O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Harriet approached them with a tea tray. Charles gazed at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  She averted her eyes from his but set down the tray with grace. “Sir, I asked her before Mr. Heaney arrived. He’s a good sort, but I thought she would be more apt to tell another woman first.”

  While working under Mac, he’d had friends who had been hurt by men—young women and men alike. They’d possessed similar tells as Miss Doyle’s. Reticence paired with an insistence that they could be independent.

  That was how you met Lord Valencourt’s brother, he reminded himself, not allowing his mind to shy away from the truth. Mac had procured His Grace a companion, and it was that companion who’d finally threatened to try extorting the duke. It was a wonder it had never happened to His Grace before.

  All Charles said to Harriet was, “Thank you for the tea.”

  She nodded and slipped out.

  He said to Nigel, “We will make sure nothing happens to her.”

  After taking a sip of his tea, Nigel said, “I am happy we found her.”

  “Happy?”

  “You seem very… invested.” Nigel was being careful with his words.

  “I am. But so are you. It is the decent thing to do—make sure she is safe—and not just because she was on my property.”

  The words sounded very strange, indeed. He held property and a small inheritance.

  Under other circumstances, he might try to see it as a Christmas gift of a sort.

  After meeting Mr. Lester, he was now no longer sure what had transpired to lead to his birth. If he was not told outright, he was sure it would bother him for some time to come. But at the moment, he supposed that it was more useful to try to reimagine himself as someone with more than just a room to his name. And leave things at that.

  When Miss Doyle had slumped nearly onto his lap, he’d told Mr. Lester to summon anyone he deemed able to examine her. While Mr. Lester sent Harriet for an apothecary called Mr. Heaney, Charles and Nigel made Miss Doyle comfortable in an attic room. Harriet dressed her in one of her night rails.

  “Yes,” said Nigel. “But I don’t look at her like you do.”

  “Don’t be so silly. This isn’t one of your novels,” said Charles. He drank from his cup, wishing it was enlivened by some of the local whisky. “I’ve known her all of, what, several hours? Not counting the time she’s been unconscious.”

  “Sometimes the heart knows what we want before we know what we want.”

  “My heart knows it’s going back to London when this has settled down. I won’t stay in Ullinn House.” He gave a tight laugh. “What would there be for me to do?”

  “Here? Very little.”

  “What, then?”

  “There’s always Glasgow. With me. Managing the warehouse.”

  “I have work.”

  Nigel fell silent.

  Charles felt that was wise. Even if what he was suggesting was true, it was far too complex for the orderly, calm way in which he tried to live his life. He desired Miss Doyle but, for now, he needed to make sure she did not come to harm.

  After going to Ullinn House on his own for a quick look at whether what Miss Doyle had said about it being sound was true, Charles found himself there for over two hours. The day became dark before he realized how much time had passed.

  She appeared to be right. There would still be the matter of finding people to help him make it ready for three people to stay, even briefly. As he went from room to room, he found much was intact and present. It was all simply dusty and needed a good airing.

  The more he considered it, the more he thought staying with Mr. Lester would be the far better option.

  He was about to enter his father’s library when the sound of boots in the corridor below caught his attention.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He was proud that he’d even entered the house alone, given that it still looked haunted and he could not shake the sense that it held secrets. His brief time in the kitchen had been a prelude to the weight that seemed to drape over him the further he explored.

  He had been correct. It was not a very big house. What it had in abundance was aura.

  Or ghosts.

  Charles waited as the boots came up the stairs.

  It was Mr. Lester’s face, not a ghost’s, that appeared in the doorway.

  Chapter Eleven

  She ought not to feel impatient just because Mr. Mason was not there when she awoke. Or a few hours later after a kind apothecary had left. Mr. Maclean was there to keep her company, but she fast discovered that he could not put her at ease.

  He also did not interest her, but that was another topic she did not wish to examine until she was certain it might lead to some good. Neither brother was married, so that was not a concern. There were no wives to offend by simply existing and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Given the time of year, she thought, remembering stories of charity and miracles, perhaps you were in the right place at the right time.

  “He should be back soon,” said Mr. Maclean. “I suspect we’ll just end up staying here, but that’s better than a jab to the face with a sharp stick.”

  “What if someone comes looking for me?”

  “We won’t let anyone do anything against your will.”

  Florence noticed that Mr. Maclean did not say she wouldn’t be found. In a way, she appreciated the lack of false reassurance. “Fine. Thank you.” She sat up against the pillows, thankful that she was not squeamish about men—well, most men—and women sharing the same spaces. It was different for a lady and would even be different for her young former charges. They would not be taught to think this sort of situation was all right under any circumstances.

  Her situation was somewhat extraordinary, to be sure. Most women would not exhaust themselves into fainting in an inn in a village to which they’d fled.

  But any scenario with an unchaperoned, unmarried man and a woman in a room with a bed would spell disaster—was what she knew the wee Danvers girls would be told. While she understood the need to have caution and discretion, she thought it was a rigid way to view the world.

  “You’re welcome,” said Mr. Maclean from his chair by the window. She gathered that they were at the top of the inn.

  It was dark and Harriet would probably bring up a tray soon. Florence was too nauseous to eat much but had been pronounced relatively fit. She merely needed to bolster her strength, apparently, which she could have told anyone.

  “It is starting to look frosty,” said Mr. Maclean as he looked into the dark sky beyond the glass. “I do hope Charles returns soon.”

  “I hope he does, too.”

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Lester?” Charles asked. He released a breath. “Has Miss Doyle worsened?”

  He crossed his arms from where he stood before the bookshelves, surprised he had to steady himself as he asked.

  “I wanted to speak to you in private.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  “She is fine,” he said.

  Charles relaxed. “Then what did you wish to speak to me about?”

  If he was to be honest, he would admit that the innkeeper provided a welcome distraction. Unlike the other rooms, the library felt personal. Too close to his father.

  For some reason, his questions seemed to prompt Mr. Lester to reach out and touch him on the arm. “You will have to forgive me, although I am sure I do not deserve it.”

  “I have… no idea what you are talking about.”

  Mr. Lester was not nearly old enough to have lost his wits. Charles wondered if he had, though. His eyes were earnest and avid. “There was never a duel.”

  “No, well, I had gathered that,” said Charles, tilting his head.

  “I do not know who might have started such a rumor,” said Mr. Lester. He frowned. “One of the young people who left years ago, perhaps. Who knows how stories start? I should not have repeated it to you.” He took a large breath and let it out. “
I ruined your father’s happiness and, for that, I am sorry.”

  Charles did not follow. Perhaps he was not speaking sense at all. He did not smell of drink. He did not have the telltale sway or slurred, slow words of someone who had taken opiates. “Why don’t you tell me more of what you are thinking?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I was home for the new year.”

  “Yes?” Charles wished he had something heavy in hand, just in case Mr. Lester chose to rush at him. He did not know if the man would, but one could never tell.

  “Your parents, they were… as good as married. Perhaps not by England’s standards, but…”

  A weight settled in Charles’ stomach. He shook his head slowly.

  “You were just a bairn. A few months old.” Mr. Lester leaned against the bookshelf closest to Charles. “Marriage is not always the same, here, you must realize.”

  “So, how… did you ruin… their happiness?”

  Mr. Lester closed his eyes as though he were summoning patience. “I was young, vain, and selfish. I tried to force myself upon your mother.” Charles blanched and Mr. Lester said hurriedly, “I did not… my brother was so displeased with me. He found us. Stopped me.”

  “Your brother?” Charles took a step toward him. He did not have to raise his voice for people to be frightened of him and he used that to his advantage, crowding Mr. Lester, all thoughts of his potential flightiness forgotten. Charles did not know who would lie about something like this. There would also be no point. He did not know what could be gained by lying. “You mean my father?”

  Mr. Lester nodded.

  “Then Lester isn’t your surname.”

  “No, when I knew who you were, when I saw you, I…” he swallowed. “I had a choice. I should have told you the truth. But I was frightened.”

  Charles took a deep breath through his nose.

  He exhaled.

  “Tell me everything,” he said to his uncle. His voice and face were deadly tranquil. “And I shall find out if you are lying.” He nodded to a chair draped with a cloth. “Go on. Sit. I’ll light a fire.”

  It was past midnight when Florence saw her door open in the dark. The frost and rooftops reflected blue under a full moon. It allowed her to see the entire room.

  She was awake and waiting for Mr. Mason’s return. It was farfetched as well as a little wicked, but she’d left it unlatched in the hope that he might come to her.

  She had thought it would happen several hours before now and allowed that she had not given much thought as to what they’d actually do. Talk, presumably, unless she fainted again. Mr. Maclean had talked to her. Too much.

  She considered feigning a faint simply so that he would retreat.

  Until she saw Mr. Mason slipping into the room, she had very few salacious thoughts. Well, she had managed to fend them off. Unfortunately, just the sight of him brought all of them back, something which she marveled at given what Mr. Danvers had shown her he was capable of.

  It didn’t matter. Not with Mr. Mason. She did not fear him at all.

  “You’re awake,” he said, once he was near enough to see that her eyes were open.

  “I am.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t be.” He hesitated. “I can… should… go.”

  “Who will gossip about us here? Harriet?”

  Evidently, her teasing smile won him over. He walked quietly across the old boards and settled in the chair near her bedside. She was pleased he did not choose the one by the window.

  When he sat, he let out a sigh. “You should be resting.”

  “What would you have done had I been asleep?”

  “I…”

  “Did you plan on watching me?” His much smaller, far less put-upon sigh answered her question. “You did. Well, this is better. What happened at Ullinn House? You were gone far longer than anyone expected. I think Mr. Lester went to look for you.”

  “He found me.”

  “You were there so late. Will you… we…” she still was not used to thinking that someone was helping her. “Stay there?”

  His reply was quiet. “Yes.”

  She gathered that, for some reason, he did not want to discuss it further. She tried to respect that and said, “I am pleased you came upstairs.” It was the first time they had been fully alone together, and she was not disappointed by the way his being near her seemed to create an instant warmth. Even before she’d flopped onto him earlier, she’d been aware of how charged the narrow space was between them.

  Maybe after five and twenty years of mundanity, she was finally experiencing something serendipitous. It certainly seemed so.

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  She said, “When you asked me to put down that pan, I knew I was lost.” Off his look of confusion, she clarified. “I knew that if you asked me something and said please at the end of it, I’d do it.”

  He started to smile. “I couldn’t comprehend the sight of you.”

  “No? Did you think I was a Christmas ghost?”

  “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve seen… you were in my house, and… no, not a ghost. An angel, perhaps. Or a spirit.” His smile shifted into a grin. “About to try her hand at hitting me with something quite heavy.”

  Florence watched him as he leaned close to her, waiting for him to be near enough to do what she thought he might. She waited to feel nervous. The nerves did not come, even when he kissed her lightly, his lips warm and soft along hers.

  “I know you are Charles,” she said, scarcely louder than a whisper. “And if we are to kiss, you should know that my surname is Brown, not Doyle.”

  He chuckled. “I am… not surprised. I’ve a past, Miss Brown. This isn’t the only name I’ve gone by.”

  “Florence.”

  “Florence. I have my own stories. I’m the last person to judge anyone for such a small use of subterfuge.”

  She pressed her lips to the side of his mouth as he finished speaking. “Then, I hope to hear them one day.”

  “One day,” he said in agreement. “But not tonight. Tonight, you rest.”

  She hated to admit that he was probably right to remind her.

  One did not faint if one was well-rested. Generally. She did not know how she would sleep with him so close by, not because she worried about what he would do, but because he made her feel so compelled to touch him, speak to him, that she did not know if it was possible for her to sleep. Her consolation was that he did not seem keen on leaving her to her fate.

  He won’t leave until he is sure I am settled. And if settling were to involve this man whom fate decided to cast into her path, then so much the better. Some might consider her overly hopeful.

  But she could dream the same as everyone else during this time of year.

  Chapter Twelve

  December 1817

  A year had made such a difference to Charles Mason’s life. He was married—by habit and in the legal sense—he was now a merchant, and he was more thankful for this coming new year than he had been for any other.

  Ullinn House was warm, now in good repair, and teeming with life. They did not live here regularly, but Florence suggested they visit to mark the year’s end.

  Nigel would join them soon. Mother and Mr. Maclean, to no one’s surprise, would not.

  As he sat in the library, a fire in the hearth before him, he remembered his last conversation with his uncle, whom he had avoided since arriving two days ago. They had not seen each other for a year.

  This room, though pleasant enough now, made him think back to the man’s confession.

  Mr. Lester, a Mason. Once he revealed that fact, similarities between them were made plain. Charles could never call himself observant again, that was for certain.

  The commonalities were only in some of their features. Both of them were solid and tall, both of them were darker in coloring.

  Still, it was as though the name held the power, and once he knew the truth, he saw
it. The man had tearfully explained all, and Charles believed his spirit of repentance.

  That did not mean he had to accept him with open arms. Lester, truly James Mason, frightened his mother so badly that she broke her marriage despite having a child. As James had said, the association was regarded as a marriage “by habit”—something that would not have legally held in England, should she have gone there.

  His father apparently thought she would return. He remained in constant contact, or tried to, but she refused his letters and support.

  Then she met Mr. Maclean.

  Charles had new respect for the man: he must have truly loved Mother, for there were probably few who would marry a woman with a very young son without love’s motivation. Their marriage was, as Charles already knew, customary and regular.

  He mourned the dark opinion he’d formed about his father from an early age. It was clear that he’d been wrong, but he could see why Mother had never spoken of him highly.

  From time to time, he did wonder why she’d never tried to tell him the truth but understood that some truths were too painful to discuss.

  She had kept his name for Charles, at least.

  In all, it was James whom he blamed most. A feeling that they shared.

  “I knew immediately,” James said. “I knew when she declared she wished to leave Ullinn House without Roderick, that I had ruined more than myself.”

  Over the years, he’d put aside money for his nephew in the hope they might meet again. He’d given it to Charles the morning after they spoke in the library.

  But there was no amount that could amend the pain his parents experienced.

  A permanent rift had formed between the brothers. They existed in the village as acquaintances, with the younger brother even taking a new surname in practice. In time, the villagers grew accustomed to it. James Mason became James Lester, and his wife and child were Lesters.

  He had certainly not been killed in a duel, but Roderick would not own to starting any rumor.

  Charles thought James was right in his assessment. Someone likely spun the yarn as his father’s health declined and Ullinn House looked more neglected.