Etta had bombarded him with the sights and sounds and smells of her seven-year-old recollections: the scent of yeast and cinnamon wafting up from the kitchens daily, gifts planned and made for special persons, a loaded wagon of baskets for each family with sweet treats, a bottle of wine, and a handmade toy for any young children. “God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman” on the harpsichord and “Greensleeves” on the harp.
Etta saw the hope in her sister’s eyes now. The poor girl wasn’t yet fourteen and needed some joy. “We must have baked goods. The neighbors and villagers would be extremely disappointed.”
Tia grinned. “I’ll tell Cook. And shortbread for MacIntyre?” Their butler’s greatest woe was the English fare. He missed his Highland dishes.
Her mind wandered back to the holiday. Each Christmastide since Etta had turned seventeen, her father had sworn to find a way to send her to London for a Season. By spring, the promise had been forgotten. At twenty, their neighbor Mrs. Miller whispered about shelves and spinsters.
Etta didn’t mind. Leaving her sister would have left a hole in her heart. Besides, the squire’s wife had also warned her that the ton could be malicious to anyone with an imperfection.
Her mood deflated as she looked down at the letter scrunched in her lap. The flowing script appeared hurried, scratched in haste. Chaotic splotches of ink marred the thick paper. The note had managed to be brief yet rambling at the same time. Did it reflect the gentleman who had written it?
“And if a male heir is discovered?” she had asked, wondering if her aunt had any children.
“This is where it becomes ambiguous.” The solicitor removed his glasses carefully and placed them on the desk. “The heir will control all the holdings, investments, and assume guardianship of Miss Horatia. He is required to support both of you until he finds suitable matches. The gentleman will also provide a reasonable dowry.”
“And if one of us does not marry?”
“He will be obligated to support you until that day.”
Two weeks after meeting with the solicitor, they received a letter from a long-lost aunt, announcing the existence of her great-nephew and expressing her sorrow for the loss of their father, her brother. In truth, the siblings had not spoken since Lord Comden’s marriage to a harlot of the stage. The girls’ mother had been a talented opera singer, giving up a promising career to marry the handsome baron. He had been smitten at first sight, or first note, he had often joked.
Tia had inherited their mother’s pale beauty. Etta had her voice. But the shared traits of loving parents did little to assuage their grief.
The clip clop of horse hooves echoed against the paved stones. Etta hurried to the parlor window to see the coach as it slowed to a stop in the courtyard. An unfamiliar gold crest shone against the black enamel as a footman hastened to open the door. A tall, slender man, his expensive greatcoat swirling around gleaming black boots, stepped out and surveyed the tidy surroundings. Riotous blond curls peeked out from beneath his beaver hat, and a wide smile lit his handsome face. He spoke to the driver, his breath forming white puffs in the cold afternoon air.
Etta peered out the window, chewing her bottom lip as they studied the viscount.
“He’s very fine.” Tia pushed up next to her and pulled back the drape.
“Stop! Mind your manners,” Etta scolded with a wagging finger.
“What manners?” laughed Tia. “He’s family. He has to love us.”
With a snort, Etta grabbed Tia by the shoulders and turned her toward the door. Apprehension knotted her stomach. Did their cousin know of Tia’s hearing loss? She had a vision of a kindly gentleman treating her sister as an invalid, and the fiery scene that would follow.
MacIntyre appeared, his ebony tailcoat and breeches immaculate. Their butler had been more a father figure the past few years than a servant. He had a quick smile, kind dark eyes, and a Scottish wit that could send the girls into a fit of giggles. His bushy, silver brows rose in question, his hand on the door handle, and Etta nodded.
With a deep breath, she smoothed her black bombazine dress and fiddled with the lace trim at the sleeves. Tia’s arm looped through hers as she dragged them both to the entry hall, her enthusiasm almost contagious. Her sister’s golden waves bounced across her shoulders, radiant against the coffee-colored dress. She refused to wear black, except for the ribbon at her waist and threaded through her locks, declaring there was no one to see them.
MacIntyre turned and put a finger to his lips. He tugged on his waistcoat, smoothed back his sparse gray hair, and opened the door. “Greetings, my lord,” he said in his most imperious tone.
Lord Turnsley stepped inside and handed the Scot his hat without making eye contact. He ran a hand through his wild mane while the butler assisted him with his greatcoat. Etta realized he was much younger than she’d supposed—late twenties, perhaps—with a strong chin and aquiline nose. His silver eyes narrowed and scanned the hall from the marble floor to the rich paneling to the crystal chandeliers.
He’s taking stock, she thought.
MacIntyre cleared his throat and sent a meaningful glance at Etta.
“My lord, how good it is to finally meet you,” she said, stepping forward. “I am Miss Henrietta Comden, and this is my younger sister, Miss Horatia.”
He bent over Etta’s hand, but his eyes were focused on her face. A smile curled his full lips. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Comden.”
He turned and greeted Tia in the same fashion. “My condolences on your loss. Though, it’s a shame such lovely ladies must wear blacks.” He gave them both a deep bow. “But rest assured, there will be plenty of merriment, regardless of our attire.”
Tia clapped her hands and switched from her sister’s arm to her cousin’s, steering him toward the parlor. “I told you not to worry,” she called over her shoulder.
“Would you like to see your quarters first or have some refreshment?” asked Etta. She followed the pair through the pocket doors and sent a desperate, silent plea to MacIntyre.
“I’ll have yer luggage sent to yer chamber, my lord. Would ye like a bath drawn?” MacIntyre motioned for two of the liveried footmen to carry the bags up the wide circular staircase, then joined the group the room.
“To be honest, I’m parched. Do you have any decent brandy in the house?” Turnsley tossed his gangly frame on a chaise longue, one arm sprawled across the back and a leg dangling over the side. He was quite the dandy in striped cream and Pomona breeches, a matching green waistcoat and tails, and an enormous ivory cravat.
It was barely one o’clock. Etta wondered at his imbibing of spirits so early in the day. Then again, she had little knowledge of the ton. Perhaps it had been a long journey.
“We’ve brandy, my lord, but I canna guarantee its quality since I’ve no’ partaken.” MacIntyre bowed and left the room.
“Well, I must say I am pleasantly surprised,” began Turnsley as his eyes swept over the dated but expensive silk wallcoverings and heavy drapes. “I expected a couple of dowdy country girls and an estate in shambles. Instead, I find my luck has turned, and all my cards are trumps.”
Etta saw the polite smile curve Tia’s lips, a sign she hadn’t understood what had been said but would not admit it. But their cousin had a friendly demeanor and put them both at ease.
“I’m happy we have pleased you without much effort.” Etta perched on the chintz chair across from her cousin.
“You’ll find I’m quite accommodating. Though I admit I’m used to getting my way.” His well-manicured nails stroked his silk cravat. “Being the only male in my line, the family doesn’t often refuse me.”
Etta wasn’t sure what to think of such an admission. She moved on to another subject. “How was your journey?”
“Without mishap. But it’s a long road from Surrey to Northumberland. Detest the north, too cold.” Turnsley intercepted the butler, who had returned with a full decanter. He splashed some brandy into a crystal glass, tossed it back with
a smack of his lips and a satisfied sigh, then refilled the cup before resuming his seat.
“So, did you know of my father?” she asked graciously.
He shook his head. “I knew Great-Aunt Tilly had a brother who married some wh—er, actress. It caused a rift in the familial bond. I tell you, the solicitor’s letter came at the perfect time. This will be a splendid little hideaway until the Season begins.”
His rude slip of the tongue set her bristles up, but Etta kept her smile in place. “You plan on an extended stay, my lord?” She had no idea what to expect. The solicitor assumed Lord Turnsley would inspect the property, return to London, and let the estate manager continue to oversee the details.
“Only until the tongues stop wagging in Town. Got caught with a set of fulhams at the hazard table. I was deuced upset to lose those dice too. I traded them for my uncle’s pocket watch and had made a tidy profit until that rattler exposed me.” He slapped his silk-covered thigh. “Mother will smooth things over, though she doesn’t have the blunt to cover my debt. Anyway, that puts me here through Twelfth Night. I love a good crush. Do you have many neighbors?”
By the time Lord Turnsley finished a bottle of brandy and stumbled up the stairs, Etta’s head was pounding. The man never stopped talking and had given them quite an education of the ways of London society. The beau monde sounded as decadent and arrogant as her neighbor had warned.
“What do you think of him?” she asked Tia.
Her sister laughed. “He’s a jingle brain with enough tongue for two sets of teeth.”
“Oh, I believe he’s much more than that.” A Captain Shark, a tippler, and a Jack O’ Dandy with the devil playing in his pocket.
Lord help them.
Chapter Two
Mid-December 1813
London, England
“Congratulations. You now have an heir.” Gus held up his glass of cognac. “Mother and son are both doing well. I’ve given your five very anxious daughters strict orders to let them both rest tonight.”
“Thank you, Dr. Wharren, but I’m afraid they’ve already disobeyed. My wife wouldn’t deny them a look at their new little brother.” Nathaniel slapped his sibling on the back. “I must say it’s an advantage to have a physician in the family. Your education was worth every guinea. I may have inherited the earldom, but you, dear brother, have a skill I can only envy.”
It was late, and the room’s only light came from the hearth. The fire crackled and popped as he leaned an elbow against the mantel. “The midwife did most of the work. I didn’t get here until near the end.”
“Just in time. The woman was petrified to turn the babe. Thought she’d be held responsible if mother or son died.”
Gus nodded. “They often are.”
“If I’d lost her…” His brother ran a hand through his dark hair. Fatigue dulled his green eyes. His cravat had been discarded hours ago, leaving his rumpled linen shirt open at the chest. “Charlotte is my world.”
“I find more hopeless cases than happy ones in this profession.” Gus fell into the winged-back chair and soaked in the warmth of the flames. He retied his own shirt at the throat and rolled down his sleeves. “I wonder if I made the right choice.”
“What happened?” Nathaniel joined him and filled both glasses with more of the amber liquid. “Something in particular must have you in the dungeon.”
He let out a long, ragged sigh. “If I wanted to deal with so much death, I’d have joined the army.”
Augustus Wharren, fourth son of an earl, had wanted a profession that would improve people’s lot in life. At first, his clients came from all classes of society. The ton had made him wealthy, but their complaints were often so trivial he held back a laugh. So, he’d taken on pro bono work and took on cases in the rookeries. But the slums of London were often worse than the threat of death. After ten years, Gus still suffered deep depressions when he lost a patient. He wished to leave London and think about another future.
Money was no longer an issue. Besides his lucrative practice, his grandmother had recently left him a generous annual income and a property near the Scottish border.
“You’re a gentle soul, Gus. Perhaps the life of a country squire?” Nathaniel pursed his lips. “A sweet country girl, a stable of horses, some sheep, perhaps.”
“Sounds idyllic, but I need to do something. I’m not a gentleman of leisure.”
Nathaniel snorted. “I would never accuse you of that. Have you considered marriage? A discussion with Charlotte can ease my mind and my conscience.”
“She’s a rare woman. If I ever find one like her, I’d consider getting buckled.”
“Fair enough. Are you hungry? I’ll arrange for a cold repast.”
Gus nodded. “We need to discuss my move to Northumberland.”
“You still want to spend the winter in that drafty old mansion?” Nathaniel chuckled. “I swear our ancestors are still whispering in those dark, shadowy halls.”
“I always felt they watched over us when we visited Grandmama.”
“The portraits in the gallery.” Nathaniel shivered dramatically. “Those painted eyes seemed to follow us.”
Gus managed a laugh. “Perhaps they were. I’ll take a few months and get the place in order. It needs some work.”
“I hope you find your way.”
He held Nathaniel’s emerald gaze, so much like his own. The two could have been twins except for the eight years separating them. He would miss their talks. “I do too, Brother. I do too.”
Gus shrugged into his greatcoat and pulled on his leather gloves. It had taken him less than a week to refer his clients to another physician and shutter his practice for the time being. The carriage was waiting, along with his favorite gelding saddled and tied to the back. It would be a long journey to Northumberland. The thought of being trapped inside a stuffy velvet-lined box for days didn’t appeal to him. He’d ride whenever possible. With final instructions to his townhouse staff, he put on his hat, mounted his horse, and followed the coach out of town.
His mood lightened as London faded behind him. Perhaps this reprieve was the perfect medicine for his soul. An odd buoyancy lifted his spirits and grew stronger as he neared Bliss Manor. Gus had the strangest feeling, a premonition of sorts, that his life was about to change.
The two inns along the way provided decent meals and clean rooms. Both innkeepers recognized him, as his family had followed this route often during his childhood. Now his heart pounded as the horse trotted up the familiar lane toward his grandmother’s home. His home.
He tugged on the reins and brought his gelding to a stop before the dull wrought-iron that marked one boundary of the estate. Through the bars, he saw the tree-lined lane leading to the courtyard. His carriage and manservant were at least a mile behind, so Gus dismounted and pulled on the cold bars, then pushed the heavy gate aside with gloved hands. Back in the saddle, he kicked his horse into an easy canter. As he rode under the thick, sparse branches of aged oaks, he sucked in a deep breath.
The pungent scent of pine filled his nostrils as the rambling old mansion came into view. The structure had begun as a castle, with round towers on four corners and turrets that reached to the heavens. Or so it had seemed to him as a boy. Over the centuries, several more wings had been added until it was a sprawling maze of corridors and courtyards. He and his brothers had spent their summers exploring these grounds, fighting imaginary dragons, and discovering hidden passages.
The door opened, and Mrs. Willoughby greeted him. “Oh, Master Gus, er, Dr. Wharren! It’s so good to see you again.” The plump woman hurried down the icy steps, her auburn curls tucked under her white mob cap as she rushed toward him. A scrawny boy trailed behind her, a grin on his dirty face. “I didn’t know when to expect you, but I have your quarters clean and ready. I’ll send Jasper to start a fire for you.”
“Where is Will—”
The housekeeper shook her head with a sad smile. “Mr. Willoughby left this world last year, ju
st before Her Ladyship. It’s been a long time since you’ve visited.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Gus slid from the saddle and tossed the reins to Jasper. “He was a good man.”
“That he was,” she agreed, “and devoted to your grandmother. Now, let’s get you inside and warmed up. Who’s behind you?”
“A driver and my valet.”
“Very good, sir.” Mrs. Willoughby flapped her hands and sent him up the wide veranda and into the dim receiving hall.
Gus sighed. These aged stone walls had always been more home to him than the family’s estate in Essex. A suit of armor continued to guard the entrance, a silver plate in the knight’s metal glove for calling cards. He’d slid down that banister hundreds of times. The walls still held the medieval weapons that had enthralled his imagination as a boy. Down the hall he’d find Grandfather’s study, and past that, the kitchen he and Nathaniel would raid after midnight.
“I’ll get some help from the village tomorrow. In the meantime, I have some fresh pasties made up. It won’t take but a moment to warm them.” The housekeeper chattered on. “The parson will be so happy. I’ll send word you’ve arrived.”
Gus half-listened as he wandered down the expansive hall and down to the kitchen. A basket sat on the long, scarred table, a cloth covering its content. He picked up the towel, and the scent of yeast and fresh bread made his mouth water. His stomach growled.
“I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” he chuckled, a bit embarrassed. “Do you still make that marmalade?”
The older woman grinned. “Of course, Master Gus. I remember your favorites. Why don’t you go into the dining hall while I slice some of this and fetch the jelly?”
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 42
