The Twelve Nights of Christmas_A Regency Novella

by Nina Mason

  At the top of the stairwell, she heard voices rising from below. Male voices. Her father and Rollo, she could only presume. What might they be saying to each other? Anxious for the answer, she descended to the landing, straining her ears to hear what was being said. To her frustration, the volume of their conversation was too low for her to make out the words.

  This, she assured herself, was a good sign. Had they been arguing, she would have heard them clearly. Breathing easier, she went down the rest of the way and positioned herself outside the parlor door, which stood open a crack. Now, she was able to hear every word of their exchange.

  Her father said: “She shot him, you say? Well, well. I always knew she had it in her to fight for what she wanted—and I daresay her actions have made her choice abundantly clear.”

  “Indeed,” Rollo answered, “and Frank thought so, too—and has obligingly released her from their contract.”

  Papa cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, I cannot pretend to condone your methods.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Rollo replied, “desperate situations call for desperate measures. Though, in my own defense, I must tell you that what happened between us was by no means premeditated. She fell through the ice, you see, while we were skating, and … well—ahem—you might say one thing led to another.”

  “In other words, you ruined her without forethought.” There was more edge to Papa’s voice than had been there before. “Thereby destroying her chances of making a good marriage with any other man.”

  “If it helps my case,” Rollo offered, “she had already consented to be my wife before anything improper took place.”

  Her father was silent for several moments before he said, “It is possible I have misjudged you, Gillingham. I have thought all these years you gave my daughter a promise you did not mean to keep. But clearly, I was wrong … and just as mistaken in the strength of your attachment to one another. Therefore, if Twigworth agrees, I shan’t stand in your way … despite the disgrace you might have brought upon my family.”

  Penelope nearly jumped for joy. Papa had given them his blessing—and, miracle of miracles, without consulting her mother. Not that her father was under his wife’s thumb. He simply acceded to her wishes on matters he deemed inconsequential, presumably for the sake of marital harmony. But, on those rare occasions when he put his foot down, Mama knew better than to dispute him. And this, Penelope dearly hoped, was one of those instances.

  Upon entering the parlor, she found both gentlemen standing near the still-unlit fireplace, facing each other. In the dim candlelight, she could see her father was in his dressing gown.

  “Well, daughter,” he said as she came in. “Here you are at last.”

  When she opened her mouth to speak her mind, Papa raised a hand to stop her. “Before you light into me, let me say this in my defense: Upon my word, I had no idea Mr. Blackmore had kept Mr. Gillingham’s letters from you … or that he was the sort of villain who would shoot an opponent in the back. Such unscrupulous behavior is unforgivable, as is the complicity of your abigail, who I intend to send packing as soon as she rises.”

  So, Rollo had told him everything. Good. Let her parents eat humble pie along with their Christmas pudding tomorrow. Acknowledging their error might teach them to be less fixed in their judgments in future.

  She went to stand beside Rollo and, taking his arm, she trained a determined gaze on her father. “Equally intolerable is judging a man for crimes he did not commit. Rollo has done no wrong, Papa. Now or in the past. It is I who seduced him last night, not the other way round. So, if you wish to cast stones, I and not he should be your target.”

  Her father narrowed his eyes. “I have given my blessing. What more do you want from me?”

  Penelope felt her old spirit rise. “What do I want? Well, since you asked, I shall tell you. I want you to apologize to Rollo for turning your back on him when he most needed our support.”

  “Very well.” Heaving a heavy sigh, Papa shifted his gaze to Rollo. “I apologize for abandoning you in your hour of need … and for encouraging my daughter to give you up … and for insisting she marry Mr. Blackmore, even after you kept your promise to return.” Shifting his gaze to Penelope, he added, “There. Will that do?”

  “Only if you promise to treat Rollo like one of the family once we are married,” she said sternly. “Or perhaps I should insist you treat him better than those of your own blood. For you and mother have behaved deplorably toward me these past many months.”

  “You are right,” her father conceded, finally looking ashamed of himself. “And for that, I beg your forgiveness … as well as your understanding. Your mother and I only did what we thought was best for you. You were unhappy, my dear, and would have remained so unless we intervened. How were we to know Mr. Gillingham would return?—or Mr. Blackmore would turn out to be such an unprincipled knave?”

  “You could not, I suppose,” she admitted, “but did you honestly believe issuing ultimatums was the best way to achieve your aims?”

  Papa cleared his throat and averted his gaze. “Perhaps we were wrong to put so much pressure on you … but we were at our wit’s end.”

  “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Pembroke,” Rollo interjected in a respectful tone. “And your consent. Now, if you will excuse us, we must make haste if we have any hope of catching Dr. Twigworth before he sets off on his morning calls.”

  * * * *

  The following morning, as Rollo waited for the bridal party to arrive, he wandered among the churchyard’s weathered headstones in quest of a particular marker. Strange that he could remember her funeral in every detail, but not the precise location of her grave.

  The dreaded meeting yesterday with Dr. Twigworth went even better than the one with Penelope’s father. After being shown into a dark albeit comfortable parlor to wait, they both were startled out of their wits when the curate burst in with these words on his lips: “Well, well. Here is the happy couple at last.”

  “You sound as if you’ve been expecting us,” Rollo responded.

  “I have been,” said the curate, “ever since we met again on the mail-coach. For it only followed that as a man set on winning back the woman he loved you would be twice as dogged as you were as a boy whose only motive was to exasperate his schoolmaster.”

  Rollo laughed. Apparently, Dr. Twigworth possessed more insight into human nature than his former pupil had credited him with.

  The memory faded when he came upon the tombstone he sought. Grief plucked his heartstrings as he read the words inscribed thereupon.

  In memory of

  Edwina Louise Gillingham,

  Beloved wife of James;

  Devoted mother to Rollo.

  Born: May 18, 1770

  Died: June 6, 1798

  Only at that moment did Rollo realize his mother had died at the same age he was now. There was something disquieting in the knowledge her life had ended just as his was about to begin.

  “Happy Christmas, Mother.”

  He laid the wreath he’d brought along atop her grave. “It may please you to know today will also be my wedding day.”

  Behind him, the church bells tolled. There were eight in the tower and the deafening clanging almost drowned out the sounds of an approaching carriage. He checked his pendant watch. Penelope was punctual, as usual. The ceremony was set to begin in just five more minutes.

  He said goodbye to his mother’s remains and made his way back toward the church. The exterior walls, square tower, and arched window and door frames were constructed of different-sized blocks of Cotswold stone. The stained-glass windows and medieval doors with their elaborate ironwork hinges were stunning, though not half as remarkable as the east entrance. The door there was flanked by a pair of ancient yew trees whose grooved trunks and gnarled roots had become one with the architecture.

  Rather than go around front to greet the bridal party, he entered through that mystical door, which might have been the portal to an
enchanted realm—one inhabited by fairies, goblins, sprites, and other storybook creatures. It seemed only fitting, given that he’d come here to claim his Snow Maiden at last.

  He just hoped she would not melt under the heat of her passions—or his, for that matter. For he wanted to keep her with him for a very long time to come.

  Inside the church, he doffed his greatcoat and tall hat and hung them on the wall-mounted pegs provided for that purpose. The air smelled faintly of evergreens, burning tallow, and Frankincense. A more Christmassy bouquet, he couldn’t imagine.

  Dr. Twigworth was waiting in the chancel. Before going to join him, Rollo took a moment to admire the interior’s structural attributes, which included a beamed medieval ceiling and a massive crucifix carved from a single piece of ash. The stone arches separating the nave from the side wing were festooned with boughs of balsam and fir interwoven with holly, ivy, and dozens of white pillar candles. The standing iron candelabras on either side of the altar were decorated with wreaths of winter greens and red ribbons.

  While he was sorry his parents had not lived to see this day, he was glad Penelope’s parents would be here for her. They had invited him to dine with them last night and could not have been more pleasant company. His only discomfort came when Mrs. Pembroke insisted her daughter wear the dress she had made up for her marriage to Frank.

  “Just wait until you see her in it, Mr. Gillingham,” the plump matron said excitedly. “She will look so fetching, you won’t be able to take your eyes off her.”

  He was sure she would look beautiful in the dress. She looked beautiful in everything (and nothing). And yet, he still felt a qualm about her marrying him in a gown meant for another bridegroom.

  Mrs. Pembroke must have sensed his unease, because she said, “I’m sure she had you in mind when we had the dress made up, for she only ever had you in mind for her husband.” She took a breath before adding, “Upon my soul, Mr. Gillingham, had we known Mr. Blackmore’s true character, we would have acted very differently than we did.”

  Rollo, relieved by her admission, went back to the inn after dinner, while Penelope spent the night at Winterberry Park. To him, it seemed like a case of locking the barn door after the horse was stolen, but that was what she wanted, so he yielded without argument.

  As the bridal party entered the church, Rollo moved at last to where the elderly curate was lighting the candles on the altar. “Happy Christmas, Dr. Twigworth. How does the day find you?”

  “Very well, Mr. Gillingham.” The curate, to his astonishment, was all smiles and cordiality. “Very well indeed. And Happy Christmas—and wedding day—to you in turn.”

  Rollo stretched his gaze down the long aisle toward the vestibule, hoping to catch sight of his bride. She said it was bad luck for him to see her before the wedding, but surely, with her walk down the aisle only minutes away, the jinx no longer applied.

  He felt no nervousness; only joy and serenity. He was marrying the woman of his dreams, the woman he’d fought to win back; the woman he’d loved since they were both children.

  How could he feel anything apart from elation?

  His breath caught when she stepped into the aisle, her hand resting on the sleeve of her father’s coat. Her mother was right. She did look fetching in the dress. Had she really been thinking of him when she had it made up? Did it matter? The important thing was not the gown she wore, but the choice she’d made in the end.

  The dress was, nevertheless, stunning. Elaborate enough for a royal wedding, the gown was of white satin trimmed in lace with a wide band of flowers embroidered around the hemline. The manteau and train were also of lace, with a border of embroidery to answer the needlework on the dress.

  Her fine fair hair, elegantly yet simply arranged, owed more to nature than to the art of the coiffeur. Atop her head sat a wreath of white flowers intermixed with silver berries and leaves.

  His heart swelled with pride and affection at the vision of his beautiful bride. His Sweet Pea. His One True Love. How often he’d wondered if this day would arrive. And now, here they were, only minutes away from exchanging their vows.

  * * * *

  Penelope couldn’t stop smiling—or blushing. She was so elated, it was all she could do not to run down the aisle to her bridegroom. He wore the same suit he’d worn to the ball—and he looked as dashing now as he had then.

  The bells stopped ringing and the quartet her mother had hired for the occasion began to play the canon she’d requested. Her father started off and she kept pace, never taking her eyes off Rollo. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes shimmered in the light of the many candles transforming the altar into a fairyland. Though she had gotten the Christmas miracle she prayed for, it still felt rather unreal to her.

  If this is a dream, please let me not come awake!

  She was dizzy and breathless by the time her father handed her off. As she took Rollo’s arm, her blood surged, adding more heat to her blush. When he bent to kiss her cheek, he said, “Do you know how much I love you?”

  She did—and loved him just as much in return—but was too overcome to express her feelings.

  He led her to where Dr. Twigworth stood on the steps leading up to the altar. The pastor smiled down at them both. “Shall we begin, Mr. Gillingham?”

  Rollo nodded and she felt a shiver of nervous excitement. They were getting married. After ten years of waiting, hoping, and longing, they had finally made it to the altar.

  The vicar cleared his throat and began to read straight from the prayer book. “Dearly beloved: We have come together in the presence of God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony …”

  When he reached the part where they were to confess any impediments to them marrying, Penelope held her breath, fearful Frank might yet make trouble. No one had seen him since the duel, yet that didn’t mean he wasn’t still around. Blessedly, no one said a word and the cleric moved on to the Declaration of Consent.

  “Penelope, will you have this man to be your husband; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”

  Gazing lovingly at her bridegroom, she said without a twinge of doubt, “I will.”

  Turning to Rollo, Dr. Twigworth asked the same question, to which he readily replied, “I will.”

  She had no doubt they would be happy together. As deliriously happy as two people could be or had ever been. Because theirs was a love of epic proportions. They shared a bond that could only be broken by death—and perhaps not even then.

  Dr. Twigworth asked them to face one another. The smile in Penelope’s heart bloomed across her face as Rollo took her right hand. “In the Name of God, I, Rollo, take you, Penelope, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow.”

  She then took his hand and repeated the oath in a trembling voice.

  When Dr. Twigworth asked Rollo for the ring, he withdrew it from his waistcoat pocket and placed it in the cleric’s cupped palm. Although she only glimpsed the ring for a few seconds, it was long enough to see it was a gimmel ring of yellow gold inset with gems whose two bands connected to form clasped hands over a heart.

  Normally, the separate bands would have been worn by the engaged couple until the wedding day, when both would be joined for the bride to wear. But, as they’d only been affianced for a day, that wasn’t possible.

  Still, it was an exquisite piece of jewelry she would wear with pride for the rest of her life.

  Dr. Twigworth blessed the ring and then gave it back to Rollo, who placed it on her finger while saying, “Penelope, I give you this ring as a symbol of my vow, and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honor you, in the Name of God.”

  They gazed into each other’s eyes for on
e magical, magnetic moment before the minister joined their right hands and said to the small group of people seated in the pews, “Now that Rollo and Penelope have given themselves to each other by solemn vows, with the joining of hands and the giving and receiving of a ring, I pronounce that they are husband and wife, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”

  As Dr. Twigworth shut the prayer book and stepped back, Penelope moved closer to Rollo, lifting her face for his kiss. Though it was improper for newlyweds to kiss while still in the church, she now placed more stock in her feelings than society’s rules—and, thankfully, so did he. His lips brushed hers. A perfectly chaste kiss, suitable for ministers and guests to observe. But not what she wanted from her new husband.

  She sighed and looked into his eyes. “I got my Christmas wish. My only wish, really.”

  “Did you?” A smile spread across his handsome face. “And may I know what you wished for?”

  “I wished to marry you and live happily ever after.”

  He kissed her again, long enough this time to satisfy her. “That, my dear wife, is a wish I share, and shall do everything in my power to bring to fruition.”

  —Finis—

  About the Author

  Nina Mason is an incurable romantic who strives to write love stories that entertain and edify. A research fanatic, she goes to great lengths to ensure the locations and time periods in her books are accurately portrayed. Born and raised in Southern California, Ms. Mason lived in Oregon briefly before moving to Georgia, where she lives with her husband and daughter. When she isn’t writing, she makes historic dolls, fairy babies, and putters in her garden.

  Contact Nina: ninamasonauthor@gmail.com