It's a Wonderful Regency Christmas

by Edith Layton

  No, he’d likely pass Christmas at the Incomparable’s house party in the countryside, after all. Well, he told himself savagely, as though he’d heard himself mocking, he’d been invited, many of his unwed friends and acquaintances would be there, she was very young, there was no crime in exuberance and no insult in the fact that she so obviously wanted him for her husband—perhaps it was the fault of her parents’ prodding—he was getting no younger…he could do worse.

  He drained the brandy in his glass at a gulp, frowned, and looked around for more.

  What should he wait for? The girl in the glass globe?

  The duke took a deep breath, decided to forego the brandy, and rose in order to go to bed. He had to be up beforetimes tomorrow. That was, if he ever got to sleep tonight. He calmed himself, telling himself he would wait and see, there was time. For now, Randall’s son was expected. And Christmas was coming.

  And so, for all his disappointments, his cynicism, his true knowledge and wisdom, with all that he knew and all that he didn’t wish to know, still, for the first time in years, like the boy he’d been thinking of, the duke discovered he could scarcely wait for tomorrow—when a boy who was all that was left of the boy who’d been his best friend would come to visit with him for the holiday.

  *

  The carriage slowed at the top of the street as the driver looked for addresses. Miss Greer sat up straight and patted her hair. She was so excited her gloved fingers trembled as they touched her careful curls. They’d arrived at last. Within moments she’d meet Randall’s guardian, the Duke of Austell. More importantly, he’d meet her. Because though she was but a governess, she was well-born, well-educated, and well-mannered. And she had dreams, as well.

  For the duke, the lawyer had said, was as witty and urbane as he was wealthy and titled. And unwed. She savored the words she’d remembered so well, “…a fine-looking gentleman, tall and straight, gray-haired as yourself, Miss Greer. You’ll like him very well, I’m sure.” She believed she would. She’d never have permitted this journey if she didn’t.

  With Randall’s guardian so distant after the tragedy of Lieutenant Thomas’ death, she’d been in complete charge of the boy. It would have been simple enough to keep him at home with her for several more years; he was a thin child by nature, and the nature of doctors and guardians was to err on the side of caution where there was any question at all. And she’d kept those questions continuous because it had become a snug position, an extraordinary one, with no mistress or master to order her, with the running of the house entirely in her hands. She’d felt like her own mistress for the first time in years—more, as it was such a grand house, it was an even headier delight. And certainly, she thought righteously, it never hurt the child. But now she’d ventured to agree the boy was sound enough to take to London, at least. Because she ventured to think there might be something here for herself as well. Months of lording it over the staff hadn’t given her ideas above her station, it had made her rethink it entirely. She smiled. Randall’s voice recalled her to the moment.

  “Miss Greer, we’re here.”

  She tittered some reply, her expectations depriving her of speech, and was glad for the diversion of getting down from the coach and ascending the marble steps to the duke’s town house so she could catch her breath again. The butler let them into the magnificent house, the footmen took their coats, the boy stood at her side, only a step ahead of her, as he waited, no less eagerly, for the first sight of his guardian, his father’s friend, his unmet idol. When the duke appeared, Miss Greer wasn’t the only one speechless.

  The Duke of Austell gazed at the boy hungrily, disbelief and something very like despair shining in those odd silver eyes, until he relaxed and smiled. No, it wasn’t as if Randall had returned, after all. What was gone was past, and it was better that way for all of them if they were to go on. But it was as if Randall had cleverly replicated himself, as one of his famous jests. The boy was not quite his image: he was not so dark-complected, his hair was brown, not black. But he was as small and thin, his face as unusual on a child, just as lean and long as his father’s had been, as was that distinctive, unfortunate nose. And saving all, the intent eyes were as large, black, luminous, and vulnerable as he remembered, as they looked up at him with hope and glimmerings of doubt.

  “Hello, Randall,” the duke said easily, extending his hand as he would to an equal. “I’m very glad to meet you at last, although it feels like ‘again,’ for you’re amazingly like your father was, you know. I can only hope you and I get along half as well, for then we’ll get on very well.”

  It was a pretty speech, but it was a moment until Randall could answer, and Miss Greer couldn’t speak at all, to save her soul. It was as if the air had been knocked out of her. She was as terrified as she was angry.

  It wasn’t the welcome she’d expected. The duke was as good-looking as he was gracious; a tall, upright, fine-figured gentleman, exactly as she’d been told. But although his hair was gray, just as the lawyer had promised, the smooth face beneath it was that of a man almost half her age! She felt like a woman who’d moved her king hoping to make a jump, only to find it a trap. Another king lurked at her back, her home was in dire jeopardy, the game almost up. The duke gave her a knowing, mocking look in that moment of silence and she drew in another shallow breath. He knew! But a heartbeat later, there was no hint of what she’d thought she’d seen, or rather, too many, in his uncanny silver eyes. Because at last, Randall spoke, and drew his complete attention.

  “I’m happy to meet you, your grace,” the boy said, but his voice was low and disappointed. He was as shocked by his guardian as his governess was, but for opposite reason. The silver hair spoke louder than the duke’s words had done, and the fading dream of his father faded further.

  “No, I think not. But I hope to prove you will be,” the duke answered with such amusement that Randall’s dark eyes flew up to meet his in sudden hope, and Miss Greer’s lips tightened.

  *

  “I could wish my own lad had such a constitution!” the first physician declared.

  “‘Lean and hungry look’ be damned, your grace,” the second physician exclaimed. “It’s just these close-to-the-bone fellows that live forever. Sound as a pound—no, sounder,” he snorted, since the Regent was no favorite of his, and he delighted in predicting the downfall of the nation when he wasn’t listening to chests and tapping knees.

  “Thin as a wraith, but a vat of cream wouldn’t make him fatter or more robust. It’s his constitution, and it’s a good one. He’ll flourish like a weed if you give him air and sunlight. It’s coddling will harm him,” the third physician expounded.

  “Three in a row wins at naughts and crosses, so it will do for us,” the duke said with satisfaction as the coach drew away from Harley Street and a morning of consultations there. “It’s school in the autumn for you, my friend,” and as Randall began a grin, he went on, making it grow wider, “but first, as it’s a joyous season filled with delights, a tour of holiday London with me, do you think?”

  “Appearances,” Miss Greer said hollowly from her corner of the carriage, “are deceptive. Yes, now he looks stout enough, to be sure. Such was not the case a few months past. It was nursing and care that brought him to this.”

  “Indeed, and I understand we’re in your debt for it,” the duke said smoothly, as Randall’s brilliant smile began to fade.

  “It was my pleasure as well as my duty,” Miss Greer answered repressively before she added, “So, knowing the vagaries of fate and Randall’s delicate health as I do, I urge you to pray think hard, your grace, before you risk him again by sending him off to school. Childhood is a treacherous time for such as he.”

  “And thee, and me, Miss Greer,” the duke said charmingly, “as life itself is. And I doubt the chicken pox will come his way again. So I do believe we’ll risk it, don’t you?” he asked Randall.

  “Oh yes, sir,” Randall breathed, and then shot a troubled look to his gov
erness.

  “I would not advise it,” Miss Greer said, playing her last card.

  “I understand entirely,” the duke said with great sympathy, “and would not dream of troubling you.”

  Randall’s long, thin face grew mournful as his new guardian went on to say amicably, “Rest assured, Miss Greer, that knowing your reservations and having a care for your peace of mind and sensibilities, I’d never ask you to be party to it. You’ll have a generous settlement for the work you’ve done, and a brilliant recommendation for your future employers,” he said firmly, as he called in all the cards and swept up the pot, “and all our thanks for all your tender care, eternally. Right, Randall?”

  But Randall couldn’t answer. He didn’t have to, it was clear he was looking up at his new guardian with absolute, transcendent joy.

  *

  Astley’s Amphitheatre enchanted Randall. He wasn’t horse-mad, as so many boys his age were, but he was country-bred and couldn’t fail to appreciate the feats of horsemanship he saw that afternoon. The only shadow over his pleasure was that he couldn’t share it properly. It was more than his naturally generous spirit. For, “Betsy would love this,” he whispered to the duke several times as the show went on. Since Betsy’s name had been brought up often enough as their coach drove through the streets of London, every time, in fact, that Randall saw something amazing and new—which was every few moments—the duke knew very well by now that the young lady was his ward’s boon companion and closest friend at home. Nor was he surprised to hear Randall confide, as the great white horse in the center ring rose up at the prodding of its gloriously beautiful rider to walk on two legs clear around the ring, “This will be something Molly will not believe!” Because the skeptical Molly was Betsy’s older sister, and the two girls were the center of Master Randall’s limited universe. In fact, the duke was surprised to hear himself included along with those two paragons in Master Randall’s bedside prayers that night.

  But as delightful and yet disturbing an episode as that was—and it was enough to keep the duke home alone, thinking, in his study, instead of out carousing as usual on a Friday night—it didn’t please him half so much as walking to the Tower with his charge the next day did. Because when he passed along St. James Street with Randall in tow, he had the pleasure of answering the queries of that famous fop, Harry Fabian, who’d been sent out of his club to quiz him, as a great many familiar, interested faces appeared in the bow window to watch.

  “The boy?” he answered after a moment’s pause, as though surprised anyone should inquire after the child who walked at his side and was puzzled to find the boy attached to his own gloved hand when he looked down at it. “Oh. This boy! I’m taking him for an airing. Before I bring him home and prepare him for dinner,” he confided.

  And then there was the pleasure of seeing, through the corner of an eye, the expressions on all those faces at the bow window after Harry hurried back inside to report to them. And Randall’s, of course, as he began to giggle.

  “But he believed you!” Randall finally managed to say.

  “Of course,” the duke answered. “Well, he almost did,” he added, looking down into those candid and revealing eyes.

  “But why? Is he such a fool?” Randall asked.

  “Almost,” the duke repeated. “But in this case,” he said carefully, “rather say, it’s because I’m known as something of an ogre—if of another kind.”

  “But I saw you give coins to that beggar today, and when you met those two men just before, you asked why they hadn’t asked for a donation for their charity at Christmas, and they laughed and said you’d given enough, no sense killing the golden goose, and you called them geese for it, and signed up for more. Ah,” the boy paused, and then said knowingly, “I see. Just as Papa said in a letter once. He said your wit was as sharp as your tongue, but it had to be, because your heart was so tender.”

  “Hush!” the duke said with a wonderful scowl. “Do you want to ruin my reputation?”

  Randall giggled again, and then chattered happily as they walked to the menagerie. Where, of course, he was immediately moved to tell the duke that Betsy would be green as grass over having missed the sight of an elephant. Not to mention the fact that Molly would be taken down a peg or two to know that the lion didn’t look as though he could pounce on the pigeon strutting before him, much less the small boy she’d warned about getting too close if he should be lucky enough to be taken to the Tower.

  “Because they’ll never see for themselves,” Randall explained, when the duke couldn’t help but remark that he seemed to be storing up memories for the girls as well as himself everywhere he went. “They’ve got four older brothers to see through school, and the vicar can hardly keep the roof over their heads as it is, Miss Greer says. Though Molly says never mind, things will come around in time for Betsy to be presented, when the time comes. As if Betsy cared,” he added, chuckling knowingly, “even if Molly does. But that’s only because Molly’s so correct about those things. Some girls are,” he explained helpfully.

  But for all his familiarity with the fair sex, Randall made a poor job of it with the duke’s niece. He was sitting by himself at the window in Elizabeth’s room as she prattled over her dolls, looking every bit as lost and sad and painfully fragile as Miss Greer could have wished him to, when the duke came to collect him after his visit with his sister.

  “She isn’t a bit like Betsy. Or Molly,” Randall allowed as they strolled home together. “She plays with dolls, and talks about nothing but them, and her dresses,” he added, with disdain. “Betsy and Molly might care how they look,” he explained, trying to tread the line between truth and manners, as a gentleman should, “because they always look very well. But they don’t go on about it all the time. And if they play with dolls, they let them go to war sometimes,” he added as the duke did his best to agree that the Misses Betsy and Molly Garland showed exquisite taste and manners.

  The next day Lord Beverly joined them as they made themselves most in sight in the streets of London. The three of them traveled to one museum and another cathedral, and then after one quick look to each other revealed a wonderful mutual sympathy, they made quickly for the streets again. The weather held, so they strolled on through town to see what offered. They saw a raree show and a circus of fleas that strained the eyes as the performers did astonishingly intricate things, or so the owner of the circus said they did. It took both Randall and the duke to pull Lord Beverly away from it so they could proceed to ruin their appetites for dinner with pastries and lemonade bought in the streets where they walked. The next morning they paused at a Punch and Judy show on their way to the puppet theater, and spent the rest of a cold afternoon dodging intermittent flurries as they ran from toyshop to toyshop. They laughed, they talked, they passed the days in diversions and the evenings in recollection of laughter that spurred more.

  Lord Beverly had genuine tears in his eyes as he bade them good night on the fourth night of Randall’s visit.

  “If I didn’t have to go to m’sister’s I’d never go,” Bev said somewhat thickly as he presented Randall with the top he’d bought on the sly after the boy had admired it and thrust a note into the duke’s hand. As Randall unwrapped and exclaimed over his gift, Bev murmured for the duke to secrete the note.

  “Because it’s the name and direction of that yellow-haired opera dancer I fancied,” he whispered, “But you admired her at the theater last week, too. Remember? The one with the mole. Y’know,” he motioned furtively, “yes, there. Well, Happy Christmas, old fellow,” he said loudly as he noticed Randall glancing up at them. “There ain’t a thing I wouldn’t do for a friend. Ah, and thanks for the book you got me. I’m sure I’ll read it some day.”

  There were tears of mirth in the duke’s eyes as he managed to choke his profound thanks for his present, but those in Lord Beverly’s were far different.

  “I have to go now—Happy Christmas, fellows, and good night,” was all Bev was able to say be
fore he headed out into the night in disarray, trying to keep up his countenance, for a fellow of almost thirty years didn’t weep, so much as he wanted to, as he was saying good-bye.

  The duke felt genuine sympathy for his friend as his eyes rested on Randall, where the boy sat at his ease at the dinner table. His thin face was alert, for all the growing lateness of the hour, and there was still laughter glowing in his dark eyes, although his governess had already come to collect him for bed. Miss Greer was to leave in a month; no gentleman would fling her out of her employment beforetimes, and indeed, there was scarcely any reason to want to anymore. She’d been given a handsome severance, far more than she deserved, and she knew and accepted it. She’d be replaced by a tutor, the duke decided, and he himself would see to Randall’s care otherwise. It would be a delight rather than a duty.

  The duke sighed with relief as he gazed at his young ward. Christmas, that season that had loomed so large and ugly only days before, now lay before him like another delightful prospect.

  “Poor Bev. Poor fellow. A sad Christmas, indeed. We’ve better plans. Far better. I’d thought,” the duke said luxuriously, as he stretched his long legs beneath the table, “that we might pass Christmas Day and the entire weekend at my friend the Duke of Torquay’s country house. It’s not far, only an hour’s ride or so. There’s bound to be a great many children there, good sorts too, as he’s having other guests. He’s got a fabulous estate, and is the greatest of hosts. As the place is several hundred years old, it’s rumored to have secret passages,” he added, for a stricken look had come into Randall’s eyes. “You’d like him, I do believe you would, your father did,” he went on more gently as the boy lowered his head to hide his expression, though his dejection was clear to read in the line of his bowed shoulders.