Winter Wishes: A Regency Christmas Anthology

by Cheryl Bolen

  “Yes, Miss Paine.” The butler accepted Gregor’s cane and hat as well.

  She would’ve preferred to meet her grandmother for the first time in a private setting, but her ladyship’s refusal to so much as speak to her had brought this public confrontation upon herself.

  It had actually been quite brilliant of Alexa, truth to tell.

  Gripping Gregor’s arm as if it were a lifeline, Sarah allowed him to guide her down the passageway. Catching sight of them as they passed an ornate gilded mirror, a tiny smile bent her mouth. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect he’d picked his blue tartan waistcoat because it matched her midnight blue gown.

  Both tall and blond, they did indeed make a most striking couple. Their children would be blond too, no doubt. Would their offspring have his blue-gray eyes or her hazel ones?

  If only it might be so.

  Those ruminations would have to wait. Her future was but a few feet away, and she intended to face it head on. She squared her shoulders, stiffened her spine, and elevated her chin.

  Mustering her composure, and ordering whatever the rambunctious creature frolicking in her middle were to settle down, Sarah permitted Gregor to lead her into the drawing room.

  “Smile, lass.” He squeezed her arm. “Ye look like ye’re goin’ to a funeral. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  She was, in essence, facing a sort of death. For today she’d either forge a new future or slam the door on her past forever. As for the worst that could happen? Well, she wasn’t certain where Gregor fit in either of those scenarios, and she very much wanted him to. Very much indeed.

  He winked in that confident manner that never failed to charm a smile from her. “Ye and Chris can always come to Scotland with me.”

  Eyes narrowed the merest bit, she took his measure. Did he jest, or was he sincere? Then her mind stumbled upon the truth and dismay bludgeoned her. “You’re returning to Scotland?”

  “Aye,” he agreed, his voice rather gravelly.

  Dismay throttled up her throat. She’d become accustomed to his company. His dear face and roguish humor. And he was leaving.

  “When?”

  It wasn’t any of her business. She’d hoped to see him after—that was if—things went well with her grandmother. Sarah lied to herself. She had counted on his being there, no matter the outcome. To think he wouldn’t nearly undid her.

  He rolled a shoulder nonchalantly. “It depends.”

  On what? She wanted to scream.

  He canted his head in response to a handsome dark-haired man’s greeting. “Yvette and Ewan are here, Sarah.” He seemed inordinately pleased by that. “I’ll introduce ye later.”

  With a small start, she realized who the man and the stunning blonde at his side were. Rumor had it, Yvette McTavish was the wealthiest woman in the whole of Britain. Sarah swept her gaze over the assembled guests, glittering in their high-fashion finery. Her grandmother was in this room somewhere.

  She would have to wait to find out when Gregor intended to leave for Scotland. The moment she’d anticipated and dreaded was upon her. “I hope this isn’t a colossal mistake,” she whispered.

  At once, Alexa glided to their sides.

  Speaking quietly, she murmured, “Sarah, your grandmother is sitting by the window. I don’t believe she saw you arrive, but I do have salts available in case she swoons.” Her eyes crinkled in amusement. “She’s known to do that on a regular basis.”

  Just perfect. Temperamental, mean-spirited, sharp-tongued, unforgiving, and given to the vapors. Had the dowager any redeeming qualities?

  Digging her fingers into Gregor’s forearm, Sarah marshalled every ounce of poise she possessed as the duchess wended her way across the drawing room, smiling and nodding to guests as she swept past.

  Elegant, her mien superior and self-important, Lady Rolandson, attired in black from her lace cap to her gloves, was engaged in conversation with another distinguished grand dame near her age, also swathed in black from her sophisticated turban to her beaded, slippered toes.

  Upon their approach, Lady Rolandson gave a disinterested upward sweep of her sparse lashes. Eyes widening, she froze, going perfectly still. The color draining from her face, she clutched at her throat as if choking. “Mary?”

  Sarah shook her head, sinking onto the empty chair and offering a tremulous upward turn of her mouth. “No, I’m her daughter, Sarah Paine.”

  Almost at once, a plumpish prune-faced woman, perhaps in her fourth decade, rushed to her ladyship’s side. Placing a hand on her shoulder, she patted gently, whilst glaring daggers at Sarah. “Calm yourself, Your Ladyship. Take deep breaths.” All solicitous concern, she hovered above Grandmother. Rummaging in the reticule at her wrist, she asked, “Do you require your salts? ’Tis obvious this person has given you a most terrible upset.”

  Lady Rolandson speared the woman a sour look and shrugged the hand off her shoulder. “Stop coddling me, Bernice! You’re my companion, not my nursemaid. I’ll thank you to remember your place.”

  There was the temperamental harridan Sarah had been warned about.

  Bernice’s mouth cinched impossibly tighter as if she’d sucked a most unripe lemon. Something akin to fury tightened her plain features, and Sarah realized with an uncomfortable start, the companion’s wrath was directed squarely at her. “But your heart, Your Ladyship,” Bernice argued stiffly.

  “Is now and has always been perfectly fine, Miss Wattle.” After another scathing glance, Sarah’s grandmother struggled to her feet, extending quaking hands. Eyes suspiciously moist, she offered a trembling smile. “My dear, why didn’t you inform me you were in London? I’m beyond overcome, but so very delighted. I didn’t even know of your existence.”

  Sarah stiffened, casting Gregor a flabbergasted look. It took all of her self-control not to condemn her grandmother for a liar right then and there. Was it possible he’d been right? That somehow, incredible as it seemed, her grandmother hadn’t known about Sarah’s many attempts to contact her?

  With the slightest flexing of his eyes, he indicated she should go on.

  Grandmother drew in a shaky breath, her focus sinking to the floor. In a small, weak voice, she said, “These many years, I never heard from your mother. I’d given up hope.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Outrage at the blatant tarradiddle sluiced Sarah from her head to her toes curled tight in her slippers.

  Gregor’s heavy, soothing hand on her shoulder calmed her a mite.

  “Not a word.” Grandmother shook her head. “I’d hoped and prayed, as did Rolandson, that she’d contact us. For nearly ten years, I checked the post every day. I gave up after that, you see. It was just too painful...” Her eyes grew misty, and her chin quivered. A heartbroken, fragile old woman had replaced the formidable dowager of a few moments ago. She dabbed an eye with her knuckle. “I finally realized Mary would never be able to forgive me.”

  Miss Wattle made a tutting sound, her tone and gaze condemning. “I must say, you’ve some nerve, Miss Paine, showing up unannounced and distressing her ladyship in this matter. In public too. For shame.”

  Who was this woman that she presumed to order her and Grandmother about? Sarah bit the inside of her cheek from telling Miss Bernice Wattle precisely what she could do with her bloody disapproval. The suggestion might have something to do with a small body cavity.

  “Might I advise you adjourn to a more private setting, my lady?” Alexa said as she cut Adaira a telling look.

  The countess approached, concern pinching the corners of her eyes the merest bit.

  Glancing around, Sarah encountered the curious glances of several other guests. Likely this gossip fodder would be whispered in drawing rooms and assemblies across London by day’s end. It wasn’t every day during a le beau monde tea that a peeress discovered the offspring she’d disowned decades before had a child.

  Sarah’s lips twitched. Grandmother might be allowed a fainting episode after all.

  “Yes, yes,
that would be wise, Your Grace. I should prefer to converse with my granddaughter alone.” Lady Rolandson reached for Sarah’s hand, and she reluctantly allowed the old woman to clasp it in her frail grasp.

  Something was off here. Her grandmother didn’t appear to be pretending her shock, so why would she claim that Mama had never written? Sarah possessed the returned letters.

  “Yes, I too think it’s wise to have this discussion in private and determine if this… person is who she claims she is. She might be impersonating your granddaughter in an attempt to swindle you.” Accusation ringing in her words, Miss Wattle made to accompany them.

  Balling a fist against the urge to slap the condescending smirk off Miss Wattle’s chuffy face, Sarah forced herself to count to ten.

  Gregor’s hand lit upon her shoulder for a brief instant, once again calming her.

  He knew. Knew how hard put she was to bridle her tongue.

  “Have you eyes in your empty head, Bernice?” Lady Rolandson swept a hand up and down Sarah. “She’s the very image of her mother at that age, you twaddle-brain. You view Mary’s portrait in the drawing room daily. Don’t pretend you do not notice the resemblance,” her ladyship snapped, whilst leveling Miss Wattle a peevish glare.

  “I believe grandmother and granddaughter should be permitted this reunion in private, Miss Wattle.” Alexa’s demeanor clearly expressed that nothing else was acceptable.

  “But… I don’t…What if…?” Miss Wattle stuttered.

  “There’s no need for you to join us,” Grandmother said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I expect our discussion to become quite emotional.”

  “I’m not sure you should be alone with this person, your ladyship. After all, we know absolutely nothing about her.” Miss Wattle could be given credit for her tenacity, if not her ragged manners.

  “Come, Miss Wattle.” Adaira looped the vexed companion’s arm through hers. “Have you met my brother, Lord Sethwick and his lady wife?” Her side-eyed glance and slightly quirked mouth indicated she knew full well what Miss Wattle was about, and she wasn’t having any of it.

  “You won’t leave, will you?” Sarah touched Gregor’s arm.

  “Nae. I’ll be right here, waitin’ for ye, jo.” He crossed his arm over his chest. A gallant knight vowing his allegiance. “I swear.”

  Chapter 12

  Silently, Sarah and her grandmother followed Alexa down the corridor and into a charming sitting room decorated in shades of pale blue and peach.

  “Shall I request tea for you?” Alexa asked.

  Meeting her grandmother’s hazel eyes, so very much like her own, Sarah shook her head “I don’t care for any, but perhaps her ladyship would—”

  “No, thank you, Your Grace.” Still appearing rather stunned, Grandmother patted Sarah’s hand and gave a weak smile.

  “I’ll leave you then.” With a sympathetic meshing of her lips, Alexa swept from the room.

  For a long, awkward moment, her head cocked in an almost robin-like fashion, Sarah’s grandmother stared. “I cannot believe it. I simply cannot believe it. Oh, if Rolandson had only lived to see this day. He would’ve been so very happy. The resemblance to your mother is uncanny, my dear.”

  “Papa always said so as well,” Sarah admitted, feeling the familiar twist of her heart mentioning her beloved father brought.

  Grandmother dashed a tear away from the corner of her eye, and a rather fragile smile replaced her drooping mouth. “I have a granddaughter.”

  “And grandson, too, my lady. His name is Christopher, he prefers Chris, and he’s twelve years old.” No need to tell her about Chris’s difficulties just yet. She’d learn about them soon enough.

  “Oh, my! A grandson.” She clapped her hands once. “None of that my lady balderdash, either. I insist you call me Grandmama.”

  And, of course, no one told Lady Rolandson no.

  Grandmama sank into a nearby chair, shaking her head back and forth, causing the jet earrings in her ears to sway with the motion. A few silvery curls peeked from beneath her crocheted cap. Had she been as blonde as Mama and her? Shoulders hunched, she put her hands to her face. “How I wish I could take back the harsh things I said to your mother,” she sobbed. “My pride…My foolish, foolish pride and arrogance drove my darling daughter from me. I caused her to hate me.” Her voice, sounding like ancient parchment, cracked. “She never once tried to contact me in all these years.”

  Unable to resist comforting the weeping woman, Sarah sank to her knees. This wasn’t the callous harridan she’d believed her grandmother was.

  Another great sob shook her frail shoulders.

  “Mama did write you. Many times. I have some of the unopened letters.” She covered her grandmother’s shaking shoulder. “Three years ago, Chris and I came to your house. We were turned away at the door. I wrote you recently, just over a week ago, and that messenger was also turned away.”

  Grandmother collapsed back into the chair, her expression aghast, one hand clutching at her throat. “No. No. That’s not possible.” She shook her head so frantically, her cap slipped to one side. “No one told me,” she gasped, her gaze bouncing around the room like marbles in a shaken cup.

  Did she think Sarah lied?

  “I swear, it’s true. Gregor McTavish delivered the letter himself. We presumed you wanted nothing to do with us.”

  After a bit of fumbling, her grandmother pulled a delicate handkerchief from her bodice. She dried her face and blew her nose. At last she managed, “I believe you, my dear. I do.”

  Remarkably pleased her grandmother should do so, Sarah’s eyes misted.

  An instant later, severe lines hardened Grandmother’s lightly wrinkled face, giving Sarah a glimpse of the harsh woman she was reputed to be. Jerking upright, she slammed both palms onto the chair’s arms. Forged steel replaced her earlier fragility. “That devious, conniving wench.”

  Sarah inched backward a jot, uncertain whether to admire or fear her grandmother. Lady Rolandson wasn’t someone to cross. That much remained consistent with what she had heard about her grandmother.

  Shrewdness narrowed the elderly woman’s eyes. “Since Rolandson died and his nephew inherited the viscountcy, Bernice has hinted—quiet regularly I might add—that I ought to leave her a generous settlement. You see, until you surprised me today, it was thought that I had no heirs to leave my personal wealth and holdings to. I simply refuse to let the Crown seize my monies, so unbeknownst to her, I bequeathed all but a stipend for her and the other servants to charity.” Her grandmother pinched her lips together. “Hmph. I’d best see about updating my will at once.”

  “I don’t understand.” Sarah sat back on her heels and furrowed her forehead.

  “I’m onto Bernice and Stinkwiggon’s dastardly scheme now, the unscrupulous fiends,” Grandmama muttered to herself, pounding the unfortunate armchair again.

  Stinkwiggon? Surely she had misheard. “Stinkwiggon?”

  Grandmother spared her a starchy glance. “Stinkwiggon’s my fusty, calculating butler. He and Wattle think I don’t know they’ve been dallying with one another for years. I may be old, but I’m neither blind nor stupid.” She tapped the fingers of one arthritic hand upon the carved wood, her vexation palpable. Her small frame quaked with outrage

  “It was your butler who turned us away,” Sarah said. Grandmother must be made aware of the truth. God only knew what else her butler and companion were capable of.

  Likely, the conniving butler had intercepted her letters too. By returning Mama’s correspondence, they made Mama believe her parents hadn’t forgiven her. Things were starting to become quite clear.

  “Yes, well,” Grandmother huffed, her agitation turning her cheeks pink, “he’ll be without a position as soon as I return home. So will Miss Bernice Wattle. She’ll not find anyone willing to retain her in of all of England. Neither will he, by God, by the time I’m done with them. Thought to pull the wool over my eyes, did they? Thought I was a dafty old tabby, did the
y? We’ll see about that,” she harrumphed.

  Sarah almost felt sorry for the servants.

  Almost.

  She didn’t doubt her grandmother’s extensive influence, not to mention her far-reaching wrath, would prevent the pair from finding employment in London again. Or mayhap England, as she’d claimed.

  “I’ve no doubt they’ve been intercepting letters intended for me with the intent of gaining an inheritance for themselves.” Stuffing her handkerchief back into its hiding place, Grandmother pursed her mouth in displeasure.

  “I think you must be right,” Sarah agreed, her head slightly reeling with all she’d just learned.

  Thanks to her devious servants, Grandmother had been as much a victim as she and Chris. Mama too. If Grandmother was right, Stinkwiggon and Miss Wattle deserved the consequences of their scurrilous actions.

  Sarah rose, and after taking a seat in a nearby chair, pressed her lips together. “You should know that a very evil man is pursuing Chris and me. He killed our father, and we fled Jamaica, fearing for our lives.”

  Her almost invisible eyebrows skittering up her forehead, Grandmother whispered, “Dear God.” She clasped Sarah’s hand. “You poor, poor dear.”

  “Last week he found us, and if it hadn’t been for Gregor McTavish’s protection and kindheartedness, and that of several of the peeresses here today, as well as their husbands, Santano might’ve already abducted us.” Or worse. “Mr. McTavish has devised a plan to entrap Santano, and hopefully he will be arrested soon.”

  “My darling girl, you’ve had such a time of it. It seems I owe Mr. McTavish a debt of gratitude, too.” She peered at Sarah, a trifle too keenly for her comfort. “May I presume he is that giant of a man who escorted you today?”

  “Yes.” Sarah tipped her head in acknowledgment. She wasn’t quite ready for grandmother to go poking around in that area when she herself didn’t know exactly where she and Gregor stood with each other.

  “Tell me…” Grandmother swallowed and patted another tear from the corner of her eye. “Does...” Her throat worked and a tear dribbled down her papery cheek. “Does my Mary live?”