It's a Wonderful Regency Christmas

by Edith Layton

  Halfway there she knew she wasn’t alone anymore. She sensed him before she saw him. Mr. Clarence, hands behind his back, was pacing along beside her again.

  “You got what you wanted,” he said reasonably. When she turned her head and walked faster, he went on, “And the squire and his lady didn’t want to live after their bonny sons died. Because they didn’t have you to care for. They didn’t have a lovely girl-child they adored. They couldn’t forget their sorrow by watching you grow. And so they grieved, unbearably.”

  Maude wheeled around to face him. None of it made sense, she didn’t believe any of it. But this was a thing she could argue.

  “How could the boys have died if I wasn’t there?” she shouted with as much triumph at his faulty reasoning as pain.

  “There was an epidemic,” he said. “All the children who hadn’t had the contagion before got it then. It’s the way of measles. Were you the only child in the village? Didn’t they play with others? Your husband himself, for example?”

  “Yes, but he had it before I did…” her voice trailed off.

  “Yes. Just so.” Mr. Clarence said.

  “But—but they didn’t see him when he had it,” she protested, but weakly. A new, wild hope was dawning. An expiation of the guilt that had been her lot since that sad day she’d followed two coffins to the graveyard and come home by herself. She didn’t dare believe it; it was as if she were unwilling to lay her burden down. Heavy as it was, it was a part of her now.

  “The sickness comes before the spots. The spots only prove it. Didn’t they ever tell you that?” he asked gently. “Or did you never ask? Why did you assume it was your fault?”

  “It was someone’s,” she cried.

  “Ah, yes. Perhaps. But no one you can blame.” he said gently, “unless you can claim to understand Him. And even I do not.”

  She thought about that. It might not have been her fault. It was too much to hope to believe in. She’d borne the guilt too long to set it down now; it made her feel too light-headed.

  “But they, my parents, thought…” she began.

  “Did they?” he asked. “Or did you? They couldn’t go on without you in any case, could they? And look what the lack of them did to the village.”

  “They said that was Cousin George,” she said. “Cousin George lost the estate, and sold it to the mill. That ruined the village.”

  “No,” he said and smiled, “that was you, too. Your parents invited George to come and live with them—for you. At first they only wanted you to have company. Then they hoped you’d make a match of it. They didn’t mind when you didn’t. They liked George for his own self by then. But if they hadn’t let him live with them he’d never have learned how to manage the estate. He wouldn’t have learned how to be a gentleman who planned for the future, and wouldn’t have won his boring heiress, either. When you weren’t born—as you wished not to be—he inherited and lost it all, didn’t he?”

  She thought about that so long and hard she wasn’t aware she’d reached home until she found herself in the familiar drive again.

  She ran toward the house, forgetting everything but the need to go home…until she noticed it didn’t look quite like home. There were no carriage-wheel tracks in the snow. The facade of the house wasn’t softened by wisteria and ivy, and none of the towering evergreen rhododendrons she had planted along the drive were there. There was nothing green at all: The Hall stood stark and cold against the coming winter night. And the great front door was locked. It hadn’t been locked in her lifetime.

  She raised the great brass Griffin door knocker, and let it fall. Someone was playing a terrible prank, she prayed.

  “Yes?” the butler said when he swung open the door. He saw her and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said wearily. “There’s no work to be had here, my good woman. If you like, Cook can give you a parcel of food to take with you. But that’s all. We’re lucky to hold our own positions here. Though Heaven knows it’s a queer sort of luck.”

  He began to close the door.

  “Wait! Joshua, don’t you know me? I—I may be a bit disheveled, but it is I. What’s happening here? Please, I’m weary of this. Tell me.”

  He paused. Her clothing was plain, but her voice was well-bred.

  “Please, let me in. Miles will be wondering where I am,” she cried.

  “Oh, Miles, is it?” he said with weary patience. “I see. Very well, go in. He usually tells your sort to go in the back way. Remember that in the future—if there is a future; he usually likes them younger, and dressed brighter. Go on, go on. He’s in the library. He doesn’t expect me to announce you. That, at least, he does not ask of me.” He pointed to the library and shuffled away, leaving her alone in the great dark hallway.

  That was the first thing she noticed. It was dark. She always had the lamps lit as evening approached. Lots of them, because she didn’t like shadows. But the whole house lay in gloom. She didn’t hear the children’s voices, or the company, or even any of the servants going about their tasks. She’d never heard the place so still and lifeless. But it wasn’t lifeless so much as empty. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. This was silly; it was her house. She walked through the gloom to the library.

  There, at least, there was a fire in the hearth. It lit the room with dark and dancing shadows.

  “Miles?” she asked, her voice quavering. She was close to tears. If this was madness, it was a cruel madness. She thought lunatics were happy in their own little worlds. This was a hell. And if it were real… But it couldn’t be real. “Miles?” she called again.

  “Yes?” he said.

  She saw him then, sitting in a chair facing the fire, the light harsh on his face. She fairly flew across the room to him, and fell to her knees at his side. She picked up his hand and lay it against her cheek, weeping over it.

  He didn’t cry out in alarm at her distress. He didn’t take her in his arms and ask what was wrong. He didn’t even move. That frightened her more than anything had this long, strange day. She dropped his hand and drew away from him. She was still on her knees as she stared into his eyes.

  It was Miles—and yet, it was not. His face was pale, not tinged by the weather, tanned from all the hours of riding he did. His hair was still lustrous and jet-black, his features were his own—and yet different. It was not Nature, but his own nature, that seemed to have changed them. Because they were not so much different as altered. His shapely mouth was thinner and his lips set tight. There were lines bracketing that hard mouth, and his whole thin face was notched, as if by pain. There were shadows beneath his darkened eyes.

  His voice was the same, but laced with sharp sarcasm.

  “Ah,” he said, “this is new. Who told you to try it? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I like it, I think. Subservience. Cowed worship. Utter devotion. It’s a new slant. It has possibilities.” He lifted her chin with one long finger. “Pretty little thing. Not my style, but charming. Yes. But this fawning and cringing. Very diverting. How much further are you willing to take it, I wonder?” he asked with a twisted smile.

  “Miles,” she said frantically. “what are you talking about? Good Lord, what’s happening? Nothing is the same since I left. Where are the children? My parents? The family?”

  “Ah, the family,” he said in a deep, slurred voice. “A very good question; I have often wondered the same. But as to where the children are, I hardly know. I don’t want to know, to tell you the truth. Are you claiming a son or a daughter? I’ve a parcel of both. Bastards are inevitable in my line of work,” he said, and laughed, and took a drink from the glass of amber liquid that had been sitting on the table at his elbow.

  He was drunk, she realized, and was shocked. Because Miles seldom drank deep, and never when he was alone. When he did overindulge, he became almost too merry. Not dark and troubled, like this.

  “I don’t remember you,” he went on, “but that’s nothing new. Was it good, with us? It’s always good for me. That must be why
I keep doing it. How much do you want? I’ll pay for the brat. Within reason. Don’t be greedy and you’ll do well. And then I’ll pay for tonight. I’ve no one else here with me tonight. Not that it would make any difference to me if I did. That’s always diverting too.”

  “Miles, I don’t want money,” she cried. “I just want you to remember me. I’m Maudie. Your wife!”

  “Less amusing,” he said, staring hard at her. “Much less amusing. I’ve no wife, my dear doxy. Drunk I may be, and a reprobate certainly. In fact, there’s no evil I have not done. Except to marry. I’m certain of that. I’ve never been that drunk. I’ve never even asked; the words are not in my vocabulary. Find another way to get my gold. I can think of quite a few tonight. Christmas is coming, and I’ve a notion to, too,” he said, grinning.

  “You asked me to marry you,” she said, looking into his eyes to try to find him there. “Don’t you remember? In the apple orchard. I was so thrilled and happy I couldn’t answer. So you kissed me, and after, you said, “There. Now you must marry me, my Maudie.”

  “Certainly not me!” he roared with laughter, and took another drink.

  “You asked Cressida, too, have you forgotten that?” she asked, her pain making her say what she’d been thinking all the night before this terrible day.

  But now he stopped laughing. His face grew darker still. He looked suddenly sober, or so drunk that there was cold murder in his eyes. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Did that bitch send you here? God. I thought I’d forgotten her, drunk her out of my system with all the other pain. Yes. I asked for her hand. And she gave it back to me—across my face, or as good as—when I came home from the war less of a man than when I went. Willing enough to marry me when I was sound. But not after I was crippled. Took one look at me, ended the engagement, and waltzed off with another—who could waltz, I assume.” His laugh had no humor in it. “She’d have no part of me if my legs wouldn’t work.”

  “But that’s nonsense,” Maude protested. “You’re not a cripple. You weren’t one then. Yes, it was hard for you to walk. I knew it caused you pain. But you did it. And you went farther every day, just as the doctors said you would.”

  “Miserable little thing from hell!” he cried, rising to tower over her. “Who—no, what—has sent you to me? Yes, they said I’d walk again, if I’d walk again. A wonderful riddle, isn’t it? One with no answer. Because how could I? Each step was excruciating pain. I drank it away. Then each step made me fall. Then I gave up.” He grew a twisted smile and added, “Walking, not drinking, of course. I was alone then, as I am now.”

  She rose to her feet, too, and touched his arm. “But you are not. Miles, this is madness. Let me help you. I’ve never wanted anything else.”

  “There’s only one way you can help me,” he snarled, reaching out to her. He pulled her close and kissed her hard. It was like no kiss she’d ever known from him. His mouth was ruthless, slanted against hers; she felt his teeth as he forced her to accept his tongue. She would have given him what he wanted, but this was no lover’s silent quest, it was a wild intrusion. He fondled her roughly as he kissed her. He meant to hurt, he meant to shame her. And he did. But she felt his arousal. He seemed as surprised by it as she was. He chuckled. “Well, well, who would have thought it? Nice, very nice, little—Maudie, is it? You’re a nice little package, aren’t you? With a new game. I see. You inflict pain, and then I do. You arouse me to lust—no mean trick these days—and then I service you. Different. I suppose a fellow could get to like that. Shall we see?”

  She pulled away from him and stumbled back. He followed her. That was when she saw that he was lame. He’d snatched up a walking stick from the side of his chair, yet even so he couldn’t walk very well. The effort contorted his whole lean body into a parody of its usual grace. She stared in pained pity as he limped toward her. That made his face contort with rage, and he rushed at her. His knee buckled and he fell hard, to the floor. He lay there, groaning.

  She bent to him without thinking. “Miles!” she cried, touching his hand.

  Only to find her own wrist gripped tight in his rough clasp. “Bitch!” he snarled. “Now we’ll see who wins.”

  But she wrenched free, and staggered away. And left him lying on the floor cursing. She ran through the hallway to the door, and then out into the night. She didn’t stop until she wondered where she was going. And then she foundered, discovering herself once again in the Druid’s grove, by the holy well. She held onto the rim of the well and sobbed for breath, and when she got some back, she wept.

  “He didn’t want to live, that summer you finally met as adults,” a familiar voice said sadly.

  Mr. Clarence was sitting on the rim of the well. A cloud blew off the face of the moon, and she saw him clearly—or as clearly as she could through a haze of tears. He seemed to be surrounded by silvery nimbus, and he was beyond beautiful.

  “She—Cressida—had just thrown him over,” he said. “He was crippled, you see. And hadn’t the heart to heal himself. You gave him the courage. You teased and chattered, flirted and giggled, and generally nagged him into it. He couldn’t show pain when you were there. Of any sort. You prattled on, to entertain him. You kept walking, so he had to follow, even if it did hurt. Because he couldn’t show you his pain. You were only a girl. And then he discovered you were far more than a girl. You were the woman for him.”

  “But he could have had any girl,” she protested. “I was merely his neighbor.”

  “You were merely Maudie,” he said gently, “yes. The only woman for him. Just as you were merely Maudie, the girl who kept her parents from despair. Merely Maudie, the woman who held the fortunes of everyone she knew: George and his heiress, Lucy and Daisy, the Apples and the blacksmith and the vicar—everyone in the village. Without you, their lives were different. You lent light and laughter, you gave hope and meaning to so many. Yes, you. Merely little Maudie. Merely one little life, one good, little life. There are so few of those. You touched them all. Too bad, really that you wished you hadn’t been.”

  “I wish I hadn’t said that!” she cried. “Oh, please, I wish I had not. I didn’t know—I cannot bear that they should suffer because of me.”

  “But they didn’t. They suffered because you were not you,” he said. “Can you see that? Finally, Maude, do you see?”

  “I do!” she cried. “Please. Put it back the way it was. I cannot bear this. I want Miles, and I want him whole and happy again. And the children. Oh, the children! They never were; let them be again, please. And everyone else: my parents, Mr. Potts, the Apples. oh, and take down the mill, please. I didn’t know how much I had. I didn’t know how much I meant. I wish I’d never said a thing. I want it all back again.… Oh, please.”

  But when she looked to see his reaction, she saw only that he was gone. He wasn’t sitting on the edge of the well, or anywhere in the lonely glade. She looked around frantically, but she was alone. On a sudden, wild surmise, she put both hands on the rim and peered down into the well itself. But all she saw was dark water rippling.

  She closed her eyes, her hands gripping the rough edge of the well. She prayed to everything she had ever prayed to, and threw in a few words to the ancient spirits of the grove, too. But when she opened her eyes again, she could see no change, except that it had started snowing again.

  She was too cold and heartsick for tears. She put her head down and waited for enough courage to move again.

  “Why, my lady!” a shocked voice said. “What are you doing here so late? I wouldn’t be out this late myself, except that I’ve just seen that charming Mr. Clarence off on the afternoon train. He’s gone, said he had to be home for Christmas. Nice chap, incredibly well-versed biblical scholar. I shall miss him,” Mr. Potts said. “But what are you doing here? The mistletoe! Of course. Oh, dear me. Don’t you worry, my dear lady. I’ll have some for you in a trice.”

  “Mr. Potts?” Maude asked, looking up. She gaped at him. And saw the vicar she’d known all her life. �
��You know me?” she asked, astonished.

  “Why, yes,” he said, taken aback. “Er…why? Should I not?”

  “It is you!” she cried. “It is. It is!” She jumped up and danced around him in her glee. “Yes! Why, there’s your muffler, your dear, lovely, ratty old red muffler, knotted around your neck. It’s you! Oh, Mr. Potts. Oh dear, dear Mr. Potts. You aren’t frowning. Of course, I never see you frowning. And you aren’t grumbling. Oh dear, dear Mr. Potts,” she cried, before she whirled around and threw her wicker basket toward the sky. “Oh, wonderful!” she shouted.

  Mr. Potts watched her hurry down the path to The Hall.

  “The lady,” he murmured to himself, “certainly loves the old traditions. I never guessed. I shall have to gather a great deal of mistletoe.”

  She ran to The Hall, never pausing, even though she’d a stitch in her side. The Hall! she thought in exultation when she saw it. It was her home again. There were her shrubs, there were ruts from carriage wheels from all their visitors, and the place was aglow. Every light was lit, inside and out, for Christmas, and against the night.

  She raced through the front door and fairly skidded to a halt when she saw her parents gawking at her.

  “Maude? Whatever is the matter’?” her mother asked. “You look as if you were dragged through a hedge backwards.”

  “Through a well, Mama,” Maude said, dropping a kiss on her mother’s brow. “Oh, it is so good to see you!”

  “I cannot think who you expected to see,” her mother said, but she grew flustered, the way she always did when she was pleased.

  “Perhaps Father Christmas, although he can’t be bearing better gifts for you, daughter, than I am,” the squire said, and earned himself a hug from his daughter for that. That got him red-faced and started him saying, “Well, well, there, there, very good, my dear,” in pleasure.

  Maude spun around from them and found herself face-to-face with Simon. It stopped her. She’d never been face-to-face with him before, simply because he’d never been tall enough to look her directly in the eye before.