The Wallflower's Mistletoe Wedding

by Amanda McCabe

  ‘Of course it would be,’ she answered softly. ‘I have only read of battle and can barely imagine the noise and confusion of it all. I’m glad you have returned safely home.’

  He smiled down at her warmly. ‘I see you do understand, Miss Parker. So few do, even my brother. They think once it’s over it is forgotten. And it’s not a memory I wish to dwell upon, especially on such a lovely day.’

  Rose nodded. ‘Shall we conquer that holly, then? I see some with particularly luscious red berries right over there.’

  She laughed and took his arm to make their way to the holly bush. It was indeed a lovely one, dark green against the frosty ground like diamonds and rubies. She held the branches high and still as he sawed them off to fill their baskets. She could hear the laughter of the others caught on the wind, could smell the crisp, warm scent of him against the cold snow and the greenery.

  ‘This is quite nice,’ she said. ‘It does remind me of Christmases when I was a child and Lily and I would help our parents find decorations for the house. It smelled of evergreen then and we were always singing. My father would read us old holiday poems every night. How merry it was!’

  He nodded, but he looked solemn as he finished gathering the last of the branches. ‘It sounds delightful indeed.’

  ‘Did you and your brother not do such things for Christmas at your house?’

  ‘Christmas was not much celebrated at Hilltop, I’m afraid, so I’m learning it as I go this year. My father preferred quiet at all times and my mother usually went to visit friends in London, though she did like a bit of decoration around the house.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rose whispered, her heart suddenly aching for him. He smiled as he spoke, as if it was not a thing of much consequence, yet she heard the sombre touch of wistfulness behind the words. She couldn’t help but picture two lonely little boys, left alone at the darkest time of the year without the Yule candles to brighten things. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Not at all. Charlie and I would be left alone to do naughty things like toast cheese by the fire, which we were never usually allowed to do.’

  Rose laughed. ‘Toasted cheese is a thing to look forward to, I must say. Aunt Sylvia would never allow it.’

  He studied her from beneath the brim of his hat. ‘What is it like at your Aunt Sylvia’s house?’

  Rose thought about the drawing room, cluttered with old objets and closed around with heavy velvet curtains. ‘Not so terrible, really. It’s not as if I’m mining coal or some such thing. Mostly I read to her and fetch tea and shawls, and listen as she bemoans the ways of the world. We are apparently in quite a shocking state, you know, compared with how things were in her own youth.’

  He laughed. ‘So my father often said. I think I remember reading Plato saying the young people of his own day were becoming shockingly rude. By the time any nephews or nieces of mine are grown, who knows what horrors we shall face?’

  Rose noticed he’d said ‘nephews and nieces’, not sons and daughters. Did he not hope for such things as a family, then? She wondered what horrors had taken such expectations from him and she wanted to touch his hand in sympathy, as Lady Eleanor had for her earlier that morning. But he gave her another smile, and in that smile, just for an instant, she glimpsed the man she had danced with all those years ago, in another life. The man whose kindness and handsome looks had fuelled her silly dreams for far too long. Whatever he’d seen and done in battle had carved the man with such sadness as well as outward scars, yet she saw the man she’d known was still inside somewhere.

  ‘Well, I think I am about to do something shockingly naughty,’ she whispered.

  He leaned closer with a glint in his eye. ‘I can’t wait to see what that might be, Miss Parker.’

  ‘I see a lovely little cluster of mistletoe up there and every house decorated for the holidays must have plenty of mistletoe for kissing boughs. I’m going to climb up there to fetch it.’

  ‘Climb the tree?’ he said doubtfully. ‘Miss Parker, I don’t think....’

  Before he could stop her, Rose ran to the tree and found a foothold in the rough bark. She reached up and grabbed a thick branch. ‘Lily and I used to climb trees all the time, when we were children. I’m sure I remember how.’

  He frowned and rushed over to her, his arms out as if he was afraid she would fall. ‘It could be dangerous.’

  ‘Not as dangerous as riding into battle like you, Captain,’ she answered and kept pulling herself upwards.

  She felt a warm touch on her leg and looked down to find he was ready to catch her at an instant’s notice. Somehow, just knowing he was there gave her more confidence.

  She grabbed at the cluster of mistletoe and snapped it off. As she clambered back down, the toe of her boot caught on her hem and she felt herself falling with an instant of cold panic.

  Before she could hit the frost-frozen ground, Harry caught her, holding her high for an instant above the rest of the world. Breathless, Rose held on to him and felt safer than she had in a very long time.

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ she said. ‘It seems you have saved me yet again.’

  ‘I must find something useful to do in my new homebound life,’ he answered. ‘Rescuing fair maidens seems as fine a cause as any.’

  Rose laughed as he lowered her to her feet. She found she didn’t want to let him go at all; she had to make herself stand back and smile. ‘You’re quite good at it. And look at our mistletoe! Quite pretty, indeed, and not a single berry lost.’

  She suddenly heard other voices, calling out and laughing, and she remembered they were not alone in the fairy-tale woods. Her small dream was shattered, like the icicles on the trees around them, and she stepped back from him.

  ‘There you are, Rose,’ Jane called. ‘I think it’s time for our luncheon, don’t you? We’ve all been working much too hard! Oh, look at how much holly you’ve gathered, how marvellous.’

  As Jane took her arm and led her away, still happily chattering, Rose glanced back at Harry.

  Lady Fallon had gone to him and taken his arm, and he replied to whatever she had said to him. Rose’s throat tightened, but she made herself turn away and nod and smile at Jane. The day suddenly stretched very long before her.

  * * *

  Rose Parker sat the other end of the long luncheon table, with several laughing, chattering people between them, but Harry was aware of her at every moment. Aware of her soft smiles, the graceful movement of her hand as she raised her glass, and the quiet, sweet happiness that seemed to radiate around her like a pink, sunset cloud.

  Yes—that was what she had, what he had never possessed—quiet sweetness, a pleasure in the moment. It was intoxicating after years of noise and chaos in the army.

  He thought of that moment in the forest, with the snowy silence all around them and Rose looking up at him. He had wanted to take her into his arms more than he had ever wanted anything else, longed for it with a palpable hunger that took him entirely by surprise.

  ‘...don’t you think, Harry?’ Helen, who was seated to his right, said. Her laughing voice pushed him out of his dream world and into the reality of the cold winter morning, of a footman pouring wine into his glass and Helen laying a light hand on his arm.

  He glanced down into her smiling eyes, those beautiful sky-blue eyes of his old friend, the woman he’d even once thought of marrying. And all he could think of was Rose, her cheeks pink in the cold forest, her smile.

  ‘...should marry an heiress,’ he heard Charlie say in his mind. ‘Do his duty—rescue Hilltop.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Helen, I fear I was wool-gathering,’ he said.

  She tilted her head, the feathers of her fashionable headpiece waving lightly. Her gaze flickered over his ruined face and then away. ‘Charlie was just telling me about how Hilltop needs a lady’s opinion on its furnishings. Perhaps I could
advise you?’

  Harry almost laughed as he thought of Hilltop, its roof slates crumbling, its floors cracking. Refurnishing was far down the list at the moment. ‘I don’t think it’s quite ready for visitors.’

  Helen laughed and reached for her wineglass. ‘I am hardly a visitor. I remember being there so often as a child it almost seemed like a second home.’

  Charles gave Harry a long, solemn glance over her head. ‘We wouldn’t know where to start without an educated opinion, would we, Harry?’

  ‘I would so dearly love to see it again,’ Helen said with a sigh. ‘I am sure that whatever needs fixing there, it is nothing a lady’s sure hand could not do. Your father was alone there for so long and a house is not a home without a mistress. A bit of merriment always helps as well.’

  ‘And a new roof wouldn’t hurt,’ Charlie muttered.

  ‘But such things are surely fixed in a trice!’ Helen said. ‘Then a bit of redecorating, in modern colours, and it would be just like in our mothers’ day. Tell me, Charlie dear, what are the French styles you saw while you were abroad?’

  As Charles and Helen talked of colours and satins, Harry finished his wine and thought of that new roof. In Helen’s world, such things happened as if by magic. For Hilltop and its tenants—well, it would take a bit more than the wave of a wand.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘The boar’s head in hand bear I, bedecked in bays and rosemary!’

  Rose applauded along with everyone else as the elaborate platter with the traditional boar’s head—bright red apple in its mouth and wound with a holly garland—was paraded around the dining room with Charles St George leading the song in his Lord of Misrule role. It was a true traditional Christmas dinner, the table laden with plum cakes and silver wassail bowls, and everyone looked quite merry indeed.

  She glanced across the table at Harry. He watched it all with a smile, but it seemed distant, as if he thought of something far away. She wanted to draw him closer, to bring him into their merriment so he forgot all else.

  ‘Oh, Miss Parker, isn’t it all so pretty?’ Lady Eleanor, seated at Rose’s left so she could be guided when it was time for her to sing, said as she watched the firelit scene with wide eyes. She reminded Rose of Lily when they were children, all curls and smiles, and it made her feel wistful to remember.

  ‘Pretty indeed. Much like it must have been here years ago.’

  ‘My father, as you know, was a scholar,’ Jane said, listening to her daughter. ‘And he always thought the old Christmas traditions were the best. Tonight we have singing, and the wassail bowl, and on Christmas Day and Boxing Day feasts and dancing.’

  ‘And presents?’ Eleanor asked.

  Jane laughed. ‘Small ones, perhaps.’

  As plates of roasted boar and cinnamon-spiced apples were passed around the table, Rose thought of the Christmases she had known as a child, with her parents and Lily. They had not been grand, but there had always been singing around the pianoforte, special cakes at tea and her mother’s embroidered handkerchiefs as gifts, wrapped around sweets and oranges.

  Suddenly, the warm, crowded room seemed to vanish and she was swept up on a chilly wave of homesickness, of missing her mother and sister. She felt so alone in the midst of the noisy crowd and blinked hard to hold back the tears.

  She glanced up and found Harry watching her from across the table. He gave her a small, understanding smile, as if he understood what she was thinking, and suddenly she did not feel so very alone.

  ‘Christmas can be a difficult time to remember the past,’ he said quietly. ‘Whether it be scholarly, or in our own memories.’

  ‘Then we must make new memories,’ Jane said. ‘William, Eleanor, would you like to sing for us now, my dears?’

  The children looked to Rose and she nodded with a smile. No matter what, music, especially when shared with others, was a great refuge. They launched into another version of ‘The Boar’s Head’, their small faces shining with pleasure. They made her forget, too, made her feel like just for a moment she was home again.

  ‘Oh, well done, my dears!’ Jane said, leading the applause. She exchanged proud glances with her husband. ‘Rose, you have worked wonders with them.’

  Rose was also most proud of her pupils and urged them to make another bow. ‘The talent must be there to be worked with, I must say.’

  ‘Will you sing something for us, Miss Parker?’ Hayden said.

  ‘Oh, yes, do!’ Emma cried. ‘No one sings as you do.’

  Rose slowly stood up, wondering what she should sing, trying not to look at all the people watching her. She closed her eyes and remembered the sad old song her father once sang to her and her sister as they fell asleep at Christmastime.

  ‘“Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child, Bye-bye, lully, lullay. Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child, Bye-bye, lully, lullay,’” she sang out.

  As she made her way through the verses, a few voices joined her in sweet melancholy.

  The words to the old song slowly faded away and Rose felt her homesickness grow in her heart again. Against her will, she found herself looking to Harry again, as if he could offer understanding, as he had earlier when they talked together about past holidays and seemed to be in perfect accord with each other.

  He looked as startled as she felt, as if for an instant a mask had dropped away between them and a longing was laid bare. A flash of loneliness, comfort offered and accepted.

  Then it was gone, his polite half-smile returned, and applause rang out for the song, breaking the sweet, sad stretch of silence.

  ‘Will you sing for us again?’ Jane asked.

  Rose shook her head, afraid she would cry if she sang one of the old, familiar songs again. ‘Perhaps someone else would grace us?’ She glimpsed Lady Fallon from the corner of her eye, a scarlet-satin slipper tapping under her embroidered hem as Jane said,

  ‘Lady Fallon, would you? Rose, perhaps you would join us for a hand of cards?’

  Lady Fallon looked startled for an instant before she nodded. ‘Oh, yes, of course, though I fear I am quite out of practice!’

  Rose gave up the bench to Lady Fallon, who sorted through the music before she launched into a complicated Italian aria. As she sang, Rose sat down and examined her hand of cards, trying to remember how to play piquet. Aunt Sylvia rarely had enough company to make up a four-hand, so Rose’s memory of the rules was rather faded. But Jane insisted she would do very well with herself, Emma and Emma’s bookseller friend Mrs Anson at the table near the windows.

  Lady Fallon’s beringed hands flew over the pianoforte keys. Rose saw she was not well practised at her music, but she was very dramatic, drawing people near with her smiling, animated performance—including Harry and Charles, who gathered with the others near the instrument.

  ‘It’s quite delightful to see Lady Fallon and the St Georges together again,’ Jane said, shuffling the cards. ‘It’s been too long.’

  ‘Didn’t I hear that they were once all great friends?’ Mrs Anson asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, their mothers were bosom bows,’ Emma said. ‘I think there were hopes of Helen and Harry making a match.’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Anson said, her tone surprised. ‘But Charles St George is so very handsome, and seems better suited to her—ebullience.’

  Jane shrugged, dealing a new hand. ‘It all became pointless when Harry went to battle and Lord Fallon came along with his great fortune. But now that Helen is a widow...’

  ‘With all Lord Fallon’s gold intact,’ Emma said. ‘What good such things could do at an estate like Hilltop! It would be lovely to see the old house come alive again.’

  ‘Why?’ Rose asked. ‘What is amiss with it?’

  ‘Old Mr St George was not the best steward,’ Jane said. ‘When his wife died, he quite lost all interest in the p
lace. And with Harry and Charlie gone for so long—it was very sad.’

  Emma glanced at the group around the pianoforte. ‘Yet all can be well now!’

  ‘Hopefully.’ Jane glanced out the window, and let out a little glad cry. ‘Oh, look, more snow! How delightful. Hayden has been wanting to try his hand at sledding again, as he did when he was a boy. Maybe we can all go tomorrow.’

  Rose watched the snow drifting down, light and lacy, pale against the night sky. It was all so pretty, so peaceful. If only, she thought, all of life could be just that way.

  Chapter Eight

  How very strange it was, Rose thought, how very alone a person could really feel in a crowd. She felt steadier there, alone for a moment on the chilly terrace as everyone else took a moment from their games to find refreshments, than she had been surrounded by people and gossip about Captain St George and Lady Fallon. The light snowfall fell on her nose and made her laugh.

  The glass doors opened behind her, the merest brush against the stone floor, and she turned to see a silhouetted figure against the night sky, the lights from the party behind him. His face was in shadow, but she knew it was Harry. No one else had quite his military bearing.

  She felt her cheeks turning warm even in the chilly wind and looked away.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ he said when he saw her there. ‘I didn’t know anyone was here. I was just looking for a—well, a bit of quiet. I’ll leave you to your privacy.’

  ‘It’s quite all right, Captain,’ she answered, hoping he wouldn’t leave. ‘I also needed some quiet for a moment, but I’m not averse to a bit of company, either.’

  ‘Neither am I, especially when it’s so amiable.’ He came to stand beside her at the balustrade, leaning his palms on the cold marble. They stared together into the garden, all ghostly under the winter moon. ‘Jane’s party is very merry, but I’m not quite used to so very many people yet. My brother says I’ve become a growly old hermit.’