The Twelve Nights of Christmas_A Regency Novella
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“By other means.” Rollo scratched his long side whiskers, which had more copper in them than his hair. “My uncle and guardian, a bachelor in possession of a fortune, left it all to me.”
“Well, well.” The reverend looked and sounded impressed, which smacked of sweet justice to Rollo. “Please allow me to offer my sincerest condolences … together with my heartiest congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rollo dipped his smartly tousled haircut ever so slightly. “I am much obliged.”
The clergyman stared at Rollo like he was trying to calculate his monetary worth before returning to his sermons. After several moments of silence, he said without looking up, “If I may, Mr. Gillingham … what calls you home after all this time?”
“I have come to reclaim everything I lost when I was compelled to leave by circumstances outside my control.”
The cleric’s eyes came back to Rollo’s. “Hollywell Abbey, do you mean?”
“Indeed. Among other things infinitely more dear to me.”
“Ah, yes. You refer, I presume, to Miss Pembroke.”
“I do, sir,” Rollo replied, sitting up straighter. “And by your reference to her as Miss Pembroke, am I right in assuming she is still unmarried?”
The curate’s answer, he hoped, would alleviate the gnawing apprehension that had plagued his heart all these years. Her failure to answer any of his letters gave him reason to fear his homecoming might not be the happy reunion he hoped for.
“Yes,” Dr. Twigworth replied. “The lady is still single at present.”
While the vicar’s answer assuaged his worries some, Rollo also got the sense the clergyman was withholding something of importance. Rather than probe further, however, he retreated into his thoughts.
Not until they reached the outskirts of the village, did the clergyman speak to him again. “Does Miss Pembroke know of your return?”
“No.”
“Ah. I thought not.”
The road here was deep in slush, causing the coach to fishtail distressingly. The plump lady across came awake and her husband closed his book for the first time since the stagecoach set off from Piccadilly. They both looked like moles emerging from their holes in blinding daylight. Rollo might have chuckled at the sight were he not so concerned about how Penelope might receive his return.
Intrigued by the remark, Rollo asked, “What makes you think she does not?”
The curate cleared his throat and looked toward the window. “It is not my place to say, sir.”
Rollo frowned at the low, round crown of Dr. Twigworth’s parson’s hat. He’d never approved of people who made insinuations only to defer when questioned further about their remarks. The pastor’s demurral was also gallingly hypocritical, since the man was known by all in the parish to be a gossip and slanderer.
Rather than press the vicar further on the subject, Rollo drew back the sun-faded velvet curtains and looked out at the weather. The countryside was one vast expanse of white. The snowfall had erased the borders between the houses and fields to present the world as it really was: one great orb of land and sea no part of which any man or ruler could ever really own. Not in Mother Nature’s eyes, leastwise.
All at once, the idea of men risking their lives to preserve their ruler’s control over some illusory territory across the sea, as he had done in America, seemed utterly ludicrous. And yet, here he was, on his way to regain the property he considered rightfully his. He did not, however, plan to keep it. Not that that was either here or there. He was just glad the property was still on the market after so many years.
Would he find the mansion in a fit state to occupy? Would there be wood about for fires or a mattress to sleep upon? He might find hay enough in the barn to suit his purposes, but what about provisions? In all this snow, it would be difficult to procure what he needed to get by until the storm ran its course.
Deciding he’d be better off staying at the coaching inn until he could asses the abbey’s habitability, he let the curtain close and set his head against the seatback. The instant he closed his eyes, the mental portrait he’d carried with him these many years came into his mind. His Sweet Pea as she looked at eighteen. The high cheekbones, delicate nose, and full mouth. The trusting blue eyes framed by sweeping golden lashes. The flaxen hair that formed wispy curls around her heart-shaped face.
How might the years have altered her appearance? Would her face appear more haggard? Had her hair lost its youthful luster? Were her expressive eyes now wrinkled at the corners? Had she lost the dewy bloom that made her so desirable to more than himself?
And what if she had? Would it matter? Would it change his feelings for her one iota? No, it would not. They had grown up together and had vowed to grow old together, too. Whether or not she would uphold her end of that bargain remained to be seen.
As the coach turned onto Market Square, the village’s High Street, the guard riding at the rear blew his horn to announce their arrival. They drove past shops gaily festooned with garlands of holly, boxwood, ivy, and fir before drawing to a stop outside the King’s Arms Inn.
He could not have picked a better time of year for his homecoming. In his youth, Christmas had been such a happy, heartening time, even after his mother died. For a time, anyway. Because he still had his two best friends, Penelope and Frank. What good times they had going skating and sledding, building snowmen and forts, and making angels in the snow. And the snowball fights. Lo, what riotous fun those were!
It was just too bad Frank turned everything they did into a competition. He even tried to beat out Rollo for Penelope’s affections. But which one of them she favored soon became apparent—and it wasn’t Frank.
Had their love stood the test of time? Somewhere in his mind, he imagined her like Sleeping Beauty, waiting for true love’s kiss to awaken her. Only his kiss would break the spell and bring her back to life again.
Yes, it was a fanciful notion. Because, of course, she’d been living all the while he’d been away. Feeling her feelings, experiencing life, and growing older and wiser.
Just as he had.
But he still liked to think that, if she had given up on him, he could reawaken her feelings with a kiss as passionate as the one they shared when they parted ways that heartbreaking night so long ago.
* * * *
While Rollo was supping on overcooked beef and underdone potatoes at the King’s Arms, Penelope was at her dressing table, making ready for dinner.
“You should be as happy as a lark, Miss Penelope,” her lady’s maid remarked as she skillfully plaited her mistress’s waist-length hair. “So why do you look so inconsolable?”
Penelope heaved a sigh while fingering the cameo brooch she planned to wear. “Because I am inconsolable, Anna. And you know why.”
“After ten years,” said the maid as she braided, “I think it safe to assume Mr. Gillingham won’t be coming back for you—especially if what Mr. Blackmore said is true.”
“I’m quite sure it is not.”
Even as she said it, doubt twinged in her breast. Much as she distrusted the report of Rollo’s demise, it would explain why he’d never written. Not that it mattered anymore. Not that anything mattered any more. Whether dead or alive, her one true love was lost to her forever.
When Anna had finished styling her hair, Penelope checked her coif in the mirror. The shorter hair framing her face had been curled into tight ringlets, while the longer hair in back had been plaited and pinned up into a pile of curls on the top of her head.
“It’s stunning.” Penelope gingerly touched one of the stiff sugar-water curls at her temple. “But also much too fancy for a small dinner party at home.”
“Maybe so, but it is the height of fashion,” Anna said, defending her creation. “I copied the style from an illustration in the newest issue of Le Belle Assemblée. The caption referred to it as the Chinese style, though, to me, it speaks far more of Ancient Greece than the Orient.”
Penelope studied her compli
cated coiffure in the looking glass. “Well, it’s very pretty—and not unflattering to my face—so I suppose I should thank you for once again taming my unruly mop into a masterpiece of hair-dressing artistry.”
“No thanks are necessary, Miss Penelope,” Anna replied with her usual modesty. “Now, please be good enough to stand up so I can finish dressing you before you are late to your own party.”
Penelope, already clad in her underpinnings and a pair of pink kid-leather slippers, rose from the vanity and turned to be dressed. She’d chosen a frock of pink crepe with a quilling of white crepe around the hemline. The dress had full sleeves, a low back, a high waist, and a double tucker of fine lace around the neckline.
Customarily, she wouldn’t go to such lengths for a dinner party at home. This, however, was no ordinary occasion. Oh, no. This was a celebration, and because there would be guests in attendance and dancing afterward, she thought it best to make an effort to look her most becoming.
Once she was attired, Anna added the finishing touches of a pearl necklace and earbobs along with the cameo Penelope had chosen. Her favorite piece of jewelry, the broach had been a gift from Rollo for her eighteenth birthday. Three weeks later, he walked out of her life, never to be heard from again.
She was now ready to show herself downstairs. Physically, at least. Emotional preparedness was another matter entirely. But, if she waited until she felt up to going down, she would never stray from her room.
Grabbing a shawl to ward off the ever-present drafts in the banquet hall, she made her way toward the central staircase. As expected, she found Frank waiting below. As she came down, she studied his person, hoping to feel something—a spark, a twinge, or anything else that might be taken for attraction—when she gazed upon him this time.
Though not nearly as handsome as Rollo, he was nevertheless a well-favored gentleman with his sandy hair, blue eyes, angular features, and long side whiskers. He also was tall, which, being tall herself for a woman, she appreciated, especially when they danced together. He was not, however, as tall as Rollo, who’d achieved the height of six-feet, two-inches by the age of eighteen. Neither was Frank as broad across the shoulders as her favorite had been. Even so, he cut a fine enough figure to please most ladies.
Tonight, he showed off his fine physique—and the pride he took in his appearance—in a double-breasted dark-blue tailcoat, buttoned across the chest to accentuate his trim waistline, and a pair of white trousers that lengthened his legs. On his feet, he wore black-leather evening slippers instead of his usual riding boots.
Had she not already known he’d come in his carriage, his formal footwear would have tipped her off. He was spending the night at Winterberry Park and, in the morning, would set off for London. He would return on Christmas Eve—the night before their wedding.
Remarkably, she would come to him intact—a minor miracle in light of the strength of her passion for Rollo. They’d done other things, of course—things the grand dames of Le Beau Monde would deem shockingly improper.
Not that she cared what they thought. Her only regret, in fact, was not going further. Because now she would never experience the raptures of amorous congress with a man she loved and desired with all of her being.
Swallowing her remorse, she descended the staircase. At the bottom, she offered Frank her hand, which he gallantly bent over.
“You look ravishing this evening, my dear,” he said, his blue eyes lifted to hers. “Pink suits you exceedingly well—but then, so does every color you wear.”
Penelope felt a blush warm her cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Blackmore, you are very kind.”
“Please, call me by my given name,” he implored with a gracious smile. “That we will be man and wife in three more weeks surely invites such an intimacy, I daresay, if our childhood friendship does not.”
The mention of their impending nuptials, though never far from her troubled mind, provoked another stab of regret. Not because Frank was unattractive, disagreeable, or underserving of her affections, but because her heart still belonged wholly and completely to his rival—and likely always would.
“Shall we go in, my dear?”
When he offered her his arm, she took it and went with him into the banquet hall, where their small engagement party was about to begin.
Chapter Three
Rollo waited until eight o’clock before calling at Winterberry Park. From his perspective, there was nothing to be gained and much to be lost by springing himself upon the Pembrokes in the midst of their evening meal. From times past, he knew the family began supper at six o’clock sharp and, with equal punctuality, finished two hours later.
Mrs. Pembroke was nothing if not fastidious in the management of her household. She was equally persnickety in her choice of friends and prospective husbands for her daughter. Once, their two families had been the best of friends. Then, after his mother’s death and his father’s disgrace, the Pembrokes froze him out.
Not Penelope, of course. His Sweet Pea’s devotion never wavered, however much her parents objected to her choice. Had she changed in that regard over the years? He liked to think not, but he also understood the bleak realities of spinsterhood. Unmarried ladies of a certain age could ill afford to challenge their only protectors.
Lest they ended up like poor Miss Morrison.
Had Penelope changed substantially in the years he’d been gone? The question gnawed at him as he dressed in attire befitting the winter weather. Soon enough, he would have his answer. It was now half-eight and he was more or less ready to venture forth to face his destiny.
On a sturdy white gelding borrowed from the inn’s stables, he set off through the village toward Winterberry Park. The Pembroke’s estate lay three miles to the east, with Hollywell Abbey another mile beyond. Despite his great coat and woolen scarf, the icy wind cut through him like a knife.
By the time he reached Winterberry Park, Rollo was chilled to the bone. After reining the horse up the drive, he hopped down and trudged through the snow to the portico. As he mounted the porch steps, which, thankfully, had lately been scraped and salted, he prayed all would go according to plan.
He used the heavy iron knocker to announce his visit. Then, teeth chattering and heart pounding, he waited for someone to come. When no one did after a reasonable interlude, he knocked again with more vigor. Finally the door opened and through the gap, the face of the butler appeared. Apart from being a bit grayer around the temples, old Saunders seemed not to have aged a day in the years since Rollo last called at the house.
Warily, the manservant said, “If you’ve come for the party, sir, you have missed most of the meal.”
Two thoughts sprang into Rollo’s mind at once. The first was that there was a party in progress, upon which he had no wish to intrude. The second was that, if he left here tonight still in suspense of Penelope’s feelings for him, he would die a thousand deaths before morning.
“My apologies for arriving so late,” he told Saunders, who clearly didn’t recognize him from before. “But the snow, you see, made the journey intolerably slow and difficult.”
“Yes, of course,” the butler said. “Do come in, sir, and warm yourself a spell by the fire in the parlor, while I announce your arrival. Or, if you’d prefer, I can have the housekeeper make you up a plate before you go in, as the fish, poultry, and meat dishes have already been cleared.”
The manservant took Rollo’s greatcoat, scarf, and hat. “I’ve eaten, thank you, but I wouldn’t turn down a brandy to help warm my blood.”
And give me Dutch courage.
Saunders stood there a moment looking Rollo over. He wore the same puzzled expression as Dr. Twigworth had in the carriage. At length, the butler said, “I beg your pardon, sir … but you seem familiar to me. Have we met before?”
“We have indeed, Saunders, though we are both a decade older than when last we set eyes on one another. And while you appear to have changed very little, I cannot make the same claim for myself.”
“The grave?” Rollo was startled. “Whatever can you mean?”
“We were told you’d met your end, sir,” the butler explained. “Some time back, on the field of battle.”
“I don’t understand,” Rollo said. “Who would make such a false report?”
“We had it from Mr. Blackmore, sir.”
Rollo was as stunned as he was suspicious. He could guess why Frank wanted the Pembrokes to believe him dead. He still wanted Penelope, and needed her to believe his rival was never coming back before she’d give him a chance.
Flaring his nostrils and pursing his lips, Rollo said, “Well, to overstate the obvious, there is no truth in the report.”
“I can see that, Mr. Gillingham. And may I say I am vastly relieved. As I am sure Miss Pembroke will be.”
“Does she also believe me dead and gone?”
The butler licked his thick lips and looked down at the turkey carpet covering the entry-hall floor. “While I can confirm she received the report, I cannot rightly speak to how much credit she gave the story.”
Rollo, finding it insufferable that she might believe him dead, vowed then and there to set the record straight as soon as may be. That, of course, could be accomplished in a moment simply by making an appearance in the banquet hall.
“I must see her at once, Saunders. Will you kindly announce me to the company?”
“Are you certain that is what you want, Mr. Gillingham? Would it not be better to call another time when you can speak to Miss Penelope in private?”
“Yes, I daresay it would be preferable to wait for a better time,” Rollo said, undeterred. “But I will have no rest until she sees the proof of the lie she’s been fed.”