It's a Wonderful Regency Christmas

by Edith Layton

  “Yes,” Skye agreed, “and that word is ‘marriage.’ But, Rob, my friend, they’re not looking for love, or friendship, or even me, if it comes to that. They’re looking for a husband, which is quite another thing. And I’ve a fancy for a female who wants my own poor self.”

  “Who says you won’t find her here?”

  “I can.”

  “Too cynical by half,” Robert said, frowning. “I’ll let it go for now. That didn’t make me nearly cut my whistle. You said ‘old-fashioned’! Huh! As for that, why, our grandmothers wed where their families said, and that was that, remember?”

  “I do,” Skye said on a small reminiscent smile, “because my grandmothers didn’t. They flew in the face of convention to choose my grandfathers. One stayed determinedly single for so long that her parents finally had to agree to her choice. She was willing to outwait them even if it meant she’d have to use two canes to make her way down the aisle by the time she married. Or so she said, and they knew she meant it. The other compromised herself so thoroughly before the fact with her choice of husband that her parents didn’t have any say in the matter. Both told me that with pride. That’s the kind of old-fashioned I mean—a woman who doesn’t care about Fashion or Custom. I’d like to meet such a one.

  “But what are my choices tonight?” He shrugged one broad shoulder. “The eligible females here would rather fly in the face of a meat grinder than Fashion. It’s all about appearances to them—in style and picking a husband to stay in that style. Their hair, their gowns, and especially their husbands must be in the latest, most enviable mode. Good for them, but not for the poor fellows they choose, I think.

  “Take the Incomparable—for I won’t. Yes, she’s pretty and doubtless witty, but there’s more calculation than admiration in those beautiful blue eyes when she smiles at me. This is her Season and she’s out to make the most of it. I think I’d tally right no matter what I sounded or looked like. I don’t blame her, but it don’t move me to love her. Miss Merriman’s more thoughtful, true. She covers all her bets, because she’s equally charming to every eligible man here. She’ll take the hand that offers most, no matter which body it’s attached to. And Lady P.? She’s looking for her next husband X, Y, or Z—or whichever name has the most social credit. This is a marriage market. But it occurs to me that no matter what we’re led to think, we are the merchandise here.”

  “That’s the way of the world.”

  “Not mine.”

  “So where you going to find your old-fashioned girl?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Skye admitted. “Thing is, I’d like to marry. I’ve thought of it for a while now—why else do you think I came here tonight? Uncle left me a fortune, but no family. That was what I missed most of all in Spain. But the problem seems to be that I’m weary of females I can negotiate for—in any way.”

  “Huh!” Robert said. “You’ve more than seven-and-twenty years in your dish. Time enough to have found a wife before this if you’d meant to, I think.”

  “I’ve been at war too long. I suppose I counted too much on Clara,” Skye added bleakly. “But what must the flighty chit do while I’m gone but take herself off to India with her family and meet that damned lieutenant and tie the knot what seemed like a week later.”

  “Clara? Aye, she was sweet and demure,” Robert mused. His expression changed to dismay. “You really meant to marry her?”

  Skye’s face relaxed in a smile so unexpectedly gentled it erased every vestige of distance from his face—and made several women covertly watching him over the tops of their fans wish to close the distance between them as fast as they could. “Don’t pity me,” he told his friend. “She was right to wed where she would. I meant to think about it, is all.”

  “Well, you’ll come to the Hall with me for Christmas. I’ll stock the place with likely females for you to consider,” Robert said stoutly. “Have my parents put their minds to it too. Aye, we’ll have a regular Cinderella Ball! We’ll invite society creatures and farmers’ daughters, seamstresses and—and blacksmiths’ sisters too! We’ll find you that old-fashioned girl. And you know what? We’ll scour London for her before we go as well!”

  “That,” Skye said, still smiling, “we will not do. I’ve had enough of Town for a while.”

  “So you want to come to the Hall with me now? Good. It’s over a month to Christmas, but you’ll be welcome.”

  Skye’s smile faded. “No. I’ll be glad to be there for Christmas, and I thank you for it. But now? No, I’m in a strange temper. I don’t want to lose any old friends and know I’m in no mood to make new ones. Last month I was at war, tonight I find I can’t make peace. The thing is, Rob, I’m tired of battlegrounds and I’m weary of Society, my own included. I don’t want to hunt or be hunted. I just need some time alone.

  “But not at Westerly,” he added with a grimace, mentioning the great house he’d just inherited along with his honors. “Aside from the fact that it will be empty except for me and that’s not the most festive way to spend the holidays, I’m not ready to shoulder that burden yet. And not here in London, either. With everyone gearing up for Christmas, the jollity is setting my teeth on edge rather than cheering me. Nor do I want to go abroad again so soon. All I think of when I think of the Continent is gunpowder and cannon fire. I need a place with no memories or expectations of me. I suppose I’m looking for someplace miraculous, about as real as the smile on the pictures of Father Christmas they’ve begun putting up in the shop windows. You know—that smile that says ‘Happy Christmas if you’ve the price.’”

  “You won’t say that when you see what merriment we get up to at the Hall! But you seriously want to be quit of London now and don’t know where to go? Hmmm. Well, there’s…” Robert’s smooth brow furrowed. Then his eyes lit. “Wait! I know just the spot!” he cried, smacking his head. “Seven Gates! You’ll find peace there, too much, maybe. You might even find your old-fashioned girl there. Lord knows there ain’t no new-fashioned ones there.

  “See,” he said eagerly, “we have this cottage deep in Wales, in the heart of Snowdonia. Not exactly a hunting box, bigger than a cottage and smaller than an estate. Belonged to great-grandparents on m’father’s side. We used to visit when I was a lad, but no one goes there much anymore. See, the place is too wild for proper hunting, and there’s too many twists and turns in the forest for riding to hounds. The wolves and elk and suchlike they used to track are long gone. But there’s waterfalls and glens and thickets, trees tall as mountains, and mountains that block out the sky. It looks like Britain before the Romans came, m’father always said.

  “Sort of an eldritch place, really,” Robert reflected. “Hard to get to sleep there, I remember, what with the noises in the forest and the way the wind carried on. Still, when I was a lad, I loved the adventure of it by day as much as I was troubled by it at night.” His eyes grew a faraway expression. “A boy could go into the wood and get lost for hours, and then turn and find himself on the front lawn!

  “Aye!” he said with more excitement. “You need a miraculous place? This is it. Mystical, really, with sudden fogs and shadows, winding paths that go nowhere, trails that end in mist, and hedges that seem to grow up the minute you turn your back. Ruins and follies deep in the forest—even a great manor house you could sometimes see from afar—but never from up close. I recollect one day I came upon this great iron gate—taller than my head when I was on my pony—with a lock on it. But no key. When I turned to search for it, I turned back to find no man-made barrier at all, but only briars growing thick as thieves, and shadows pretending to be anything you most feared.

  “It’s in England, but might as well be a thousand miles away. Well—it’s yours if you’re interested. Be glad to send word to the staff there. We maintain a few oldsters to keep the place up, no sense letting it fall to rack and ruin. Shall I say you’ll be there?”

  “I’ll leave tomorrow morning,” Skye said. “My man can come after, with my clothing.”


  “What?” his friend asked, amazed. “Don’t say you’ve forgot the masquerade at Jameson’s bachelor digs tomorrow night! Or the one the next night? And there’s the one for the high flyers and then the one at the Seftons’—not to mention a public do at the Opera House I thought we’d drop in on. Can’t leave tomorrow. It’s Jameson’s birthday!”

  “And will remain so without me.”

  “Lud! You are gloomy. Well, so be it. I’ll give you a letter to take with you to introduce you to the staff. Stay long as you like… No. Strike that. I’ll come the week before Christmas to collect you. I’ll haul you bodily to the Hall if I must. Because you might forget how to speak English if you stay longer. But if you want rustication, Seven Gates is just the place for you.”

  “Why, so I think it is,” his friend said, smiling widely, “the very place for me.”

  *

  But he hadn’t been so sure of that when he left London the next morning, Skye remembered now as he sat his horse alone in the wood. Even then, as he’d passed under the arch of London’s last wall, he’d been oddly uneasy. It seemed more like going into exile than out for a change of scene. Christmas was coming to the world’s great metropolis, they were already getting ready for it, and he’d suddenly felt like a boy leaving the party before the birthday cake was brought out.

  But he needed the quiet, he wanted the respite, he welcomed some silence. Or so he thought until he saw London fading like a dream into the brief afternoon he left behind him as he headed north and west into solitude. He’d had his first doubts then. And now, scant days later, he knew how wrong he’d been.

  “Well,” Skye commented aloud, “we could go home now, I suppose. Although Robert’s home isn’t that to anyone but those poor old citizens who keep it up for him. And no wonder. They’re the only ones who can bear the solitude. Because they don’t seem to know how to converse—or want to. Which may be why you’re so content. They make your bed soft enough, my lad,” he told his horse, who did him the courtesy of cocking back an ear at the sound of his voice. “The freshest hay for you, and good grain in your trough. But it lacks a certain something for me. Like pleasant company, good food, and diversion. Blast. I can light a fire in the library and I suppose there are books here I haven’t read. But what’s to do with the rest of the day then? It’s only…” He took out his pocket watch and scowled. “Time doesn’t pass here so much as it remains,” he grumbled.

  “Surely it said the same thing fifteen minutes ago? No. Still ticking.” He tucked the watch away and stood in his stirrups to get a look around. All he saw were bushes and trees. “Well, there’s nothing for it but to try,” he sighed, “just as I always told the lads on the Peninsula, remember? Come on, Albion, let’s see if there’s another living being on this planet Wales with us, eh? There’d better be. Fine idiot I’ll look coming home to London after only a few days in exile!”

  Exile was exactly what it felt like, Skye realized. The staff at Robert’s modest country home were willing. They were just not able to provide him with more than clean sheets and warm food. Unused to company, they seemed almost afraid of him. They did warn him to take care when he announced he was riding out yesterday, and then again this morning.

  “Mind your way,” the man of all work said dolefully. “Folks get lost here.”

  “Aye. Some never to return,” the housekeeper warned him with a worried look.

  “Probably because once they left the house, they returned to Civilization as fast as they could, without a word or backward look,” Skye told Albion now. The great white horse nodded his head sagely at the observation. “Now then,” Skye muttered, “yesterday we went east by northeast until we somehow wound up facing south. So, today, let’s head west and see if we can see anything but brambles.… Well, here’s a treat—a fork in the road. Hmm, which way shall we go? Most would turn right, wouldn’t they? Since that’s considered a lucky direction. Just as good a reason to turn left. But—look! There’s actually light at the end of that lane. So whichever direction, it’s right for us. Whoa!” he cried, ducking his head to avoid a low branch as his great white horse started down the narrowing path. “Take it slow—those thorny bushes to the side could pierce even your tough hide, my friend.”

  But then he fell still, and drew rein. Because Albion had taken him to a crossroads of sorts. And there was an old woman standing there, staring at him as though he’d dropped down from the sky instead of emerging from the dim tunnel of the tree-laced lane. An ancient woman, he corrected himself, taking her measure. She was bent almost double and had a face out of a children’s nursery tale—the sort nannies used to threaten bad children with. Her face was so lined it looked like a winter apple the first day of spring. It was further creased now in a smile—a terrifying one. It might be a greeting, but it looked more sly than sunny, Skye thought, if only because all the seams in her wrinkled face went every which way when her thin lips turned up. The hooded eyes, however, were sparkling. And not with a delight that warmed him.

  “Give you good morning, sirrah,” she crooned pleasantly enough. “Be thou lost?”

  He nodded. “Good morning, madam. Yes, I think I’ve taken a wrong turn.”

  “There are no right ones in this wood,” she said, and sniggered.

  Albion snorted and pawed the ground. He was the pride of Skye’s life, taken home from Spain with as much care as antique glassware might have been, even though he stood hands higher than most horses and was wide as a barrel. But he was wiser than many men Skye had known, and the best conversationalist he’d found so far in this district.

  “Then perhaps you might point me in the right direction?” Skye asked the old woman.

  “Aye. Might do. If I knew where thou wished to be,” the old creature said.

  “I thought to explore the area, see some interesting sights. See something other than briars and brambles, at least.”

  “See more than that?” she laughed. “Hee hee. There’s a thought. “But interesting? Oh, aye!” she answered eagerly. “Art on the right road for that! Go that way.” She pointed a bent finger to the narrow path on the right. Skye squinted, trying to see more than gloomy shadows there. “But if thou dost not wish to go that way—why then, go t’other,” the old woman cackled. “But don’t be surprised to see thyself in the same place! Aye, see, indeed!”

  Skye looked back to see what had caused such mirth. But the old creature was gone as though she’d never been there at all, as though she’d been only some figment of his imagination.

  “Well, she could have been,” Skye muttered uneasily. “No wonder Robert missed his sleep of a night! This place is more than eerie, it’s uncanny. But I’m a grown man.” Or so he told Albion, though he began to have his doubts. He turned toward the left path.

  He hadn’t gone more than a few paces when he saw another woman at the side of the road, gazing up at him. This one was as different from the other as day from night. She wasn’t young, but in that vigorous middle age some fortunate women attained. Honey-haired, with a lovely unlined face, she wore a handsome gold cloak and a charming russet bonnet, and carried a wicker basket filled with apples and pinecones. In all, she looked elegant as any lady he’d ever seen tripping down the paths in Green Park. But this was the countryside, so he wasn’t too surprised to see no accompanying servants or beaux. She’d have legions of both in London, Skye mused as he felt the charm of her surprised smile.

  “Good heavens!” she said, considering him, her head cocked to the side, her smile becoming warmer and more welcoming, until she was positively beaming at him. “You’re a long way from home, are you not, my dear sir? Lost too, I’d wager.”

  “Then you’d win, for I am, madam,” he said, sketching a bow. “But I met another…woman…a few moments ago who told me that either path would get me to the same place.”

  “Did she?” She seemed amused. “And where is that?”

  “Any way that would let me see the district. All I’ve seen all morning is shrubbery.
Fascinating—if I were a botanist. But I’m only a gent on a repairing lease, at loose ends and looking for something of interest.”

  “There’s not much of that here except for us locals, I fear. But she wasn’t wrong, though she was likely only having her little joke. You’ve nothing to fear, though. Both lanes will eventually get you to the same place. And a very good place that will be.” She gave him a youthful grin. “Don’t doubt it. Things look bleaker than they are hereabouts. Especially today. Good day, sir. Have a pleasant visit.”

  She turned, stepped briskly off the road, and disappeared behind the tall hedge. Skye regretted it. She seemed like a pleasant woman who might have good conversation.

  “And so, what such as she was doing here, I didn’t know,” he grumbled to Albion as they paced down the winding road.

  The breeze picked up. It gusted, feeling like a cold hand on Skye’s back, propelling him down the lane. He put up his collar and ducked his head as it whistled past his ears and blew Albion’s tail and mane ahead of him in streamers. But it also swept all the moldering leaves on the forest floor away before them. The wind was like an invisible busy broom clearing their way, exposing a surprisingly sound brick road, widening the lane until it no longer looked crooked or narrow.

  As they rode on, it seemed to Skye that the hedges to the sides were growing shorter. He realized it was the effect of the road rising rather than the briars shrinking. But as the road grew wider, the trees seemed to step back as well. At least they stopped crowding together overhead. That let him see that the wind had chased the storm clouds, because it was growing brighter. The sun was definitely coming out. A mild sweet tang of spring flavored the air as the gusts slowed to breezes, and then became zephyrs. It felt more like April than November as he rode up the path and out of the dark wood.