The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  Caro’s eyes widened. “Didn’t you celebrate Christmas?”

  He shook his head. “We observed Christmas—it’s not at all the same. My uncle believed the holiday should be a holy day—a time of prayer, spent in church. He had no patience for what he saw as the pagan practices of decking the halls with greenery and engaging in any sort of merrymaking.”

  “Oh.” Caro frowned. “So, there was no Yule log?”

  “None. Nor boar’s head nor Yorkshire pie nor plum pudding. And nary a twig of holly or ivy in any corner of the house.” Nor any kissing boughs, but he wouldn’t mention those.

  “Oh. That’s . . .” Caro seemed for once to be at a loss for words. “Ah, that’s too bad.”

  It had been too bad. He’d noticed how the servants were making merry as Christmas approached, and he’d wished he could go down to their hall to join them or could visit one of the tenants’ houses, but he’d never even asked permission. He’d known his uncle would forbid it.

  He grinned. “But this year is going to be different.” Yes. This year, for the first time, Christmas—real Christmas—was coming to Oakland.

  * * *

  Caro walked downstairs with Nick, thinking about how he’d described his Christmases as a boy. She hadn’t thought about her own family’s Christmas celebrations in years.

  She hadn’t thought about her family in years—at least not before yesterday. Whenever one of her brothers or her parents popped into her thoughts, she shoved them right back out. They were dead to her.

  Or, more accurately, she was dead to them.

  A thread of doubt twisted through her. I am, aren’t I? Nick couldn’t be right. Papa and the others would never forgive me or be proud of what I’ve done.

  Her father had made his feelings abundantly clear when he’d returned her letter.

  But that had been thirteen years ago.

  Is Papa still angry with me? Does he ever think about me? Does he—

  She froze, putting a hand out to steady herself.

  Oh, Lord. Is he even still alive?

  She hadn’t considered that her father—or her mother—could have died, and she’d not know it. She’d just assumed . . .

  She’d assumed they were all frozen in time—that they were exactly as they had been when she’d last seen them.

  “Are you all right, Caro?” Nick’s voice held concern.

  It was then she realized that when she’d put out her hand, it had landed on Nick’s arm. Now he covered her fingers with his.

  The warmth of his touch was comforting. Steadying.

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  Except she wasn’t. Her world had suddenly turned topsy-turvy.

  I’m an adult. I don’t need my parents or my brothers.

  And there was no reason to think the members of her family weren’t happily going about their business, not sparing her a single thought. She was letting her imagination run away with her.

  She wasn’t usually so daft. Perhaps there was some madness afoot here at Oakland—some evil Christmas spirit haunting the halls. One might expect such a guest at what was supposed to have been a Christmas orgy. She’d be fine once she got back to the Home.

  And away from Nick.

  She looked at her hand on his arm. He asked me to marry him.

  He hadn’t meant it.

  Except, for some reason, she thought he had meant it.

  I could have a family of my own with Nick.

  Nonsense. The evil spirit had addled Nick’s wits as well. Viscounts didn’t marry women who weren’t virgins.

  And why the hell not?

  She bit back a giggle.

  Nick’s brow winged up. “Now what?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He gave her a skeptical look, but didn’t press her.

  Why the hell not? she thought as she continued down the stairs with him, leaving her hand on his arm. As Nick said, he wasn’t a virgin. Why should she be?

  She’d never accepted Society’s dictates on anything else, and yet she’d believed all these years, deep in her heart, that she was . . . dirty. Damaged goods. All because Society had taught her to think that—well, and her father had written it.

  But now that she finally considered the matter from a mature point of view, she realized she didn’t need to believe such twaddle. Yes, some people might judge her if they discovered her history, but such people would probably also be put off by the fact that she worked as a brewer and lived at an establishment called the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children.

  She could be the most virginal virgin in Christendom, and the arbiters of propriety would still pull their collective skirts back and give her the cut direct.

  So be it. I don’t need them.

  She felt immeasurably lighter.

  She smiled as a daring thought popped into her head. She had at least one more night with Nick. She was going to enjoy it—to continue the experiments of this morning and see what she discovered.

  Excitement shivered down her spine.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs just as the Weasel—well, she should call him by his name now that she knew it—just as Mr. Woods and the clergyman, Mr. Hughes, along with Polly and Fanny, came into the hall from the sitting room, talking in an animated fashion among themselves.

  Nick pulled his arm closer to his body, thus pulling her closer. She felt protected and . . .

  Claimed?

  The notion was oddly exciting—and annoying. She wasn’t Nick’s. She didn’t belong to him as a wife belonged to a husband....

  Ugh! She’d never liked that about marriage—that a woman lost so much of her identity and power to a man.

  Perhaps she was fortunate to have avoided parson’s mousetrap.

  And she should not have to be protected. She should be able to feel confident that no one would accost her—or that if some man did, she could deal with him herself.

  Though it was a good thing not to have to carry her knife with her everywhere.

  Mr. Woods gave her only a cursory glance before focusing his attention on Nick. “Milord, Mr. Hughes asked me to build a stage and some other things for his Nativity play. Would that be all right?”

  “Not a large stage,” Mr. Hughes hastened to add. “Just a small one. I find having a stage helps the actors and the audience. It makes the play feel more like a real production.”

  “Stage?” Nick sounded more than a little bemused. “Actors? Christmas Eve is tomorrow.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mr. Hughes said. “There won’t be any practice needed—or only a very little bit. Everyone knows the Nativity story. And there won’t be any speaking parts—I’ll read the tale from my Bible.” He smiled hopefully at Nick. “It would be good for the boy, don’t you think?”

  “Er, I suppose so.”

  “We always had a Nativity play at home.” Fanny sounded rather wistful. “All the children liked it. The adults, too.”

  “Fanny and I’ll make the costumes,” Polly offered. “I did the sewing for our village Christmas plays afore I went up to London.”

  Fanny nodded. “Polly’s quite good with her needle.”

  The thought of two whores making Nativity costumes—

  Well, why not? The Bible had all sorts of disreputable people in it. Wasn’t Mary Magdalene a prostitute?

  “Can ye ask Mrs. Brooks if she has any scraps of fabric we can have?” Polly asked. “Or maybe there’s some old costumes stored away somewhere? We always saved ours from year to year, back home. Sometimes the moths got to them, o’ course, but even so, we could usually find some bits to use.”

  “Ah.” Nick sounded overwhelmed.

  Mr. Hughes reclaimed Nick’s attention. “And we thought to have the play in the Long Gallery, milord. Is that where it usually is?”

  “I don’t know. My uncle wasn’t interested in any sort of theater, even religious plays, so there weren’t any such enter
tainments when I was young.”

  Mr. Hughes looked horrified, but quickly schooled his features to pious melancholy and shook his head sadly. “That’s a terrible shame.” He heaved a heavy sigh, and then smiled. “But nothing to be done about it now, eh? Better to begin again.”

  “Er, right.”

  “So, you’ve no objection to our using the Long Gallery?”

  “N-no.” Nick turned to the Weasel. “Mr. Woods, before you get too involved in this project, can you tell me how repairs on the coach go? I would think those should take priority. Now that the snow has stopped, the roads will clear, and you’ll all want to be on your way.”

  A hollowness opened in Caro’s stomach.

  Ridiculous! This was good news. She needed to get back to the Home as soon as possible.

  And leave Nick ...

  Yes, and leave Nick, especially if she were developing some bizarre attachment to him. Even if he were serious about his marriage proposal—which was very hard to believe—she had the Home to think of. Jo needed her, particularly now that Pen had married and gone off. Someone else was going to have to look after the hop plants to be certain they stayed pest and blight free—and Caro intended to look after that person to ensure she did a good job. No hops meant no Widow’s Brew.

  “The coach is fixed, right and tight, milord. Or at least me and the coachman and yer man Walters jury-rigged something that should get us to Marbridge, where they can do a proper repair.”

  “Ah. Very good. Then I see no problem in your building the stage.”

  Caro—and she suspected Nick as well—expected the little group to be on their way then, but they didn’t move.

  “Is there something else?” Nick asked.

  The men exchanged a glance, but Polly was the one who spoke up.

  “Could ye ask Mrs. Brooks now? Christmas Eve is tomorrow, so there’s no time to lose.”

  Mr. Hughes nodded. “And perhaps she knows how things were done before your uncle was viscount. It wouldn’t hurt to inquire.”

  “Aye,” Mr. Woods said. “And if they had a stage in the past, I’d like to see where they put it.”

  “We could come with you,” Polly said.

  “To save time,” Fanny added.

  The small group smiled expectantly at Nick.

  Just then a very bedraggled but excited Edward came bounding into the entrance hall.

  “Milord, you must come out sledding. It’s great fun. Thomas has a—oh!” Edward finally noticed the other people.

  “Apologies, milord,” Thomas said, catching up to Edward, “but the lad was that excited, he had to tell ye at once. I’ll take him off now and get him washed up.”

  Nick nodded. “Very good, Thomas.” Then he smiled at the boy. “You’ll want to get into dry clothes, Edward, and tell your mother how you fared.”

  He didn’t mention Mr. Simpson. Well, of course, he didn’t. That was Edward’s mother’s place to explain.

  “And then you can come tell me the full tale.”

  Edward had been looking rather abashed, but at those words he grinned. “Oh, yes. I will.”

  “Oh, and Thomas,” Nick said as the footman started to usher Edward away, “could you ask Mrs. Brooks—and Mr. Brooks and Mr. Pearson, too—to meet me in the Long Gallery?” He gestured to the small gathering. “We are trying to make some Christmas plans.”

  Thomas grinned. “Very good, milord. I’ll let them know as soon as I’ve delivered Master Edward to his mother.”

  Thomas and Edward left, and then the small group set off for the Long Gallery, Nick leading the way with Caro at his side and the rest following. They passed the billiards room just as a game was breaking up. Mr. Collins, Mr. Meadows, Lord Archibald, and Livy came out, Livy hanging on Lord Archibald’s arm.

  If Archie had been looking for female companionship, it appeared he had found some.

  Livy smiled and gave Caro a knowing look.

  “Are we missing a party?” Mr. Collins asked.

  “We’re going to plan Christmas Eve, Bertie,” Fanny said. “We’re going to have a Nativity play!”

  The billiards group grinned.

  “That sounds like fun,” Livy said.

  “And will there be singing?” Dervington’s son asked. “There should be singing.”

  “Archie and I love to sing,” Mr. Meadows said.

  And with that, Lord Archibald started in on “While Shepherds Watched” in a beautiful tenor. Mr. Meadows joined in, singing baritone, and then Livy added her soprano. They sounded like an angel chorus.

  “Gor! That’s prettier than the church choir back home,” Polly said.

  “Lovely, indeed!” Mr. Hughes looked at Mr. Collins. “Not a bass?”

  Mr. Collins shook his head. “No. When I sing, the dogs howl.”

  “Ah. Then perhaps you can take a part in the play,” Mr. Hughes said diplomatically.

  Mr. Collins nodded and then grinned. “Are we going to have games as well? I hope we do. I can thrash old Felix at snapdragon.”

  “Ha!” Lord Archibald said. “I’m the king of snapdragon. I’ll take you both on.”

  Mr. Meadows snorted. “King? More like court jester. I’ll beat every one of you to flinders.”

  “You’re on.” Mr. Collins slapped Mr. Meadows and Lord Archibald on the back. “Prepare to taste ignominious defeat.”

  Caro bit back a grin. Suddenly, these men reminded her of her brothers, verbally jousting with one another. Inevitably, one of her brothers—usually the youngest—would lose sight of the fact that the teasing was all in good fun and tackle someone. Then they’d all be at it, rolling around on the floor, whaling away at one another until someone got hurt and ran crying to Mama.

  Christmas at home had been a noisy, boisterous affair.

  The pain of that memory took her breath away.

  I could have my own family. . . .

  There was that evil Christmas spirit haunting her again. There was no point in thinking about marriage and a family. The Home was family enough. She was needed there. She had a job to do.

  She dropped Nick’s arm, ignored his questioning glance, and went with the rest of the party into the Long Gallery to await the Brookses.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nick untied his cravat. He had so many thoughts buzzing around in his head, he might not be able to sleep for hours. Normally he’d have stayed downstairs drinking in the library with Bertram and Felix. . . .

  No, Felix wasn’t in the library. He’d come down briefly before dinner to announce to the company at large that Miss Dixon had agreed to be his wife and that they planned to marry as soon as he could get a license and have the banns read. Everyone had drunk to their health, and then Felix had gone back upstairs to eat in his wife-to-be’s room with his small family. He’d looked happier and more content than Nick had ever seen him.

  I’m envious.

  He snorted. If anyone had told him just two days ago that he’d envy a man whose days of freedom were so numbered, who would soon be chained to a wife and baby and young boy, living somewhere in the country far from Town, Nick would have thought the fellow mad.

  Good God, what is the matter with me?!

  He heard Caro moving around in the room next door. She was what was the matter with him, the reason he wasn’t downstairs. If he hadn’t promised to keep her safe and pretend to an affair, he’d be drinking with Bertram and Archie and Meadows—and Livy and Polly and Fanny. Perhaps even Hughes would join them. And Woods. Hell, they might as well call in Brooks, Pearson, Thomas, and anyone else within shouting distance.

  Perhaps it was to be expected that a gathering that had begun as an orgy would end in breaking down the usual walls between the classes.

  He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on one of the chairs.

  No, that wasn’t it. It was Christmas, not the orgy, that was to blame—or to thank—for bringing them together.

  The mood in the Long Gallery earlier had quickly turned to one of boisterous
good fellowship. The Brookses and Pearson had been full of stories of past Christmas cheer. Apparently, Nick’s grandparents had loved Christmastide and had celebrated the season with great enthusiasm. And much to Nick’s shock, his uncle had kept up those traditions the first Christmas he was Viscount Oakland.

  But then had come the viscountess’s fall and their firstborn’s tragic death. Mrs. Brooks said that the lord and his lady had been devastated—of course they had been—and had wanted no merriment that year. So, the servants had celebrated Christmas quietly in their own quarters, hoping the next year would be better.

  It wasn’t.

  Year after year, miscarriage after miscarriage, Leon and his wife had been battered by horrible loss, falling into such deep dismals, they’d never wanted anything even the least bit merry around them.

  When the viscountess died, too, Leon’s dark mood got even darker.

  And then Nick had been deposited on Oakland’s doorstep. The servants had all hoped that finally things would change, that their lord would try to find joy for Nick’s sake—but that hadn’t happened, either. It was then that they’d realized that as long as Leon was lord of the manor, Christmas’s joy would never be welcome abovestairs.

  When Nick had succeeded to the title, they hadn’t known what to expect. Would he stay in London as had been his habit for years or, now that Leon was gone, come to the country? And if he did, would he let Christmas take over the house again?

  Mr. Pearson, the Brookses—all the servants—had been dismayed when they’d seen his coach pull up and he and his unruly guests tumble out, but not because he was going to host an orgy. Or, not only because of that. No, they’d been dismayed because it had looked as if Christmas would still have to stay hidden away in the servants’ quarters.

  They were overjoyed to discover otherwise. Mrs. Brooks, in particular, could hardly contain her enthusiasm as she rattled off all the ways they’d celebrated in the past. Nick had been swept along by her words, struggling to keep from being drowned by all the details. He’d agreed to every suggestion. What did he know of cold, English Christmases?

  Nothing.

  He pulled off his boots and then sat down to take off his stockings. He’d like a glass of brandy. Just one. If he were downstairs with the other men, he’d have several.