A Regency Yuletide

by Sharon Sobel

  “If there is sufficient chocolate, it might be a very excellent death,” he mused.

  “If there is chocolate in abundance, it would be better not to die at all,” said Nathaniel, as they walked through the dining room and into the snowy night.

  MISS EMMA PARTRICK paused in the process of folding her favorite evening dress and glanced out the window of her Aunt Daisy’s townhouse. The snowfall had quickened in the last hour and it was now impossible to see the houses across the Square. A few hardy pedestrians moved like dark shadows against the white backdrop, huddled against the onslaught.

  “The roads will be very poor,” Emma said. “Should we not wait until we are certain the conditions will be better?”

  Aunt Daisy looked up from where she knelt on the floor, carefully folding her garments into her travel trunk. Their maid, who ordinarily would do the folding and packing for them, was already on her way to Scotland, where she would spend Christmas with her own family.

  “I fear we can never be certain the conditions are entirely suitable, my dear,” said Aunt Daisy. “When they are beastly in Mayfair, they may be lovely in Cornwall. And I am convinced that when we wake on the morrow, all this snow will be gone.”

  Emma smiled, already too familiar with her aunt’s wretched skills in the art of prophesy.

  “I know what you are thinking, you ungrateful child, but this will be no ordinary house party, and I promised Lord Michael that we will supervise the house decorations and the preparations for the feast.”

  “And bake for the feast, as well. Should I set aside my gown and bring a few old muslin dresses instead? We may spend all our hours belowstairs, in the kitchen.”

  “We will not, my dear. But you know how much he has always loved my Twelfth Cake,” Aunt Daisy said, and ducked back down into the trunk.

  I know how much he has always loved you, Emma thought. And wondered if her dear aunt had reason to believe this was not to be the usual Christmas affair. After all, they had been guests of Lord Michael since she was a little girl, joining him for holidays at Pencliff and for occasional dinners at Pomfrey House in London. In the old days, she looked forward to playing with his nephew Nate. As she grew older, she realized she more likely tormented the boy, bullying him around as only a young girl could do. And so he escaped, not only her, but the confines of home and society. Lord Michael must have missed him terribly, but he seemed to rejoice in the frequent letters from foreign ports, recounting adventures that seemed both exciting and exceedingly foolhardy. When last Emma and her aunt visited with Lord Michael, he told them of a dreadful accident in Italy. Or perhaps it was Greece. Certainly there were Greek temples and crumbling pediments involved. And the news that Nate Evander would probably never walk again.

  “Well, you needn’t look so unhappy about it all, Emma,” said Aunt Daisy. “I enjoy baking it, and he enjoys eating it. I am packing silver tinsel and green paper, so we can decorate it to perfection.”

  “I am not unhappy about your cake or our appreciative host,” Emma said, still thinking about her old friend. She remembered him fondly, and wished that in all the intervening years, their paths had crossed again so she could have also known him as a man full of health and vigor. Now, if they ever met, he would be crippled, and perhaps bitter about what had befallen him. “In fact, I look forward to helping with all the projects Lord Michael has given you.”

  “There will be other guests who might occupy your time,” Aunt Daisy said thoughtfully.

  “I am sure there will be,” said Emma, thinking about the circle of her aunt and Lord Michael’s elderly friends. “But I would rather spend my time with you and the flora.”

  “Yes, of course! I am envisioning ivy entwined along the banister and holly in large vases in the center hall. The gardeners will bring in small trees from the orangery, and I asked Lord Michael to acquire a nice, plump partridge.”

  “Will one be enough to feed all his guests?”

  “I do not intend to eat the poor thing, my dear, but to display him in one of the trees. I never saw a pear tree in his collection, so quince will have to do.” Aunt Daisy rubbed her hands together, clearly delighted with the prospect. “In fact, it will do very nicely.”

  Emma looked around at their simple but elegant surroundings. “Do you think we should put up some greenery here, as well? This will be the first time we will not be home for any part of Christmas and I feel the house will be very sad without some festive wreaths or sprays of holly in the foyer.”

  “There will be no one here to see it. Even the staff will be gone to their own families,” said Aunt Daisy, clearly reluctant to take on another task.

  “Let me do it, Aunt. I will be packed and ready soon enough, and I will send Annie out to Covent Garden to buy what is needed.”

  “No, my dear. I will not have it.” Aunt Daisy folded her arms across her breast and looked quite insistent. “We will not return to London by Twelfth Night, and it is unlucky if the greenery is still on display. The tree sprites in the wood, who have been given a respite from the coldest days of winter, will remain in this house and do their mischief here.”

  Emma put down a fur muffler and leaned back in her seat. “Surely you do not believe that nonsense, and you did not raise me to be a superstitious, silly girl. Tree sprites? They will be perfectly content to spend a few extra days in the relative warmth of our home I daresay, and be grateful we have not tossed them out onto the London streets. And besides, I doubt they know how to read a calendar, and would not know the Twelfth Night from the thirteenth.”

  “You find this very amusing, I see,” said Aunt Daisy glumly. “But I do not wish to take any chances. You have been most unlucky in love, Emma, and I have exhausted all my prayers. Now, I do not wish to tempt the fates, pagan or not.”

  Emma’s good spirits melted like the snow on their windowpane. Was her situation so desperate, her history so tragic, her aunt would deny her the simple pleasure of a few sprigs of holly or ivy in their own home?

  “I know what I am called by members of society, but surely no one thinks I am responsible for the deaths of three charming and amiable young men. Beaconstone contracted influenza from his own mother, and poor Dennis was delivering a sermon in his church when the ceiling fell down upon him. And we know Bart was drinking heavily and carousing with other officers when he fell into the Thames. Does anyone think I dressed up in regimentals and pushed him into the water? It is absurd.” Emma knew she sounded a little desperate, but before this moment, she had no idea her aunt was so concerned about her prospects. She had already accepted the very real possibility she would never marry, and live out her days as Aunt Daisy’s devoted companion.

  “And yet the absurd or impossible is often true. I do not think you pushed Bart Fitzhugh into the river, but you have lost three suitors in eight years. Some bit of evil is working against you and the men you choose. I do not want to give it the opportunity to work its spell again.”

  Such words coming from her practical aunt were nearly incomprehensible. When Emma’s own parents decided to defect to the wilderness of America, they abandoned her to the care of the one relation who was sensible and clever, and Aunt Daisy had ever proved true to their expectations. And yet now she spoke of tree sprites and pagan mischief and encroaching evil. Emma scarcely knew how to respond.

  “I will not choose another man, so all of their sex will be safe from harm,” she said, solemnly. It was an awful pronouncement, and yet she knew not what else to say. And then, something else occurred to her, and she smiled, if somewhat weakly. “And perhaps you can put me out on the doorstep after Twelfth Night, instead of the greenery, since I am more likely to wreak havoc than the innocent tree sprites!”

  Aunt Daisy hesitated, which was almost as upsetting as anything she already said. But then she raised her hand with her pointer finger extended, in a gesture Emma had not seen in years.
Of course, Emma had not spilled her milk, or torn her petticoat, or muddied her shoes in many years either.

  “I am not amused, Missy!” Aunt Daisy admonished her. “There are many eligible gentlemen out there who will not be able to resist your charms.”

  “But more to the point, will they be able to resist my ill-favored luck?”

  “I daresay there is at least one. Yes, certainly there is.”

  Emma felt suddenly weary of the pointless argument and the series of disappointments in her life. Aunt Daisy was the only one who had never abandoned her, and yet she now seemed overly eager to push Emma out the door.

  “And only one?” Emma asked. “And what makes this poor man unique among Englishmen?”

  Aunt Daisy waved her hand casually, as if they again spoke about the weather. “He has already had uncommonly bad luck and will suffer for it all his life. I suspect he is already immune to anything your company will have in store.”

  AUNT DAISY’S PROPHETIC words hummed like a chorus in Emma’s mind during all the long journey to Pencliff. She refused to ask the identity of the last suitor, for she knew her aunt would produce him in good time, if such a man even existed. And to know his name would surely result in rejecting the man, which would make her aunt very unhappy. It was not in the spirit of Christmas to do such a thing.

  Unfortunately, the weather spirits were not as benevolent. The journey to Penzance was punctuated with delays due to ice and mud, and one evening of blinding snow. The inns along the way were adequate and comfortable only in contrast to the cramped carriage. And yet, Aunt Daisy’s spirits remained high, and she seemed to be unable to sit back in her seat once they crossed into Cornwall.

  The sun broke through the gray clouds as they finally passed through the gates of Pencliff and Aunt Daisy clasped her hands in joy.

  “I knew it would be like this! Did I not tell you that all would be fine? The castle is best seen in such a light, with the sun glinting off the white stone and reflecting off the snow cover.”

  Emma massaged her shoulder, which was rather sore from all the bumping of the carriage, and looked out the window. From her side, there was only a view of the treacherous cliff, the natural fortress that had rebuffed invaders for centuries. Suddenly, a tall man came into view, and as they came closer, she recognized Lord Michael himself. He cut across the snow covered lawn and when the carriage turned sharply, he appeared at the entrance to his home. A few servants stood attentively behind him.

  Aunt Daisy was first from the carriage and both she and their host seemed to exercise considerable restraint by not embracing in front of their audience. Emma, alighting from the carriage, sensed it at once, and looked away to give them some privacy. She knew they loved each other; she’d recognized it so many years ago when she first reveled in a love of her own. But Aunt Daisy and Lord Michael either didn’t admit it to themselves or decided to maintain the illusion of nothing more than a congenial companionship. Now, something had changed. Did it happen in the letters that had passed between them in the autumn? Or was something promised during one of the frequent visits to Manchester Square?

  Is this why Aunt Daisy renewed her interests in matchmaking for Emma? So that she might see Emma settled before marrying again?

  Wavering on her feet as she reacquainted herself with solid ground, Emma suddenly realized they may wish nothing more than her approval, for she was the only other person affected by such a happy change in circumstances. Not true, Emma. There was Nate to be considered as well. In his crippled state, he might be more dependent on his uncle than ever.

  “Welcome to Cornwall, Emma!” said Lord Michael, now beside her. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the reflected sunshine and smiled at him. “We shall enjoy a wonderful Christmas together.”

  “Thank you so much for inviting us, Lord Michael. Penzance is a wonderful change from London, and I’m so glad we came.”

  “So am I,” echoed Aunt Daisy.

  “Are you truly, Marguerite? I am glad as well,” said Lord Michael.

  “I am glad,” said Aunt Daisy. “So glad.”

  Emma blinked at the overly glad couple as Lord Michael took her aunt’s hand and led her into the house. Dear God, they were not merely in love, but deliriously so. They were as children, experiencing the first blush of passion. And who else dared to call her aunt Marguerite? Was Emma hardy enough to withstand two weeks of cooing and flirting?

  “It appears Lord Michael has left his baggage behind,” said a voice behind her.

  Emma turned into the sun, but could only discern a tall and lean form, leaning on a cane. As he came forward, she came into his shadow and was able to look up into his face.

  She knew him, and yet she did not. His hair was the color of mahogany, streaked with several lines of gray. His eyes were as dark as his hair, and hooded by half closed lids. He had lines wrought of pain and care on his brow and around his mouth, and she realized they made him look older than he surely was. In fact, he might not be so many years older than herself.

  “Nate?” she whispered. “Can it be possible?”

  He took her gloved hand and bowed deeply over it. There was a spot of snow on his dark hair.

  “Is it so very difficult to believe, Miss Partrick? Surely my uncle did not tell you I was departed from this world?” he asked as he released her hand. “If so, I am sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I am not disappointed, only surprised.”

  He grimaced. “That I am not dead?”

  “That you are here at Pencliff and . . . standing before me. I expected you, that is to say, I thought you to be . . .”

  “Crippled? Well, so I am.”

  Emma glanced down at his cane and realized his hand was clenched very tightly over its crook. “You are not as I expected, Nate. And it has been an age.”

  “So it must be, as there is no one who still calls me Nate. Even my uncle has finally acceded to my advanced old age and allows me to be Nathaniel.”

  “Nathaniel,” Emma said, allowing the syllables to roll over her tongue. “I did not even realize it was your name.”

  “And I am not even sure of yours, though you did not correct me when I called you Miss Partrick. Are you not married after all this time?”

  Emma shivered, though the day was warming nicely. “I wonder that you are so ill informed, as my affairs seem to have become everyone else’s business of the past eight years. Indeed, I might have been married to either the Duke of Beaconstone, Mr. St. John, or Mr. Fitzhugh but circumstances conspired against me. I remain Miss Partrick.”

  “And is the condition permanent, or do you have new prospects?”

  As quickly as she had grown cold a moment before, Emma now burned with embarrassment. Of what concern were her marital prospects to Nathaniel Evander? Did he think she was in Penzance to pursue him? Perhaps she ought to punish him for his impertinence by worrying him a bit.

  “I am not sure it is any business of yours, but I do have prospects, and my aunt is actively pursuing them. Will that satisfy you?”

  He looked over her head to the house and frowned. “It is as I expected. And yet my uncle has abandoned you on the doorstep, perhaps so he can scheme with your aunt.”

  He really was a rude man and nothing like the boy she remembered. Nate Evander was cheerful and easy to know, and allowed a little girl to follow him all about. He scowled at her, and pulled on her braids and teased her about her fear of horses, but she always trusted him. Perhaps this is what illness and pain did to one.

  “I have never heard ‘scheming’ used to describe what I suspect they are doing, but I will leave them to it without my interference,” said Emma, and blushed again.

  He studied her and she knew he read the years on her face as easily as she did his. “Yes, I am sure they will arrange matters to your satisfaction.”

 
“And to yours, Nate? Do you have any reason to object to their arrangements?”

  He opened his mouth and closed it again, his lips so taut they nearly disappeared. Was he so close minded that he could not sanction love and marriage between two older people? Or did he fear the loss of his uncle’s attention? Certainly, it could not be concern for his inheritance, as Aunt Daisy was no longer of an age to produce an heir. But perhaps Nate did not know that.

  “You are a fool, Nate Evander,” Emma said with unexpected—and perhaps unjustified—conviction. She turned away from him and started towards the house, as her toes were too cold to endure much more of his cryptic argument.

  “My name is Nathaniel,” he called to her retreating back.

  HE WAS AN IDIOT. If nothing else was certain in his miserable life, it was that he was an idiot. Nathaniel had a whole week to dissuade the conniving Back Widow from marrying his elderly uncle, and yet he pounced on her at the very minute of her arrival, when she was worn and weary from her journey.

  And yet she looked quite splendid. Her hair was just as he remembered, for the jostling in the carriage had loosened strands about her face, and she looked very much as she had as a child. Perhaps not quite. But her eyes were still overly large in her face, as if she lived in a constant state of wonder, and her lips were very pink and well formed. He remembered watching them pucker as she ate a very sour lemon he once picked for her from his uncle’s orangery. Now, fool that he was, he wondered what it would be like to taste those lips.

  Until this day, he’d thought of her as a girl. But she was a woman, nearly his own age, and truly the most beautiful one he ever beheld. No wonder Uncle Michael desired her, for there was no more brilliant jewel in an old man’s crown than an elegant lady. He could not fault Uncle Michael his choice.

  But then, she was not simply any young lady; she was one with a very bad history. Could his uncle be unaware of that? Or does love make fools of us all, and allow one to imagine that the rules change at our own selfish desire?

  At the moment, he had his own selfish desire and his uncle had nothing to do with it.