It's a Wonderful Regency Christmas

by Edith Layton

  “What’s amiss?” she asked in sudden fright. “You’re up and about so early.”

  His eyes were bleak, his expression stark.

  “Is it Miss Laura? Has she taken a turn? I told her not to go out yesterday! Look at the snow piling up. Not gone to the doctor for her, I hope?” she asked fearfully, her hand going to her heart.

  “No,” he said bleakly. “I was looking for Pompey. He was gone when I woke up this morning. I can’t find him anywhere. He’s never done this before.”

  But neither had Laura gone coursing through the streets of London at dawn before either. She was looking for a dog that wasn’t hard to find. Except that no one had seen him. And she was having a hard time describing him.

  “A pup the size of a pony? Or one the size of a lapdog? Come, miss,” the watchman on the corner said. “I can’t say I seen the animal if I don’t know what he looks like.”

  “His looks are deceptive,” Laura said, “but singular. He’s tricolored, with a white chest and a black coat, white shoes and rust-colored socks. And rust eyebrows. He’s very handsome, with floppy ears. If you’d seen him, you’d know him.”

  “Then I ain’t seen him,” the watchman said, tipping his hat to a resident who could be counted on to tip him handsomely this Christmas too. “Sorry.”

  There weren’t any vendors out, and Laura saw fewer and fewer people to ask. It was, after all, Christmas morning. She retraced her steps back to the lodging house. Maybe Pompey had already returned; he seldom left Alex’s side. Fine Christmas this would be for the boy if the dog left him! Fine Christmas, she thought sadly as she trudged through the deepening snow, for them all.

  *

  The goose was on the table, as was the turkey, both done to a turn by the cookshop. They weren’t alone. They were surrounded by dishes of potatoes and peas, creamed onions and sprouts, savories, chutneys, dressing, mince tarts, and rich sauces. Between that and the scent of the evergreens hung over the hearth, and the apple wood snapping in it, the landlady’s flat smelled like heaven.

  But Alex sat fighting back tears, because he wanted to keep searching.

  Laura sat silent, worried for Pompey and Alex, and herself, because she couldn’t stop thinking of yet another male she’d hoped to see on Christmas day.

  And Mrs. Finch sat sighing, because Pompey had been a fine dog, and the boy was a good lad, and Miss Lockwood had the worst luck.

  So they all leapt up in sudden hope when they heard the door-knocker fall. They raced to open the door and had to sort themselves out so they could see who was there when it was pulled open.

  “Pompey!” Alex called, and fell upon the dog as the dog fell upon him.

  Laura could say nothing, because she saw who had brought Pompey home.

  “Is everything all right?” the viscount asked. “I worried when Pompey arrived at my house alone.”

  “Everything’s all right now, sir!” Alex cried. “I don’t know why he ran away, but see how clever he is? He ran to you!”

  “How did he know where you live?” Laura asked.

  The viscount shook his head, and snow fell on the landlady’s shining floor. “I have no idea. A footman heard barking, opened the door, and there he was. But not for long. Pompey knocked the fellow over and upended my butler in his mad rush to find me.” His lips crooked at the memory of how his staid household was suddenly scrambled. “I must say I was happy to see him.”

  The viscount smiled at Alex. Clever lad, he thought, to bring the dog to me. The exuberant pup had also upset his bleak mood. In fact, Pompey’s boisterous appearance had thrown the prospect of his usual cold Christmas into sudden cold perspective. It made him remember what he’d so briefly had, and what he was about to lose. And most of all it gave him the perfect excuse to come here.

  Laura looked at Alex in exasperation. Had the boy somehow discovered the viscount’s address and brought the dog to his door in a childish attempt to get the two adults together again? If so, she was profoundly embarrassed.

  Alex, who hadn’t known where the viscount lived, or cared, was too delighted at getting his dog back to notice what was happening with mere humans.

  “I must get some toweling,” Mrs. Finch said. “The beast’s all over snow, and so are you, sir.”

  The viscount doffed his hat and even more snow fell on the floor. But he only had eyes for Laura. “He hit me like a furry avalanche,” he told her. He smiled.

  Laura didn’t. Alex and the dog had gone into the landlady’s flat, and now they stood in the hall, alone.

  “I was going to dine with friends today,” the viscount went on, noting she wore a pretty rose-colored gown for the holiday, and thinking how lovely she looked in it. “I was going to dine at my club. I was going to ride west and sit alone in my country house. The truth is, with all the things I had to do, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I knew what I wanted to do. But I didn’t know how to apologize, because I so seldom do, you see. I couldn’t do anything because I couldn’t think of anything but you, and how I wronged you. Miss Lockwood,” he said, bowing slightly, “I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” she said quietly. It was shameful that she could be so affected by the sight of him, she thought, especially since all he could offer her was his apologies for offering her the only other thing that he could. “Should you like to come in?”

  “I’d like more than that,” he said earnestly. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell you that ever since we parted. Thank God the dog forced my hand, or I’d still be trying. Now I believe the best thing to do is to say it outright. Though you accept my apologies, I still can’t have you to my home, You still can’t invite me to yours. And you certainly can’t once you go back to work. I miss you. And I’m not used to being deprived.” He smiled again.

  She had the sudden terrible notion he was going to ask her to be his mistress again.

  “So the only way to mend matters,” he said, his soft gray gaze never leaving her, “is to marry me, then we never have to worry about the proprieties again.”

  She stared.

  “Marry me, Miss Lockwood,” he said. “Marry me, Laura. I’m of an age to know my mind, and you showed me my heart.”

  “But we haven’t known each other very long,” she protested. Her protest was weak, and only because she was afraid to believe what he’d said, and needed to hear it again.

  “Many of my friends proposed to their wives after a few morning calls and two dances. Others did so after a party, or a night at the opera. One friend did after a carriage ride. I’ve been asking them, you see. But us! We’ve spent whole days together. How long are any of our class permitted to get to know each other, after all?”

  “But…” she said.

  “But I know my own mind,” he said, stepping closer. “And my own heart—once you showed me where it was. Now the only question is: do you know yours?”

  “Oh, my lord,” she said.

  “Sebastian,” he urged her, “my name from your lips, at least that.”

  “Oh, Sebastian,” she said, “I do know my own mind, as well as my heart, and you have filled both, but…”

  She never got another chance to protest, because then he took her in his arms and got more than his name from her lips. He kissed her. And she kissed him back, thoroughly.

  Mrs. Finch stood smiling in the doorway, holding both hands to her own heart. Alex grinned from ear to ear. And Pompey flopped down by the hearth.

  *

  The Christmas dinner was every bit as tasty as Mrs. Finch had claimed it would be. Viscount Falconer, who had dined at the finest restaurants in Paris, and at the prince regent’s own table, agreed. He vowed he’d never tasted anything so wonderful, even though his hostess would swear he never tasted a thing because he was too busy feasting his eyes on his fiancée’s face.

  “Pompey will stay with us until your mama comes home,” he told Alex. “We’d like you to as well, if your mama agrees. We plan to marry soon, and yo
u, Mrs. Finch, are invited, of course. Oh, as Pompey is already spoken for, Mrs. Finch, if you’ll tell me the sort of pup you favor, I’d like to present you with one, as a Christmas gift. You,” he told Alex, “shall have your pick of toys, even more than I’ve already bought for you. Pompey shall have a bone, or a whole roast, whatever he wants. And you,” he told Laura with a tender smile, “must have been a bad girl all year, my dear. Because all Father Christmas has for you—is me!

  “I’ll have your ring tomorrow,” he whispered in Laura’s ear, under cover of the laughter he’d provoked, “and jewels to complement it.”

  “All I need,” she whispered back, “is you.”

  “And that,” he murmured, “you shall have in full.”

  He stood and raised his glass again. “A happy Christmas to us all,” he said, “and every year from now on.”

  Pompey had dined on turkey and goose, and then settled back by the hearth. He curled up and closed his preternaturally wise eyes. He sighed, and dreamed, in the manner of dogs, twitching and muttering as he did.

  But then he stilled. He felt a warm hand on his head, and heard the sweet voice that had always commanded him. He moved his mouth as though to lick that invisible hand.

  Good boy, the voiceless voice said in his ear. Good dog. Well done. Now you may be a dog again.

  When Pompey woke, he yawned, stretched, and then ambled into the next room. There, ears cocked every time he heard laughter, which was often, he nevertheless set about the business of discovering what a real puppy was. He finished shredding the slipper he’d found under a chair, and then, ever obedient to a command, got on with the task of gnawing a leg off the chair.

  * * *

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