Timeless Christmas Romance

by Laurel O'Donnell et al.

  "No one seems to know. None of the physicians, who, to their credit, fought their way through the winter snowdrifts, have been able to work out what's wrong with her. If she weren't full seventeen years of age and old enough to know better, I might imagine she's feigning sickness to get attention. Is that uncharitable of me?"

  "I’ve never yet known you to be uncharitable, my darling. I suppose we must expect Alicia to behave selfishly—she’ll have felt very much alone after her mother’s death. She’s living with a father and sister she barely knows, in a strange house, in an area where she has no friends."

  "Indeed. But she'll never feel better if she hides away moping. I want to get her out and about," Cesca said as they continued along the landing. "Here we are."

  Quietly entering the chamber, she went over to the shutters, unlatched and opened them. Fitz hung back, suddenly awkward. It seemed wrong, striding into the young woman's bedroom without announcing himself. And he couldn't help but recall the temper tantrum he'd overheard as he'd left Cesca's room last Midwinter's Eve. There was something disturbing about Alicia, something that went way beyond her childish selfishness, and it repelled him.

  In response to the moan of complaint from the bed, Cesca said, "Alicia, the sun's out today. You need to see it—it'll help you recover."

  "What reason do I have to recover? Life holds no joy for me."

  Fitz rolled his eyes. Such melodrama. He wondered how Cesca could stand it.

  Settling herself on the bed, his betrothed took Alicia's thin hand between her own. "Things will get better, I promise. As soon as the weather improves, we can go visiting again, and people will come to see us. There'll be horse-riding, shopping, and country fairs in the spring."

  "Who'll visit us?" Alicia inquired. "I'm sick, you never want to see anybody but Fitz, and Papa's an invalid."

  "Won't you try to get up today?"

  Alicia's head moved back and forth on the pillow. "I'm too tired," she complained.

  "That's a pity. Because Fitz is here to say his farewells. I'd hoped you'd be able to get up for him."

  Alicia blinked at her sister. "Today? So soon?"

  "Yes. In fact, he's here right now."

  Alicia sat up in bed as he stepped forward, forcing a smile. She was pretty, even with her current pallor and darkly-shadowed eyes. If she could pull herself out of her current torpor, she'd have the world at her feet.

  As he bowed over her hand, he felt a rush of pity for Heathcote. The man had been besotted with Alicia's mother and was devastated to lose her so soon. Since then, he'd heaped every gift on his stepdaughter, allowing her leeway on everything and, to sum it up, had spoiled her terribly. Much to Cesca’s detriment.

  Thank heaven his beloved had a kind heart. Despite her occasional mutterings, she was completely selfless when it came to her family. Whatever her gout-ridden papa required, she'd fetch it herself. Whenever Alicia wanted anything, Cesca would provide it. It made him love her all the more.

  "Oh, Fitz, forgive me not being up," Alicia said.

  He inclined his head. "Don't mention it."

  "Are you really going today?"

  He nodded.

  "At what time?"

  "I was hoping I might stay for lunch," he answered, quirking an eyebrow at Cesca.

  "Of course, you must, Fitz," Cesca said, with a smile that warmed his heart. The more he saw of that smile, the more he regretted his decision to join the military.

  "Hmm." Alicia frowned. "I think maybe I could get up for just a little while. I've plenty of time before luncheon, have I not? Even enough time for a bath?"

  "Of course, you have," Cesca said. "I'll organize one right away."

  "Will you send Millie in to help me, and dress me after? I'll try and join everyone for lunch. I presume Papa will be well enough to come down too?"

  Fitz and Cesca exchanged glances. She said, "He's out of sorts today, but maybe I can persuade him. Especially if I tell him you're getting up."

  "Cesca, you must brush my hair for me. It barely hurts at all when you do it."

  Alicia shifted in the bed, and Fitz realized it was his cue to depart. But there was a strange crackling sound as the girl moved, and the corner of a piece of paper poked out from beneath the mattress.

  "What's that?" Cesca asked.

  Alicia quickly stuffed the paper out of sight.

  "Nothing," she replied.

  He halted in the doorway and turned back, arms folded across his chest. This could be interesting. What was Alicia trying to hide?

  Cesca tilted her head to one side, waiting.

  "Well, it's nothing you'd be interested in. It's, um… poetry. The awful kind," Alicia admitted.

  "Ah,” said Cesca, shooting him a coy glance. "Love poetry. The worst poetry on Earth."

  "Not at all." There was a hint of steel in Alicia's grey eyes as she looked at her sister. "It's nature poetry, of course. Now, can you ring for Millie so I can get dressed and see Fitz off?"

  “Don’t you want me to brush your hair for you?”

  Alicia frowned at Cesca. “Not now. I’m in a hurry. Take Fitz away, but don’t let him leave before I come downstairs.”

  Thus dismissed, he and Cesca left the room. He took her in his arms and kissed her softly on the top of her head, relishing the lavender scent of her hair. "Did you believe her?"

  He felt her smile. "Not a bit of it."

  "Do you think she might be in love?"

  Cesca nodded, sighed, and snuggled deeper into his embrace.

  "Who could it be?" he mused, welcoming the feel of her body pressed against his. "An imaginary hero in a novel? One of the passionate poets currently raising wistful sighs in the breast of every susceptible female? Or a real person? And if it is a real person to whom the poems are addressed, then is the fellow writing verses back to her?"

  "Papa wouldn't approve. If it weren't for the fact it would make me a hypocrite, because of what I'm doing with you, I wouldn't approve either. Oh, Fitz!"

  Her voice came out with a tremor, and he held her tighter. "What is it, sweeting?"

  "I don't know how I can bear it when you go away. What will I do with myself?"

  "You'll be busy enough looking after everything and everyone here," he said, releasing her as the maid's footstep was heard on the stairs. "I know how hard you work. But now you’ll have some fun as well—solving the mystery of to whom Alicia's addressing her poetry."

  He laughed lightly, but a knot of unease tightened his gut. There was something about the way Alicia looked at him sometimes. Calculatingly. And she was prepared to leave her sickbed on his account.

  He shook his head at the ridiculousness of the thought. At four-and-twenty, he was far too old to attract the interest of a seventeen-year-old, and surely, she couldn't help but be aware how much he and Cesca cared for each other.

  So even if she did have a secret yearning for him, it could never amount to anything.

  Because there was only room for one woman in his heart, now and for always.

  Chapter Three

  How Cesca survived the weeks until the arrival of Fitz's first letter, she didn’t know. She understood only too well the malaise that had kept Alicia to her bed during the dark days of winter, but she could never take that course herself—it would give her too much time to think, and thinking increased the pain.

  A whole, long, frustrating month after Fitz's departure, a packet of letters arrived from Flanders, addressed to Mr. Heathcote.

  Their arrival put Cesca in a cold panic—she dropped things, forgot things, and spilled her tea. She had to sit on her hands when Papa finally got around to opening the missives, lest the trembling of her fingers reveal her feelings.

  The letters were crammed with amusing vignettes of Fitz's fellow officers and men, and descriptions of the new landscapes in which the army set up camp. He asked after Alicia's health—which seemed to please her greatly—and repeatedly assured them all of his own, his only complaint being that he was seeing a gre
at deal more mud than he was used to. They wouldn't know him when they saw him next, he joked—he'd become hugely capable and self-sufficient since joining the army and couldn't wait to demonstrate some of his newly acquired skills back on the home farm at Beaulieu Manor.

  There were no personal comments, no hints as to what lay between him and Cesca—the epistles were meant for the whole family. If only he could have contrived to write to her secretly! It would have steadied the uneasy beat of her heart if he'd reassured her of the strength of his feelings.

  As the letters started to arrive more regularly, the severity of Cesca's palpitations grew. The worst moment was when news reached England in March that Napoleon had escaped from captivity on Elba and had arrived on the coast of Provence. Was Fitz about to see action? Engage with the enemy for the first time? Would the next letter bring devastating news, written in an unfamiliar hand, describing his heroic death on the battlefield?

  She found herself questioning Fitz’s decision not to opt for a hasty marriage before departing with his regiment. If they'd married back in January, she might even now be quickening with his child, and would at least have that prospect to comfort her in his absence. And if he were—God forbid—to be killed, she would always have a piece of him to cherish, and a reason to carry on living.

  But it was too late to do anything about that now. The letters continued to arrive and, at Papa's request, she replied to each one in words of careful neutrality.

  In early spring, she had to send Fitz the worrying news that his father, the Earl of Beaulieu, had suffered an apoplectic seizure, and their family physician was genuinely concerned. The news would summon Fitz home, whether the army needed him or not. She couldn’t wait to be reunited with him, despite fears their meeting would be blighted by sorrow.

  On a bright day in mid-April, her heart lifted at the realization spring had truly arrived. A light breeze wafting through the open window brought with it the sound of enthusiastic birdsong, and as she gazed out the breakfast room window, there was a glossy quality to the sunlight gilding the late primroses and brightly colored tulips in the borders beyond. If Fitz came soon, his sea journey would at least take place in fair weather.

  For once, Alicia was down early to breakfast. The promise of spring had patently affected her too—she need only take a little exercise and fresh air to bring the roses back to her cheeks.

  "Have we heard anything from Fitz?" Alicia inquired, piling her plate high with devilled kidneys, kedgeree, and toast.

  "Of course not. It's much too early for the post, and I can assure you, nothing arrived in the middle of the night." How typical of her to ask after Fitz, and not care about the condition of the earl. Cesca resisted the urge to roll her eyes as Alicia took a mouthful of food, then pushed her plate away.

  "Are you not hungry, child?" asked Papa. "I hope you're not feeling worse again."

  "I might be," Alicia replied, her mouth drooping at the corners.

  His brow creased in worry, so Cesca said quickly, "Then you must take a brisk walk around the garden with me, Alicia. That will give a spike to your appetite."

  Her stepsister shook her head and scowled, unimpressed by Cesca’s suggestion. If only Alicia could be a bit more thoughtful of others—she must know Papa worried about her. He had his own health issues to contend with, and was concerned about the Earl of Beaulieu too, having known him since they were boys.

  "I'll fetch my shawl," Cesca said decisively, "and meet you in the walled garden in quarter of an hour."

  "Maybe." Alicia took a desultory sip of her milk. "But if I don't come, don't wait for me."

  She didn't come. After wandering about the walled garden for a good half hour, frustration took Cesca out into the paddock for the bracing walk she'd promised herself. She couldn't stay cross for long—the countryside was looking so splendid today. The morning sun had fashioned a mantle of glittering gold from the cobwebs strung across the grass. The edges of the field were blurred with mist, the tops of the hedges apparently floating above the haze. In a nearby hawthorn, a blackbird trilled his song.

  A sound made her look up, just in time to see a man vault over the gate at the bottom of the field. She pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders and lifted her head to greet him as he strode toward her.

  Her heart turned a somersault. Less than a second later, she was hurtling toward him, her shawl flying from her shoulders.

  "Fitz!"

  "Francesca!” He caught her and swung her around in a crushing embrace. “The gods have answered my prayers. I dared hope I might catch you alone, and now here you are."

  Desperate though she was to hold him tight, to feel the warm reality of his living, breathing body, she had to look at him, to reassure herself he was still in one piece. Stepping away, she appraised him from head to toe, and her cheeks heated. Though it had been but a couple of months, he had grown in both stature and bearing. The military life had not just turned him into a soldier; it had made him into a leader of men, proud, self-confident, expecting to be obeyed.

  He put his hands on his hips and gave her a lopsided grin, proof that the old Fitz had not been completely taken over by this new demigod. "Like what you see?" he asked, quirking a provocative eyebrow.

  She pretended to give his question some thought. Eventually, she said, "Couldn't you at least have come in uniform? I could marvel at you even more."

  He spread his hands and looked down at his comfortable country attire. "This was the best I could do in a hurry. The doctor gave Papa a purge and some strong balm tea, which made him fall asleep. He looked comfortable enough, so I dashed out to see you."

  Her heart swelled with bittersweet joy. Aside from his father, he had thought of her above all else. She must surely be the luckiest young woman in England, to have this infinitely desirable man for her very own.

  "You've missed breakfast," she said, gazing up at him, "but I'm sure we can stretch to tea if you'd like some."

  "All in good time. There's something I need to do."

  Excitement fizzed through her veins as he took a step closer to grasp her hand. She expected him to kiss it, but that wasn't what he had in mind. His breath feathered her cheek as he bent his head, capturing her gaze with the intensity of his. His attention focused on her mouth and her lips tingled in delicious anticipation.

  "Fitz! You're here!"

  "Your stepsister's timing is impeccable," he muttered as he drew away.

  "Oh, Fitz, how wonderful to see you!" Alicia cried as she closed the distance between them and flung herself into his arms. Buffeted by the whirlwind of her arrival, Cesca took a step back, impressed at the amount of energy the young woman had just found. Not bad... for an invalid.

  But when Alicia threw her arms around Fitz's neck and kissed him full on the lips, a suspicion she'd been nursing since Christmas gave way to horrid, soul-destroying fact. Alicia cared a good deal more for Fitz than she ought.

  Her stepsister was in love with him.

  Chapter Four

  Fitz's furlough seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye. No sooner had he been reunited with everyone, than he must leave again. Sometimes he wished he weren't so honorable, nor so keen to do his duty. He was tempted to tell Duty to go hang—and stay in England with his family and spend more time with Cesca.

  But Papa had recovered quickly. His speech was less slurred, he could move his left arm, and the peculiar tilt of the mouth which accompanied his seizure was reverting to normal. There had been no excuse to remain any longer, and Fitz had returned to Flanders, under Wellesley's excellent leadership.

  He was now fulfilling a promise he’d made to his beloved—writing to assure her he'd made it safely back to camp. He'd no idea how long it would take for his letter to get to her—if it even got there at all—but that counted for very little. What mattered was the feeling he got as he wrote—he could picture her reading his words, imagine her close to him, and feel as if, just at that moment, they were together once more.


  April 21st, Flanders. My darling Francesca, he wrote, then paused. The wind whipped the canvas walls of the tent, making the whole structure shake, and buffeting the campaign chest he was using as a writing desk. Curse it! The end of the pencil lead had snapped off. The pencil was Cesca's parting gift to him; it was the push-up sort, with a miniature intaglio seal fitted into the end—more practical than pen and ink. Pushing up a fresh length of the lead, he forced himself to write more sedately.

  I can't say too much about the fighting, as you know, for in our current situation secrecy is everything. We have our spies, continually at risk, and the enemy has theirs – you understand.

  The sides of the tent shook again. He cocked his head to one side, his concentration broken but could hear no sound of wind.

  So, what was rattling the tent?

  With a sigh, he set the paperweight on his letter and stepped outside to investigate.

  No, definitely not wind. There was nothing to see but the haze of cooking fires, soldiers busying themselves cleaning their weapons, and the general hustle and bustle of a military encampment.

  He examined the side of the tent, but there was nothing leaning against the canvas which could account for the movement, which was still going on. The back of his tent was almost flush with a stone field boundary, but as he peered around the corner, he discovered the gap between wall and canvas was occupied.

  A soldier sat there, a woman bent over his lap with her rump raised high in the air. The man had one hand over her mouth, his face a mask of prurient glee as he lashed her bare buttocks with a switch.

  The woman’s violent efforts to escape spurred Fitz into action. He yanked her attacker up by the collar and pulled her free. She tottered against the wall while the man yelled, trying to stuff his engorged penis back into his breeches with one hand and break Fitz's grip with the other.

  Turning his face aside, Fitz waited for the woman to push her skirts back down, but this was a mistake. His captive twisted and thrust a fist into his jaw, breaking his grip and sending him staggering across the hardened mud of the camp. Shaking his head, he fought for balance, which he achieved; then fought for self-control, which was a great deal harder.