by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews
“It was a love match with Carlyle, then?” he asked. It had seemed incredible, but he had always wondered. Not that he had ever really wanted to know the answer. Not until recently. It could no longer hurt now.
“Of course it was a love match,” she said, but her eyes slipped slightly lower than his. “Of course. What did you think?”
“And it was a good marriage?” he asked. Carlyle had moved in different circles from his own. He had never liked the man—perhaps because he was Ursula’s husband. He could not put a finger to any other reason for the antipathy he had felt for a man who had appeared to be perfectly amiable.
“Yes, it was a good marriage,” she said. “It was very good. The best. It was wonderful. It was the best thing I ever did.”
Her eyes were haunted. Because Carlyle had died and the wonderful marriage was at an end? Or because she was lying? If it had been so wonderful, would she not have told him to mind his own business?
“Not that my marriage is any of your concern,” she added.
“No,” he said. “Since it is not also my marriage, it is none of my concern. I must be thankful for that at least. Two more days and then, weather permitting, we can think of leaving here. I will take the children and you can return to the life you enjoy so well. Can we remain civil for two days, do you suppose? I think we have done rather well today.”
“I have never found civility difficult,” she said stiffly. “And they will be returning with me. You may arrange for your lawyer to call upon mine in London, my lord. But I warn you of a stiff battle ahead.”
“On which amiable note I shall offer you my arm, my lady, and escort you to your room,” he said. “I would hate for us to prolong the evening only to find that we spoil the day by quarreling.”
“An admirable idea,” she said, taking his arm almost vengefully and fairly marching in the direction of the door.
The trouble with Ursula, he thought ruefully, was that she was always temptingly desirable when she was angry. Yet somehow he was going to have to get himself a good night’s sleep in a bed that must be only a few feet from her own. It was a good thing, at least, that there was a thick wall between those two beds.
A very good thing.
They left the baby sleeping in his cot in the nursery. Nurse was going to look after him, in case he woke up and cried while they were gone. They would not be gone long. It was important that they be back soon so that he would see that he had a mama and a papa and a brother and two sisters and so that he could know that they would never be gone from him for long. Especially Mama and Papa. They would always be there for him when he went to sleep and when he woke up. They would always make snow dragons with him and laugh with him and keep him warm inside their greatcoats and tell him they would keep him safe forever and ever.
And she would tell him the same things. She was his elder sister and she would look after him. He would never have to wake up, as she had sometimes done, to wonder where Mama and Papa were. They would be there, in the house. The baby had red hair, like Patricia’s, and blue eyes, like Rupert’s. His hair curled like her own. And he sucked his thumb. That was not a bad thing to do. She knew it brought him comfort. When he was older, she would explain to him that only babies sucked their thumbs and he would stop. But now he was a baby.
His name was Jesus.
They were going to get a surprise party ready for him. That was what they were doing now. That was why they had had to leave him sleeping in the nursery. It was to be tomorrow, a birthday party, though he was a very tiny little baby.
Christmas Day was his birthday.
She was riding up on top of the world, far above Rupert and Patricia and even Aunt Ursula. She was riding on Uncle Timothy’s shoulder, her arm firmly about his head. She was pushing his hat so far forward that he laughed and told the others to lead him by the hand because he was a blind man.
And then they came to the holly bushes, and she was set down with the others while Uncle Timothy cut some bunches of it for them to take back to the house for the party. Only the holly leaves were sharp—she should have warned him but did not think of it until it was too late—and he yelled out that he had pricked his finger and might well bleed to death. He put his finger in his mouth and sucked on it after pulling off his glove. Aunt Ursula told him not to be so foolish, that he was frightening Caroline. But she was wrong. Caroline knew that he was only pretending.
And then they trudged over to the evergreens and Uncle Timothy cut down some of the smaller boughs that they could carry back with them.
“Not too many,” he said, “or we will destroy the trees—or else make them look so lopsided that someone will take pity on them and chop them down.”
Rupert, with spread arms and bent back and crossed eyes and lolling tongue, became a lopsided tree and staggered about as someone tried to chop him down. Nurse would have told him sharply to mind his behavior and to act his age. But Uncle Timothy chuckled and Patricia became another lopsided tree. Caroline tried it too. It was fun. It was even more fun when Uncle Timothy joined in and actually toppled over into the snow as he was felled.
“Really,” Aunt Ursula said, her hands on her hips, “I have never witnessed such undignified behavior in my life.”
But there was something in her face that Uncle Timothy must have seen too. “You cannot scold and laugh at the same time, my lady,” he said. “The effect of the scolding is immediately nullified.”
And so Aunt Ursula laughed and said she had some strange, strange relatives and they must get it from his side of the family. Uncle Timothy said that it was fortunate, then, that everything had not come from her side, and for a moment Caroline was puzzled. There was something behind the words and the laughter that she did not quite understand. But it passed almost before she could think it. Aunt Ursula threw a snowball that knocked his hat sideways, and the fight was on again. Only this time they did not throw snowballs at Uncle Timothy but jumped on him while he was still on the ground—all except Aunt Ursula—and tried to roll him in the snow.
They all got rolled in the snow instead. Caroline giggled so hard that she thought she was not going to be able to catch her breath.
“Enough,” Aunt Ursula said at last. “You are the unruliest child of the lot, Timothy.”
Uncle Timothy turned his back on her as he slapped snow off himself and pulled a face at them so that they giggled all the harder.
And then he thought of mistletoe. Christmas would just not be Christmas without mistletoe, he declared, and so they went tramping off to find some, leaving the holly and the fir boughs on the ground to be picked up later. But mistletoe was not easy to find. It did not grow by itself, like holly and fir trees. Caroline grew anxious and took Aunt Ursula’s hand when it was offered. They must find some if it was so essential for Christmas. The party tomorrow must be perfect.
But all was well. Aunt Ursula herself spotted some on two old oak trees that grew side by side, and Uncle Timothy and Rupert climbed up—Caroline had to hide her face against Aunt Ursula’s cloak for fear they would fall—in order to gather some. It was a relief when they were down again, but they had the precious mistletoe with them, so the baby’s birthday party would not be ruined after all.
Uncle Timothy looked at her and grinned. “The trouble is,” he said, “that not all mistletoe is Christmas mistletoe. I will have to try it out to see if it works.” She felt instant anxiety again. If this was not Christmas mistletoe, where were they to find some that was? Uncle Timothy stooped down on his haunches, raised his arm above her head with some of the mistletoe in it, and kissed her lips. Caroline gazed at him. His nose against her cheek had been cold.
“Yes,” he said. “It works perfectly.”
Caroline breathed a sigh of relief.
“Of course,” he said, turning his smile on Patricia, “it is as well to be quite sure. A man has to be able to kiss ladies beneath the mistletoe, you see. Let me see if it works with Patricia too.”
It did. It really was C
hristmas mistletoe, then. But perhaps they should be quite, quite sure. She tugged on Uncle Timothy’s greatcoat and tipped her head right back so that she could gaze up at him.
“Try it on Aunt Ursula,” she whispered.
She should have kept quiet. She could see from the expression on his face as he looked back down at her that he did not want to try it on Aunt Ursula, and she could see when she looked across at her aunt that Aunt Ursula was looking quite dismayed. And if it had worked on both her and Patricia, it must be Christmas mistletoe.
“A good idea,” Uncle Timothy said. “One must be thorough about such important matters.”
Aunt Ursula had backed up against one of the trees, her hands behind her on the trunk. Caroline had the impression that she would have liked to press right through the tree, but it could not be done. Uncle Timothy stepped up close to her, raised the mistletoe, and kissed her. He took rather longer doing it than he had done with her and Patricia, and when he had finished he did not immediately move back or say anything. Neither did Aunt Ursula. They stared into each other’s eyes, and Caroline started to worry again. Maybe the mistletoe did not work after all and they would have to keep hunting. But Uncle Timothy turned and grinned when first Rupert and then Patricia snickered and giggled.
“Well,” he said, “that settles that. It certainly does work. There is no doubt about it—this is Christmas mistletoe.”
But his voice was breathless and Aunt Ursula’s lips were trembling and she looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. There was something Caroline did not understand, but it was not a bad thing, she was sure. And the mistletoe had worked.
They started back for the house then, carrying as much of their decorations as they could. Uncle Timothy was going to come back for the rest. They were going to decorate the drawing room. All of them, Caroline too. Aunt Ursula said they would pick her up so that she could help deck the mantel and the pictures with holly. They did not tell her, as Nurse often did, that she was too little and would be in the way and that it would be quicker to do things while she stood back and watched.
She thought her Aunt Ursula and Uncle Timothy were the most wonderful people in the world. She loved them.
She was glad they were the baby’s mama and papa. She was glad they were her mama and papa and Rupert’s and Patricia’s. She was glad they were one family and would all live together forever and ever.
“Amen,” she whispered.
She was searching for sanity. Only two days ago she had been traveling down from London and she had been entirely herself. She had been confident and contented—except that she had had a problem to deal with. She had known who she was and she had been happy with the way her life was developing. Two days ago she had lived her life according to reason rather than feelings. Living on one’s emotions was a dreadful way to live. She had stopped living that way years before and she had been happier for it.
Two days ago she had stepped out of her carriage and found herself in a different world. Perhaps in a different universe. She was no longer certain of anything and her mind was in too much of a turmoil for her to be contented. She was no longer sure that her former life—former! As if it were all years or eons ago—was not dull and barren. In this world, in this universe, she was living very much on her emotions, and there was something dreadfully unsettling about it. And something rather wonderful too. She had discovered that she liked children after all. She had discovered that she loved these three children. She could not bear the thought of being separated from them again after Christmas, and yet she was sure that he would fight her for them.
She would fight him tooth and nail.
She had been so sure that no man could ever arouse her feelings again, so sure that she could never desire a man again. And she had liked it that way. Life had been peaceful for a number of years, especially since Carlyle’s death.
But he had kissed her beneath the mistletoe outdoors in full view of the children, and even this new universe had tipped upside down. Throughout the walk home and the couple of hours they had spent decorating the drawing room and the extra couple of hours it had taken to fashion and paint a large wooden star to hang beside the mistletoe in front of the fire because Caroline had asked about a star with an irresistibly wistful look in her eyes—throughout all that, she had been intensely aware of him, of his attractiveness, of his maleness. And her body was reacting to him in a way it had not really reacted since Vauxhall. Even on her wedding night it had not reacted so.
She wanted him. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers again. She wanted to feel his body against her own. She wanted his hands on her. She wanted him inside her body. She wanted him there even though her only experiences with intimacy—during the first month of her marriage—had been disappointing at best, distasteful at worst.
She wanted him. But she could not want him. When she was back, in her own world—within the next few days—she would no longer want him. Her life would return to normal.
But she wanted babies of her own. Her body ached for the experience of motherhood as it had not for almost nine years. But she was seven-and-twenty already. It was too late. She would never be a mother.
She wanted his child. He would make such a wonderful father.
And so she searched for sanity as they set out for church during the evening. They walked, since the distance was not great and the snow was still deep. Rupert and Patricia held her hands while Caroline rode in Timothy’s arms, his greatcoat wrapped about her for extra warmth.
If she did not hold very firmly to sanity, she thought as they took their seats in a pew close to the front and admired the Nativity scene set up before the altar and listened to the bells ringing from the bell tower—if she did not keep very firm touch with reality, she was going to start imagining that they really were a family. Caroline had been transferred to her lap. Patricia was at one side of her; Rupert was at one side of Timothy. But they were next to each other, their shoulders almost touching. She could feel his body heat. She could smell the snuff he used and the soap.
Christmas had always been an enjoyable time because it was a time of heightened social activities and extra feasting. Church attendance had always been pleasant because everyone who had stayed in town was there, most of them at the same church, and they always lingered to talk afterward. She had always enjoyed the holiday.
She had never realized fully until now that it was a holiday for families. That it was about birth and parenthood and love. And about hope and commitment. She realized it tonight.
And sanity disappeared without a trace.
By the time the service ended, Caroline was asleep against her bosom, her mouth slack about the thumb she had sucked, and Patricia was sleeping against her arm. Rupert was leaning against Timothy’s, but he was awake and sat up valiantly.
“Can you carry her?” Timothy asked, turning his head, only inches away from her own, and nodding down at Caroline. “I’ll take Patricia.”
And so they walked home side by side, each carrying a child, while Rupert trudged along between them, firmly denying that he was tired. And they carried the girls up to the nursery, and she stayed to help their nurse undress them and put them to bed. She kissed them and smiled tenderly at them, even though they were both more than half-asleep.
“Good night, Aunt Ursula,” Patricia murmured.
“The party is tomorrow?” Caroline asked sleepily. She yawned. “The baby will be surprised. Won’t he, Mama?”
She touched the backs of her fingers to the child’s hair and wondered what dreamland she was in. Something ached in the back of her throat.
“Wonderfully surprised,” she said before going into Rupert’s room to wish him a good night and to assure him in answer to his question that yes, she really believed there might be presents in the morning for his sisters. And maybe for him too.
She met Timothy in the hall outside the bedrooms and took his offered arm. But he led her toward the stairs instead of to her room, late as the hour
was.
“Christmas punch,” he said, “before we retire for the night.”
She allowed him to lead her downward without protest. But there was a decision to make, she sensed.
Soon. Sanity or madness. She tried to tell herself to be strong and to remain sane.
But she wanted to be mad. Mad now and ever after.
She had hurt him badly once. Very badly. He had even wondered for a while if he would survive, though he had realized even at the time that the thought was rather ridiculous. One did not die of a broken heart. And the fault had been in large measure his. He had lashed out at her when Marjorie had eloped with her brother with accusations that could almost make his hair stand on end in retrospect.
The difference was that with him it had been merely temper. With her it had been actual dislike and indifference. She had turned to another man as if their relationship had never been and had married him and presumably lived happily with him for seven years.
He did not care to recall the pain she had left him in. It was a pain he had vowed would never be repeated. He would never allow himself to love again.
Just two days ago the mere sight of her had irritated him. He had wanted nothing to do with her. And the two days had progressed anything but smoothly. They had been civil to each other for the sake of the children, but hostility had poked through the thin veneer of civility on occasion.
He must keep his lips firmly buttoned up until they could get away from each other within the next couple of days. He would be able to see things clearly enough once he was back in his own world—with the children. There was no way on this earth she was going to take the children away from him.
He loved them.
Why the devil had he brought her downstairs for punch, he asked himself, when it was after midnight and he did not wish to be alone with her? He retrieved his arm when they entered the drawing room, forgot all about the punch, which was warm and inviting in a bowl on the sideboard, and crossed the room to stand unconsciously beneath the mistletoe—and the Christmas star—and rest an elbow on the mantel. He stared into the flames of the fire.
