus’s arm and smiled at the girls.

  Amanda’s return smile, so uncertain and hopeful, broke Marcus’s heart. “I say,” he began, as if he’d a clue how to go on, “welcome… Your Majesties.”

  Aunt Penny nodded, suggesting he’d made an adequate beginning.

  “I say,” he went on, “welcome to your new home. Every knight and damsel in the castle rejoices at your safe passage across enemy territory, and we hope you will be happy here.”

  Where were their governesses and nurses? Why weren’t the girls tucked snugly into the nursery, for pity’s sake?

  “Th-thank you, Uncle Marcus,” Amanda whispered. “We’re not really princesses.”

  “You are my nieces, which I daresay is preferable to being princesses. Your grandfather is fifty-sixth in line for the throne, you know, and that makes you nearly royalty in truth.”

  Emily frowned at him, while Amanda fixed her gaze on Marcus’s cravat. “If you say so, Uncle Marcus.”

  This was not going well at all, and Marcus had a sense that how the girls settled into their new lives would depend largely on their early impressions of him.

  “Are we excused from the royal presence?” Lady Margaret asked.

  Aunt Penny waved a hand, both green and red ribbons trailing from her wrist. “You may be excused. The princesses and I will take a proper picnic lunch in the library in two hours’ time. You may join us then, if your other duties permit.”

  Lady Margaret tugged discreetly on Marcus’s arm. “We would be honored,” she said. “Until then.”

  Just as if she’d been presented at court, she backed slowly from the royal presences, dragging Marcus with her. He managed a slight bow before withdrawing, Lady Margaret at his side. When she’d towed him a good ten yards down the corridor and around a corner, she dissolved into laughter.

  Marcus was displeased to find his abode in such a state of uproar.

  He was concerned that his nieces had arrived early and were apparently less than confident regarding their welcome in his household.

  He was angry with his sister and her silly schemes, and he was still—even more than ever—behind on his correspondence.

  But the sound of Lady Margaret overcome with mirth put all those concerns to rout and, better still, gave Marcus hope that this year, Yuletide could truly be a happy season.

  Chapter Six

  A marquess’s heir doing his best to play let’s pretend for the benefit of two small children had to be the most endearing thing Meg had come across in years.

  “I made a complete hash of that,” Lord Marcus muttered, pacing the width of the corridor. “I am the worst uncle ever to court banishment from my own kingdom. How could I have confused the children’s arrival date? I must have a word with the governess.”

  “You can’t,” Meg said. “Miss Trumble and Miss Dinwhiddie have decamped in high dudgeon, and at least one of them had made a thorough sampling of the rum punch before she dropped the children on your doorstep. I suspect any confusion was on her end of the bargain.”

  “Rum punch?” Lord Marcus ran a hand through his hair. “Rum punch when she had small children in her care? I’d sack her for that alone. One cannot attend to such a weighty duty when half soused.”

  Bless this man. “Miss Trumble will forward her final demand for wages to you by post.”

  “Delightful. Now, I haven’t a governess on staff. I haven’t nursery maids. The children need familiar faces and consistent routines. They have suffered much upheaval and considerable grief. I am all but a stranger to them, and—”

  Meg touched her fingers to his lips as the strains of a soprano/alto version of Good King Wenceslas drifted up from the foyer. “You are working yourself into a state, my lord.”

  “I am not working myself into a state. I am in a state. The army of the North Pole has invaded my house, orphans have arrived on my doorstep ahead of schedule and without their paid staff, and my sister is determined to see me married off by the New Year. This is not how I envisioned the start to my holidays, Lady Margaret.”

  Married off by the New Year? Meg weathered that pronouncement, hoping it was hyperbole, though really his lordship should marry, and she should stop entertaining daft notions on the strength of a single kiss.

  “The maids you do have on hand will keep an eye on the children until the agencies can send you candidates to interview.”

  His lordship took Meg’s hand and led her down the corridor. “You do not mention Lady Elizabeth’s attempts to besiege my bachelorhood. She intends this open house as another occasion to lob prospective marchionesses at my head.”

  Meg derived some comfort from Lord Marcus’s lack of enthusiasm for his sister’s scheme, but she had honestly hoped there would be no open house. Selfish of her.

  Foolish too. “You have eluded the matchmakers thus far,” she said. “Perhaps your luck will hold.”

  “Perhaps my luck is changing.” He stopped beside a carved door and cocked his head. “The army of the North Pole can sing.”

  From outside the house, the boys had added the tenor and baritone parts to King Wenceslas’s tale. They hadn’t a bass to their names, though the arrangement was lovely nonetheless.

  “They are rehearsing, my lord. They earn coin when they are in good voice, provided nobody expects them to look like angels. And they will retreat from your abode by this evening, leaving your foyer pristine and beautiful.”

  “But they will return,” Lord Marcus retorted, “wreaking havoc on my library, my guest parlors. The sacrifices one makes for duty…”

  He opened the door, and Meg beheld a gallery at least sixty feet long. The hearths at both ends of the room were unlit, the space frigid. Dark portraits graced the walls, each painting hung to fall between the weak shafts of light admitted by tall windows along the outside wall.

  “You did not show me this room on our previous tour,” she said. “Am I to decorate here as well?” The space had possibilities, but focusing on a decorating scheme was difficult when Meg knew that at his lordship’s open house the gallery would be thronged with Society’s most-eligible young women.

  “I realize costs will be incurred as part of the undertaking,” his lordship said, pushing a curtain aside, “but I was unsuccessful at dissuading my sister from her open-house scheme. The guests will number well over a hundred if Eliza runs true to form, which means every available public room must be put to good use.”

  Meg would have liked to have told his lordship that she was too busy to add his gallery to her list of responsibilities, but in truth she had yet to line up much work for the coming Yuletide season, and he did not quibble over coin. Duty, as his lordship had mentioned, required sacrifices.

  “I’ll put together an estimate when I go home this evening,” Meg said, though for once the prospect of additional income didn’t provide the lift to her spirits it ought to.

  “Go home?” Lord Marcus peered out the window. “That is out of the question, my lady. The way this snow is coming down, nobody with any sense will be abroad if they can help it. Come see for yourself.”

  Meg joined him by the window, which overlooked a back terrace blanketed in white. More snow was falling at the steady, this-means-business rate of the season’s first real winter storm.

  “I should send the children home now,” Meg said. “Some of them are quite small, and deep snow is dangerous when a child lacks decent boots.”

  “Will their parents worry for them?” Lord Marcus asked, dropping the curtain over the window.

  “They haven’t any parents. Some
of them have older siblings, relatives who would let them shelter for a short time, but these children are largely homeless, my lord. I can’t keep them here all afternoon, then send them out into deep snow.”

  “Then don’t.” Lord Marcus started for the door. “Keep them here, proceed with your decorating. We will contrive to shelter them from the elements until the weather is more obliging.” He held the door for Meg, and the corridor felt like a tropical conservatory compared to the gallery. “Have we a bargain, Lady Margaret? You will add the gallery to your list of tasks, the children will complete the foyer today, and you and they will bide here for the present?”

  He pulled the door closed, once again the military officer securing compliance with orders, executing his duties. Meg wanted to retreat to his office, curl up under his old morning jacket, and shed a few tears—the holidays were always such a trial, and she was still short of sleep—though time spent in nameless regrets would be time entirely wasted.

  Instead she tarried with him in the corridor. “I am forced by circumstances to agree with your lordship’s plan, but I like it not.”

  “Neither do I, when I know King Wenceslas boasts at least forty verses, but needs must when Christmas approaches. What have you in mind for my gallery?”

  “I’ll think of something,” Meg said. “I always do. I’d best have a look at how the greenery is coming along on the front walk.”

  His lordship peered down at her, a damp lock of hair curling over his brow. “And what shall I do while I await our proper picnic in the library?”

  She folded her arms, rather than smooth his hair back. “Inspect the handiwork of your princesses, my lord, and do try to look impressed.”

  Meg left him by the doors to the gallery, but before she donned her cloak to brave the elements and offer the boys encouragement, she did step into his lordship’s office and allowed herself just a few moments of disappointment. Not tears, of course, or not many tears, but a little disappointment, and a wish that this Yuletide could somehow be more joyous and less dutiful than its predecessors.