All is Mary and Bright: A Christmas Regency Romance (Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair Book 2)

by Kasey Stockton

  “I have a better idea,” Lord Sanders said. “I thought we could introduce Miss Hatcher to a Bright family tradition.”

  The way he looked at Mary caused a volley of shivers to move down her back. His blue eyes were dancing, amused, and steadily trained on her. She needed to be careful, or she was bound to find herself utterly lost in their depths.

  Lady Anne tilted her head to the side. “Which one?”

  “The stocking carolers.”

  Lady Caroline and Lady Anne squealed in unison, but Mary only felt more ignorant.

  “Shall I fetch the paper for the hats?” Lady Anne asked, clapping her hands together. “I saw some in the library just yesterday.”

  Lady Caroline turned for the stairs. “And I will gather the stockings.”

  “Not yet,” Lord Sanders said. “We must practice first without them.”

  “Will no one explain this to me?” Mary asked, careful to contain her laughter. The siblings were quite the force when their heads bent together, and it both heartened Mary and caused her envy. Perhaps one day when she had children of her own, she could foster the sort of relationship between them that she witnessed in Lord Sanders’s household.

  “It will be great fun,” Lady Caroline said, lifting Mary’s hand in hers. “We are putting on a Christmas puppet show!”

  Chapter 6

  Christmas dawned overcast and white. Large, fluffy flakes fell lazily to the ground outside, coating railings and rooftops with pure white snow. Andrew pulled the drapes open more fully over the dining room window and swept his gaze along the flawlessly white-capped building across from their townhouse. He’d been up before the sun, and he could hardly wait for the women to rise and come down to breakfast.

  When Mary had failed to share her favorite tradition with them, Andrew had wanted to pry, to learn what she was not telling him, but his sense as a gentleman forbade him from doing so. It had been luck alone that he’d left the drawing room in time to hear Anne asking that very question on the staircase.

  His sister’s ignorance aside, he could well understand why Mary didn’t want her hosts to think she was asking for any sort of extravagance. She was humble, and that sort of humility gave Andrew the strongest urge to do something kind for her.

  Turning to lean against the window sill, Andrew crossed his arms over his chest. The oranges sitting in the center of each plate at the table were bright against the dark evergreen boughs making up the centerpiece, red holly berries strewn throughout.

  Footsteps coming down the corridor warned him of someone’s impending arrival and Andrew stood, straightening with anticipation. Mary stepped into the room and stopped short, her gaze riveted on the table. Her eyes were as wide and round as the oranges she stared at.

  Andrew cleared his throat, and she glanced up sharply, her cheeks rounding as she smiled.

  “Good morning, Miss Hatcher.”

  She dipped in a curtsy. “Good morning, my lord. And what a lovely day it is looking to be.”

  Lifting a hand to halt the footman standing against the far wall, Andrew stepped forward to pull out a chair for Mary.

  She paused, resting her hand on the table’s edge and peering up at him. “Did you know?”

  He froze, caught. She was referring to the oranges. She must be. Rubbing the back of his neck, he glanced down. “I did.”

  “From your sister?”

  “No.” This continued to worsen. What kind of man would she believe him to be? He could lie…but, no. If nothing else, he was honest. “I overheard your conversation with Anne on the stairs that evening.”

  Her lips bent into a grim line. “I did not intend to influence your plans—”

  Andrew cupped her shoulder. “Please. You are our guest. It was the least I could do, and I am certain my sisters will adore the treat as well.”

  Her gaze lowered. “Then I must thank you. It has been a few years since I’ve enjoyed an orange on Christmas morning.” She lifted the orange from her plate, turning it around in her hands. “You cannot know how much I’ve missed it.”

  Andrew cleared his throat, hoping to dispel the thick air between them. Why had it been years? Had she not mentioned oranges to be her favorite part of Christmas morning? And the subsequent offering of the fruit to her servants on St. Stephen’s Day? These were questions he did not have a right to ask.

  Mary moved out of his reach, his hand slipping free of her shoulder, and took her seat. He stepped around the table and sat across from her, putting some distance between them.

  “Miss Hatcher, you will forgive my impertinence—”

  “Oranges!” Caroline said, sweeping into the room, Anne behind her.

  Anne glanced from the fruit to Mary, taking a seat beside her friend. “Mary, it is just as you wished!”

  Mary glanced to Andrew and then back to her plate, a soft smile on her lips. “I feel very fortunate, Lady Anne.”

  Clicking heels carried their mothers into the room a moment later, and the party was settled. Andrew tried to keep his gaze on his own plate, but he could not help watching Mary carefully peel her orange and divide it into segments, the acidic scent filling the room. The way she managed the job with tender care was mesmerizing, and Andrew would have liked to sit and watch her all day.

  “We have a surprise for you, Mama,” Caroline said.

  “Later this afternoon. After your nap, perhaps?” Anne added.

  Andrew gestured to their guests. “It is a surprise for both of the mothers.”

  Mother leaned closer to Mrs. Hatcher. “These children are so sweet. We have been utterly remiss in keeping them apart the last twenty years.”

  “I would have to agree,” Mrs. Hatcher said, guilt falling over her face. “And I am sorry for it.”

  Mother’s sad smile reached her eyes, and she took her friend’s hand. They shared a silent moment before turning their attention toward the oranges on their plates. Andrew caught Mary’s eye over the table, noting the faint lines forming between her soft brown eyebrows. What could Mrs. Hatcher have meant by assuming responsibility for their separation? Surely she had not intentionally kept the families apart.

  Anne stole his attention, and he dragged his gaze from Mary. She whispered so the mothers wouldn’t hear her. “We must prepare. We haven’t practiced the songs yet.”

  “We can practice while we fold the hats.” Andrew peeled his orange, the tangy citrus further scenting the air as each of the women did the same thing. There were dishes of ham, coddled eggs, and toasted bread waiting to be served, but the occupants of the room were focused on their fruit.

  He had a feeling this was going to become a tradition in the Bright household as well. And he was absolutely determined to discover why it had ceased for the Hatchers.

  “I cannot fold a hat to save my life.” Mary dropped the creased paper on the card table and leaned back in her seat, shaking her head at Lady Anne. The newsprint was meant to be a miniature hat, but instead, it was a crumpled sheet of limp paper with too many crease lines and no discernable shape.

  Lady Anne flashed her bright white teeth as the afternoon sun streamed through the window and lit her face. “Shall I show you again?”

  “You may, but it would be for naught. Folding paper hats is not one of my talents.”

  “What is one of your talents, then?” Lord Sanders asked. He leaned over in his seat near the fire, making it easier for Mary to see him around Lady Anne’s chair.

  Mary lifted the crumpled sheet of newsprint again and pretended to analyze it. “You cannot expect me to answer that ridiculous question.”

  Lady Anne scoffed. “What is so ridiculous about recognizing your own talents?”

  “It is not in the least humble.”

  “There, we’ve found talent number one: humility.” Lord Sanders rose from his seat and took the chair beside Mary, watching her with a scrutiny that sent prickles down her back.

  “I am not hum—”

  “No arguing,” Lord Sanders admonished. “
If you will not own your talents, we shall have to figure them out for ourselves.”

  Lady Anne laughed. “Are we to guess, then? Just from the sound of your voice, I’m certain you can sing quite well.”

  “No, no guessing,” Lord Sanders said, lifting a hand to stop his sister. “Not unless they are educated guesses, Anne. Otherwise, we could list every general accomplishment until we discover the correct ones, and that is far too easy.”

  She pouted. “I am certain I’m correct about the singing, at least.”

  She wasn’t, though. Mary tried to keep her mirth from showing on her face, but she knew she could not sing well. And the way Lady Anne regarded her now with narrowed eyes and drawn brows was evidence that she wouldn’t believe Mary anyway if she did admit that truth aloud. Lady Anne would probably force Mary to sing to prove her claim.

  Lady Anne tilted her head. “Are you adept with a needle?”

  “Anne,” Lord Sanders said, drawing out the word as he dipped his chin. “That is cheating.”

  She grunted, then snatched the paper from Mary’s grip and proceeded to fold it into something that resembled a miniature hat.

  Lady Caroline entered the room, a sheet of paper in her hands. “I’ve written out the words to the songs for Mary. Are you finished with the puppets yet?”

  Lady Anne brightened. She shot her brother a smug grin. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough if Mary sings like a nightingale or screeches like a pig, shan’t we?”

  She was bound to be disappointed when Mary finally sang for her. Mary’s voice, while not akin to the screeching of a pig, did not sound smooth or velvety. It was basic. It was bland. It was not a talent.

  “We are not finished with the puppets,” Lord Sanders said, ignoring Lady Anne. “Have you brought the buttons, Caro?”

  Her little nose scrunching up, Lady Caroline dropped her papers on the table. “I forgot the buttons. Give me a few minutes. I’m certain I can find some quickly.”

  “It is rather limp, but it’s better than nothing.” Lady Anne gave Mary the folded miniature hat that would adorn her stocking puppet; Mary had to bite back a smile at the sad creation. It would likely look much better if Mary hadn’t folded it to death before Lady Anne could get around to fixing it.

  “We ought to keep these puppets in case we return to London for Christmas next year.” Lady Anne reached for a stocking on the table and turned it over in her hands. “It is really too bad I didn’t think to bring our old puppets.”

  Mary shifted in her seat, turning the small hat around in her fingers. She was not blessed with siblings, and the camaraderie between the Bright children was endearing. Lord Sanders clearly loved his sisters, and they looked up to him. But there was something else there, too, something that made Mary wish to be welcomed into their inner circle. There was a sense of belonging and comfort between the three. That they knew so well they were loved and accepted, that they could be or say whatever they wished, was something she envied.

  Mary hadn’t felt that sort of unequivocal approval in her entire life.

  Lady Caroline bounced into the room. “Buttons!”

  “Did you bring sewing supplies?”

  Lady Caroline halted mid-step and stared at her sister.

  Lady Anne sighed. “I’ll fetch my sewing basket.” She slipped from the room, and Lady Caroline took her seat, dropping her buttons on the tabletop and organizing them into sets of two.

  “They won’t all match, but they will be close enough.”

  “That will make the puppets even sweeter,” Mary said, leaning forward to look at the array of round, colored buttons.

  Lord Sanders lifted a stocking and dropped it over his sister’s forehead, eliciting giggles from the girl. “We must move quickly if we are going to have enough time to assemble the baskets for St. Stephen’s Day.”

  Mary paused, her fingertips digging into the edges of a navy-blue, wooden button. She’d loved distributing treats and gifts to the servants on St. Stephen’s Day more than receiving her own from her parents in years past, but the last few Christmases, the economies her family had been forced to exercise had left the servants with very little.

  It had been shameful delivering gifts the last few years that hardly warranted the name. She relaxed her grip on the button, the prospect of assembling decent baskets filling her with anticipation. “Then let us practice the song.”

  “Agreed,” Lord Sanders said, shooting Mary a mischievous smile.

  She dipped her head and took a sheet of paper from Lady Caroline, running her gaze over the lyrics written out in a neat, even script. They weren’t a creation of the Bright children as she’d imagined, but well-known Christmas carols.

  Mary lowered the sheet of paper. “I know these songs.”

  “Very good,” Lord Sanders said. “Then we will only need to practice once.”

  “What are the puppets to do?” she asked.

  Lady Caroline slipped a stocking over her hand. “They are the carolers.”

  “And the purpose of the hats?” Mary asked, lifting a small, folded hat.

  “To make them look adorable, of course.”

  Lady Anne glided back into the room and took the last available seat at the card table, plopping her sewing basket in the center of it. She shot Mary a mockingly stern glance. “Carolers mustn’t go caroling without proper hats, Mary. It isn’t done.”

  A grin spread over Mary’s lips, her chest warming. She accepted a needle and thread from Lady Anne and began sewing button eyes onto her stocking caroler. Her mother had great difficulty leaving the comfort of her house for anything other than church and was shy around others—save Lady Sanders, clearly—so Mary’s opportunities to spend time with other families had long been limited to those within their parish whom they would invite to dine. They boasted acquaintanceship with an earl and a baron in the immediate vicinity, and a slew of gentility, which gave Mary all the socialization she’d ever felt she had needed. But now, witnessing the camaraderie and love between the Bright siblings, Mary longed for close relationships such as these.

  In the short time they’d spent together, Lady Anne and Lady Caroline had grown to feel more like sisters than friends.

  Lady Anne settled into her seat with her needle and thread, a playful tilt to her lips. Golden ringlets brushed her temples, bouncing along with her enthusiasm. “Mary, you hardly speak about your betrothed, and I’m rather dying to know more about him.”

  Mary swallowed, a measure of the warmth she’d noted only moments before suddenly dissipating. What an abrupt change of topic, and not one she could easily speak on. She hardly knew Mr. Lockhart herself. There wasn’t much she would be able to share. She could describe her soon-to-be mother-in-law, but she had a feeling the Bright siblings would not be interested in that knowledge.

  Pinching the cool needle between her fingers, Mary focused on stringing the thread through the eye. “What would you like to know?”

  Lady Anne looked aghast that Mary even needed to ask. “Well, everything, of course!”

  Chapter 7

  Andrew perked up, keeping his focus on the buttons in his hand. Curiosity swirled in his stomach, pressing up against his chest; it took a great deal of effort not to press Mary for more information himself. But he shamefully wished to know more about the man Mary Hatcher had agreed to marry. Andrew assumed this Mr. Lockhart was exemplary in every form—for only a perfect man would deserve someone as wonderful as Mary. She was amazing in every regard.

  Humble. Kind. Caring. Beautiful.

  Did Mary have any faults?

  “I’m not sure what to say,” she said, her focus preoccupied with the needle she was threading.

  Anne bounced in her seat. “What does he look like?”

  “Well…he has dark hair—so dark it appears black. His nose is straight, and his eyes are dark brown.”

  “But is he handsome?”

  “Oh, yes.” Mary nodded. “At least, I haven’t seen Mr. Lockhart in nearly two years,
but he was quite handsome when last we met.”

  Andrew stiffened. Mary had not seen the man in two years? What could divide her from her betrothed for such a length of time? There was no way she had contracted a marriage of convenience. It couldn’t be.

  Andrew’s gaze flicked to Mary’s, but her eyes were downcast, her cheeks glowing pink. He wanted to question her further, but her discomfort was evident. It was yet another sign of her refreshing humility—a trait so seldom seen in London’s drawing rooms.

  A prickle of unease ran through his core and tightened like a snake around its prey. His gaze trailed the gentle slope of her nose, the dust of a blush on her cheekbones, as the truth settled on him: he had found her too late.

  Why was fate so cruel as to show Andrew the perfect woman after she had made a commitment to another man?

  “Is he amusing?” Anne asked.

  Mary tilted her head in thought. “I am not entirely sure, actually.”

  “Andrew tends to be very silly,” Caroline said to Mary, her tone brooking no argument. “Especially when he is meant to be serious. So be mindful of your puppet during the performance and secure a position far from his if you can help it.”

  “It has been a few years since we’ve done one of these puppet shows.” Andrew tried to sound hurt, and he laid his palm over his heart. “You cannot believe me to be so silly now.”

  Caroline looked disbelieving, and Anne ignored him. But Mary gave him a small, amused smile.

  If only he’d met her before. But now what could he do? He held her smile, the answer swimming before him as clear as Mary’s green eyes. There was nothing left but to be her friend.

  Finch opened the door, stepping inside the room and silently waiting for acknowledgment.

  “What is it?” Andrew asked, causing his sisters to follow his gaze toward their waiting butler.

  “You have visitors, my lord.”

  Andrew lifted an eyebrow. He hadn’t had any visitors at the townhouse in quite some time—not since before his mother and sisters had arrived. “Are they here for my mother?”