by Edith Layton
He glanced at her and smiled at how the wind and his words had caused her cheeks to blush; he’d never imagined such a fair complexion could achieve such a glow. It almost matched the light in her amber eyes—or so he thought when one of his nicely turned compliments wasn’t causing her to shield them from his view with those incredibly long lashes of hers. But it was such fun to make the sensible Miss Molly lose all of her composure with just a word as to her loveliness.
“Molly won’t shatter from the cold, your grace,” a light voice called from the back seat. “She’s from the country, after all.”
“Brat,” the duke said lightly, and Miss Betsy, after being soundly pinched by her best friend, Randall—or at least as soundly as he could muster while encumbered by mittens—changed her tune and cajoled, “Some more speed, please, please, sir?”
“A neat trot, then,” he agreed, “as a neat compromise. Now, quiet, bratling, I’ve important things to say to your sister.”
“Come closer,” the duke said, suiting action to words as he put his hand about the lady’s waist and pulled her closer to him. “It’s getting colder and I don’t want to shout what I have to say.”
The lady caught her breath, and it had nothing to do with the cutting wind.
“Your grace…” she began.
“Cyril, Cyril, Cyril,” the duke ordered with a show of great exasperation, “the name of my youth, and heart. Or Austell if you’re going to cut up prim. Remember?”
“Yes, your gr— Cyril,” she said, still holding herself stiffly upright, acutely aware of his arm about her waist. “I don’t know how they go on in London, but we’re coming into town now, and here, you see—holding me so. I cannot struggle, it would look dreadful,” she said in a small voice, very unlike her usual clear tones, “but here, such a thing is…is very like a declaration,” she concluded anxiously.
“So it is in London,” he answered.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“And so?” he asked, turning his head to look at her, and catching the way her eyes were fixed on him with a look half of trepidation, half yearning, “Will you? Shall you? May I? Can we? Please, please,” he added gently, echoing her little sister’s tone as she looked at the slight smile on those well-shaped lips before she tore her gaze away and saw the warmth and yearning in the soft dove gray of his eyes.
“We’ve only known each other a matter of days,” she said, as though the words were forced from her, and they were, for she’d an active conscience.
“If you were a London chit and I’d known you for six months, I’d scarce know you better,” he said, “for I’d never be alone with you except for the space of a dance, or a forbidden walk out on a balcony at a dance. We’ve walked and talked for hours here, in our little time…and I think perhaps for years, in another time. But no more of that. I’m no fortune teller, or magician.” He laughed.
“As Randall’s great-grandfather was,” she said, remembering, and glad of the diversion to give her time to think about what his impossible request likely really meant. Because, she decided, he could never have meant what she supposed.
“Was he?” He smiled. “Much is explained. But not answered. Come now, Miss Molly, I want to marry you,” he said seriously, and there was no more doubt in her mind of his intentions, although now she knew only too well what her answer must be.
“I’ve never been to London. I’ve no money at all—no dowry, scarcely enough for clothing. Please think on it, and think it over again. You can do so much better, I’d never wish to take advantage of your emotions at this emotional season,” she said, although all she wanted to say was yes.
“If you’d been to London, someone else would’ve snapped you up long since,” he said with deceptive calm, looking out at his horses. “I’ve enough money for both of us, I believe. And see how I’ve done so much better in all these years! I’m as single as you are and I’ve nine more years than you. I don’t wish to spend the rest of them without you, thank you. I have not half the breeding and scruples that you do, my love,” he added, turning to watch the expression on her lovely face, “so say yes, and instantly. I want very much to take advantage of this miraculous season.”
The horses picked up speed as the driver’s attention slipped from them to the look on his lady’s face, and the nearness of her berry-red lips—which he, remembering her honor and vulnerability, in all honor, hadn’t touched as yet, sorely tempted as he’d been from the second they’d met.
“Molly,” he said, “please?”
She looked at him steadily as she answered, low.
“Sir!” Randall cried as he saw the Duke of Austell gather his friend Molly up in his arms and kiss her soundly. “Molly!” he breathed, shocked, as he saw his friend’s arms go up around the duke’s shoulders to hold him closely so that he could.
“Oh hush!” Betsy said, prodding him, for although the same age as her best friend, she’d already a store of woman’s wisdom to her credit. She was delighted at what was transpiring in the driver’s seat. “And look at the horses, she giggled, diverting him, for she wanted nothing to interfere with this moment for her sister’s sake. “Just see! Hoorah! We’re coming into town at wonderful speed!”
“Wretches,” the duke commented when he recalled himself, releasing his lady so that he could remind the cattle who was in the driver’s seat, before his lady moved as close to him as she could and he forgot everything but her again.
“Happy Christmas, love,” he whispered, never taking his eyes from hers. “And thank you for the most wonderful gift of all.”
“Ah no,” she sighed, “thank you,”
“Children,” the duke said over his shoulder, “it’s all holiday with us. Give me congratulations, Randall, for your friend Miss Molly has given me her hand for Christmas.”
“And I,” Molly said in a voice shaking with emotion and dazed with delight, “have taken his.”
“Oh, how shabby,” Betsy said, with an admirably straight face, “when you really needed gloves.”
The elegant gentleman in the coach tucked away his roadmap and picked up his whip again, satisfied. They could be at the Incomparable’s house party in a day. And if Austell still hadn’t gotten there, there was a chance for lesser men, such as himself, for example, as he smugly told his companion on the driver’s seat. But his friend was paying him no attention. He was staring out at the countryside around them. They were stopped on the crest of a hill. As the trees were bare, he could look down to see the village below, in a cup of the hills, as though in miniature. The sleigh that had passed them by moments before was entering the tiny town, and though distance reduced its size to insignificance, he could just make out the driver, his honey-haired lady at his side, and the two miniature children behind them, as the snow began to sift down over them.
In the winter’s stillness, even from the distance between them, he could hear their laughter ringing out in the clean, cold air, even over the rhythmic cadence of the sleigh bells. He continued to watch them, enchanted, until they disappeared from his sight. He thought he could still hear their laughter after it had faded away, as he was to think for many long years after, every time he thought of Christmas Day.
It’s a Wonderful Christmas
England, December 1835
It was bitterly cold, but there had been visitors to the well that morning. There always were, though no one in living memory had tasted the well water. It was for wishing, not washing or drinking, after all. And it had been since the first man on English soil became human enough to wish. Down through the ages wishes had been made here—and sometimes were answered. It was said that when a wish was granted the surface of the water would dimple, as though more than a prayer had been thrown in it. It didn’t take tokens of blood or money, only faith. Once, a religion had been built around it; now, a different church lay down the road. The well had a saint’s name, but it had been an age since the church considered it more than a relic. The saint’s holy day was in midsummer, and yet ther
e were fresh footprints in the snow now. Perhaps because the well lay in a grove of oaks covered with mistletoe and ivy, and Christmas was coming. The local people used the trappings of one religion to celebrate another, the way they did the well itself. It was only plain sense. The well was older than time or religion. It was said angels as well as fairy folk tarried there. And the season for miracles was near.
***
The woman in green ran through the snow. She was so small and slight and ran so lightly she could have been mistaken for a girl. Surely a lady would have been more careful of her step. The hood of her cloak had fallen back and long auburn hair streamed over her shoulders. Her piquant face was ruddy from the cold: her cheeks and lips were red as holly berries, as was her small upturned nose. But the curved form beneath the cloak was a woman’s. And though her clear skin had no wrinkles, a few fine lines at the corners of her shining green eyes showed that they’d seen their share of snowbright December mornings.
A lady, then, and a fine one, too. Her cloak was thick and her boots fine Spanish leather, her skirts belled out wide and her hands were covered with soft doeskin gloves. She carried a wicker basket filled with fresh-cut holly over one arm. She stopped at the well and paused to look around. Then she raised her heavy woolen skirt and hopped up on a fallen tree trunk. She stood on tiptoe and stretched far as she could toward a branch above her.
“Bother!” she muttered to herself as her fingers just missed snagging a prime cluster of mistletoe. “I thought I was early, but the little folk got here before me.”
“Little folk?” a voice boomed in mock astonishment. “And here I always thought you were a good Christian woman, Lady Maude!”
She spun around so fast she almost overbalanced. A tall, thin man in a baggy coat, with a red muffler wrapped several times around his long neck, stood near the well. He smiled at her. There was another man she didn’t recognize coming up behind him. She put a hand on her heart.
“Goodness! You startled me, Mr. Potts. I only meant that children must have got here before me. See? They’ve stripped all the lower limbs. And I’m too small to reach the rest without a struggle. Philip could do it, he’d swarm right up the tree like a little monkey. But I couldn’t send him, he’s just getting over a cold. And Zoe is too little and may be coming down with Philip’s cold, besides. It’s been Simon’s job for years. He’s coming home from school today. That’s why I’m here. His letters have been so full of home lately. I know it’s right for him to go away to school, he must be educated for his position, but oh, it seems he misses us as much as we miss him. He’s bringing a friend home for the holidays, and I wanted the house to be just the way he remembers it being every Christmas....”
“And you couldn’t send a servant to gather greens?” the vicar, Mr. Potts, asked with merriment. “Or gather them elsewhere?”
She looked uncomfortable for a moment, and then grinned just as merrily. “I’m not of the old faith, Mr. Potts. Or even superstitious, really. It’s just that it grows thicker here. Why, just look at the size of the berries. The holly, too, from down the path. It’s greener, lusher here. Everyone knows that. Well, I suppose it might be just custom. But it is a tradition that we get our mistletoe and holly from the grove, you know.”
“And the viscount?” the vicar asked.
“Oh, well,” she said, looking down, truly embarrassed at last, “he doesn’t hold with supersti—I mean to say, he likes the look of it,” she said, her chin coming up a jot. “But since I’m the one who insists on it, I don’t want him to go to the bother of gathering it. Anyway, he’s busy with Mr. Martin and the grooms this morning, some problem with the stable wall or somesuch.”
“The Viscount Southwood is a first-rate horseman,” the vicar told the young man at his side. Then he added quickly, “Oh, yes, how remiss of me. Lady Maude, may I present Mr. Clarence? Mr. Clarence: the Viscountess Southwood. He’s a visitor to our shire, Lady Maude, a bible scholar touring ancient holy sites for a paper he’s writing. He was interested in the holy well and so I brought him to see it this morning.”
Maude stared at the young man. He must have been used to it because he stood patiently, smiling at her with neither conceit nor amusement. He was blond and fair, with fine features…with beyond fine features, she thought dazedly. She’d seen pictures of someone very like him in her hymn book when she’d been a little girl. And then again on her honeymoon, in Rome. She was sure she’d seen him high on a ceiling in the Sistine chapel, draped in celestial robes. And then again in a more earthly pose, on a pedestal, in bronze, in Florence. Without the celestial robe. She blushed, remembering.
“Would you like me to cut some mistletoe for you, my lady?” he asked.
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” she said quickly, blinking. “But thank you… I’ll come back later, with a stepping stool. I must go now. I hope you have a nice visit. At least, try a wish.”
She took the vicar’s hand and stepped down from her perch. Then she turned a bright face to them. The wind whipped streamers of her hair across her face, like an Arab woman’s veil. But few Arabian ladies peeked up at men with bright-green eyes over a distinctly freckled nose. “But my wish to you is: Happy Christmas. I’ll see you on Sunday, Mr. Potts,” she said with a grin. Then she left them.
“Such a nice lady,” Mr. Potts said with admiration as they watched her slight figure disappear down the path. They didn’t see Maude’s expression when she heard him.
Nice, she thought on a sigh. But it was what everyone said, after all. She supposed she only resented it now because of the dazzlingly handsome young man. It would have been nice to have been called fiery or fascinating. Yes, and it would have been nice to fly up into the boughs to get her mistletoe, too, she thought sourly.
But it didn’t matter what they said, she thought with rising spirits. Because she had Miles, who was so much more than merely handsome, and who loved her even though she was only nice. She could have told young Mr. Clarence that the well was truly magical. Because she had gotten her wish. Hadn’t she wished for Miles at the well every year of her life since she’d learned how to wish? Until she’d turned seventeen. That was when he’d actually asked her to marry him. And then she never wished for anything else, because there was nothing more she needed. Because against all odds, and for no reason she could ever understand, he—who could have had anyone, anyone—had asked for her hand in marriage. She, who had never had anything anyone ever wanted before that. She, who had never been wanted at all.
She’d been a surprise to her parents, coming to them late and unlooked for. To give them credit, they’d welcomed her when she arrived. But then they promptly forgot about her. She was only a girl, and they’d two strong sons to dote on, after all. But she was the squire’s daughter, and so she was raised properly by the very best servants, and inspected every so often to see how she fared. She grew, but not very tall. She was pretty, but not a great beauty. She was clever, but girls didn’t need to be that. But her governess said she was a very nice child, and that seemed to please them. So she tried to be the nicest child anyone had ever known. And succeeded, had they cared to see it.
But then there was an epidemic of measles, and she caught it. She looked like a robin’s breast, or a speckled egg—or so her brothers said. It tickled them. That was the only thing that made it bearable to her. It was a source of great amusement to them, since they’d never had the measles. When they caught it from her, from spending long hours in her sickroom entertaining her, it was only a silly bother to them. But then they both died of it, and she didn’t. So then she was her parents’ only child—an unwanted honor for all concerned.
Her parents took in Cousin George, because he was now their heir, and his own parents were glad to have him come to live with them and learn to manage the estate that would be his. He was a serious boy from humble beginnings, and greatly impressed by the honors that would fall to him someday. And while they never forgot their own two bonny boys, in time her parents came to
love and respect George for all his good qualities. George was good the way she was nice, and so Maude never really took to him. She greatly feared her parents had thrown them together so they’d make a match of it someday. She needn’t have worried. He had his eye on increasing his fortunes, not consolidating them. And was no more impressed with her than she was with him. Besides, she’d thought when George became betrothed to the heiress from London, he always called her “Maude.” Always. And her bonny brothers had called her “Maudie” and “Moogie” and sometimes “Mad Maude,” just to make her really deliciously angry.
Not that it mattered. She’d wanted only Miles, from the moment she’d set eyes on him—and that was perhaps the same moment she’d learned to focus them. He’d been her oldest brother’s age, their near neighbor and friend, and an idol to her. She’d made her wish at the holy well from the first time she could lisp it whole. But she’d never really believed she had a chance for him.
First she’d been a nuisance to him, and then a source of amusement, and then when her brothers were gone, a reminder that they were. He had gone into the wide world, and she’d stayed home, haunting the well like a will-o’-the-wisp, whispering his name. He’d finally come home from the war, safe but limping and pale. And had needed someone to talk to that whole long seventeenth summer of hers.
