A Regency Yuletide

by Sharon Sobel

  Where was she?

  After he returned from his afternoon walk about the estate, he escaped to his room which was well situated above the great foyer of Pencliff. When he arrived a few days ago, he discovered there was much greater strain on his leg when the ground was covered with ice and snow than when the path was clear and dry. Therefore, every outing was an exercise in agony, though he was certain his surgeon would attest that it was to his benefit.

  But he believed the only thing to his benefit was pulling off his boots and sitting with his leg propped on a low chair, warmed by the heat of the fire in the grate and a Scottish blanket. A good book had the additional advantage of hastening the passage of time, and allowing him to briefly forget the disaster of his expedition to the south of Italy and the likelihood his adventurous days were over. Today, however, he utterly lacked all powers of concentration, for he was diverted by something of greater immediacy than the events of a year before.

  Where was she?

  He heard voices on the veranda below, and edged closer to the window so that he could spy more effectively from his eyrie. His book, the estimable Guy Mannering, fell off his lap and the rough wool blanket slipped to the floor.

  His uncle, Lord Michael Pomfrey, Earl of Bristol, had gathered up a handful of snow and tossed it at Lady Marguerite Westbrook before running towards the woods. It hit the lady on the shoulder, and she responded by trailing after him, with some sort of weapon in hand. Dear God, had the two of them been drinking? Were they about to murder each other?

  Nathaniel braced his hands against the arms of his chair and tried to rise. His leg was too painful, and the process too difficult, for him to act quickly and thus save them from whatever nonsense was about. By the time he arrived on the scene the damage would be irreparably done. However, the lady had a niece and a rather aggressive one at that; for all her disarming demeanor, she must be capable of interceding.

  But where was she?

  Was this her plan, about which Peter was so confident? Was his uncle destined to fall, for no reason other than expressing an interest in the lady?

  Miss Emma Partrick suddenly appeared on the stairs beneath Nathaniel’s window, with an overlarge basket in hand. She still wore a woolen plaid cape, but her dark hair was now covered with a shawl that was knotted beneath her chin and tossed over her shoulders. She called out to the others, who beckoned her to join them. Nathaniel had a better look at their faces and realized they were laughing. Yes, they must have gotten into that limoncello he had shipped to his uncle from Naples. It clearly made them ridiculous, if not necessarily dangerous.

  What was even more ridiculous was that his uncle, who had a household of servants at his bidding, apparently decided that he wished to do a spot of gardening. He took the knife from Lady Westbrook and studied the trees at the edge of his wood. Once Emma joined them, they seemed to have nothing more compelling to do than prune branches off bushes that still were green, and gather the whole mess in a bundle into Emma’s large basket and on the snow. A few more snowballs were thrown and Emma slipped and would have fallen if his uncle had not caught her. And the three of them laughed about everything, which irritated Nathaniel more than anything else.

  Finally, undoubtedly after the effects of the limoncello had worn off, they stood in a small, tight circle facing each other. More laughter. And then, on cue, they lifted their arms around each other and joined in an intimate embrace.

  Nathaniel was too late. It was all settled. Uncle Michael was doomed to marry the Black Widow.

  Chapter Two

  EMMA SUPPOSED SHE deserved a few moments of leisure after her long journey from London, but somehow everything was happening without a moment left to spare. The Christmas decorations had been left for Aunt Daisy to orchestrate, cakes remained without icing in the kitchen, and Emma needed to inform Lord Michael’s maids as to which of their gowns needed to be pressed for immediate wear. And then, there was the wonderful news, delivered to her in such a fashion as to warm her to her very toes while she stood in the snow.

  She sighed, as she braided a sprig of ivy through the handrail in the grand foyer. How wonderful a conclusion to the years of building a loving, trusting relationship. Perhaps marriage was not for the very young, who often rushed into marriage without truly knowing their mate. After all, how well had she known the Duke of Beaconstone when she agreed to marry him at age eighteen? He was very handsome, and surely wealthy, and he was very polite. She could not know he had weak lungs. She also would never know how she and he might have fared together at thirty or forty years.

  But her aunt and Lord Michael knew just what to expect, as far as anyone could predict the future. And they loved each other, which was more than many married couples had any reason to expect.

  “Something is different here, is it not?” said a voice above her.

  Emma heard the irregular footsteps at the very moment Nate spoke, and prepared herself for another confrontation.

  “I should think everything is now different in this house,” she said, “but I suspect you mean the greenery.”

  He paused on a step to give him even more of an advantage in height, and looked casually about the hall. Emma wondered if he might also need a respite from the awkward business of managing a long staircase, for he seemed somewhat breathless.

  “Ah, yes. Now I see it. It is remindful of Burnam Wood coming to Dunsinane, is it not?” he asked, demanding that she recall her reading of Macbeth.

  He was testing her, as always. But she knew her plays of Mr. Shakespeare and had been to a performance of Macbeth not many weeks before.

  “I suppose one could apply some poetic power to the image. But there are no Scottish warriors hiding beneath the boughs, and no one is about to be killed,” she said.

  He looked startled, and she wondered if she ought not refer to attacks or death in his company. She knew not how he came to be injured, nor if there were other men who fared worse.

  “Everyone is quite safe, you say.” He did not sound convinced.

  Now that she recognized his heel of Achilles, she would not stab him there again.

  Emma held up one hand. “Indeed. Unless you consider the damage done to my favorite gloves by the sap on the pine branches. And, of course, the tree sprites that live within the wood.”

  He rubbed his forehead, though she couldn’t tell if it was due to his exertion or the tediousness of her conversation. As he did so, he came down the rest of the stairs and stood beside her, which still gave him the benefit of height. He reached for her hand and lifted it so he might examine her sticky glove.

  Here was the Nate she best remembered, and she knew the part she must play for him.

  “It is very sweet, you know. I understand the sap is made into a sort of molasses substance in the Americas and is used to sweeten tea.”

  Nate rubbed a finger over the dark stain, which sent a shot of heat down her arm. And then, quite unexpectedly, he brought her hand to his lips and licked her glove. She stopped breathing.

  “It is sweet, but not particularly tasty. I will stay loyal to my cane sugar, unless I find myself in the American wilderness with a chest of bitter tea.” He still held her hand.

  “Nate . . .” Emma began.

  “Are you about to tell me that you have poisoned me, beautiful Emma?” Nate asked.

  She changed her opinion. This was most definitely not the Nate she remembered or the part she’d expected to play.

  “I would never poison you, old friend,” she said softly. “I rely too much on your good sense, and the things you might yet teach me. I lost you for too many years, but we will now have the excuse of family to bring us together more often.

  He released her hand and frowned. Perhaps he tasted something else in the sap that was neither as sweet nor as compelling.

  “And yet all you have done thus far is t
each me,” he said. “What is it about the tree sprites?”

  Emma laughed, breaking the rather serious mood. “Your uncle and his guests are awaiting our arrival in the parlour so that we may all go in to dinner. My Aunt Daisy is better versed in the old customs than am I, so she could tell you about it herself. Come, will you join me?”

  She warily accepted his proffered elbow, now that she began to understand what effect contact with his body, no matter how impersonal, had on her senses. But as soon as they started to walk towards the parlour, Emma was concerned with other things, such as slowing her gait to accommodate his.

  “Are you in much pain?” she asked.

  He hesitated just long enough so that she guessed his answer was a lie. “No,” he said. “But is that not a very personal question?”

  She glanced up at him in surprise and realized his eyes were on her, and on not their steps.

  “That seems an odd question from someone who has just licked a lady’s glove,” she pointed out. “But I ask not to satisfy any idle curiosity. I wish to know what happened to you, and what you might expect.”

  “It is a very foolish business and one that does not get any better in the retelling. My companions and I were in the south of Italy, not far from Naples. Though most adventurers in the area are digging at the base of the treacherous volcano, I have always been more intrigued by the abandoned Greek settlement at Paestum. One gentleman of the party climbed to the top of a hill of rubble and set off an avalanche of stones. I was partially buried and might have gotten off relatively unharmed, but that a startled horse dashed over the stones and crushed my leg. It is not a very heroic story.”

  Emma heard the delicate tinkle of wine glasses and soft voices as they approached the parlour. “But most men do not suffer fortune in a heroic way or in a manner befitting their importance.” She thought of her own Dennis St. John, felled by the ceiling of the church in which he was delivering a sermon. “And you did not die,” she added.

  She felt him stiffen.

  “Though at times I wish I had,” he said, just as they entered the room.

  “Well, it is about time you children arrived!” Lord Michael said cheerfully. “We are not nearly as hardy as you, and hope to enjoy a fine dinner before we fall asleep in our chairs.”

  Emma quickly pulled her hand away from Nate’s arm and managed her brightest smile. “We are no longer children, my lord.”

  Of course, her glib answer might bring on even more suspicion as to what detained them in the hallway, but everyone in the audience seemed to take it in good spirit. As she glanced at the assorted guests, she realized that in such company Lord Michael and Aunt Daisy themselves might well be considered children. She recognized an ancient aunt of Nate’s, two of Lord Michael’s hunting partners, and the local vicar and his sister. There was also a lady in a bright orange wig, a man in uniform already asleep by the fire, and another gentleman with the unlikely name of Lord Lesser Biggs.

  “No, you most definitely are not,” the latter said. “I do remember you when you were a little mite, always running around after Nathaniel here.” Before he could pinch her cheek, Emma ducked back, right up against Nate’s chest. His hand came around her waist, though he otherwise let her face this ogre alone.

  “Shall we go in to dinner?” Aunt Daisy said sweetly. She gently woke their uniformed guest and partnered him into the formal dining room. There, she led him to his chair at one end of the table, and took her place at Lord Michael’s side at the other end. Nate was seated to the left of his uncle, and from her seat next to her aunt, Emma watched the considerable difficulty he experienced in the simple act of sitting. There was more to the story he’d told her, she realized.

  But soon they all were settled, and drinks were poured all around. Aunt Daisy’s ivy and juniper creation graced a silver salver at the center of the table, and everyone was overly enthusiastic in their compliments.

  “Do you not think it a fine idea to allow Lady Westbrook to grace my table at all events?” Lord Michael said.

  “Yes,” said the orange-bewigged lady, wagging her finger. “But Lady Westbrook is not your servant, Michael, and will not be at your call whenever you plan a dinner party.”

  “Ah, you misunderstand me, Lady Tregaris. I do not intend that she must twist about leaves and twigs to my every whim. The lady, herself, must grace my table.”

  “Please explain what you mean, uncle,” said Nate. Emma realized they were the first words he’d uttered since they walked into the parlour together.

  “I mean—” Here Lord Michael paused for effect and raised his glass. “I mean that Lady Westbrook has this very day agreed to marry me. This, on the night before Christmas Eve, is our betrothal dinner.”

  “It is about time,” muttered Lady Tregaris.

  “What did he say?” asked Nate’s elderly aunt, cupping her ear.

  But everyone one else raised a toast and cheered very loudly.

  Emma thought she was the happiest of all, until she caught Nate’s speculative gaze across the wide table.

  PETER MILTON HAD gotten the whole business wrong, and Nathaniel was a fool to have believed him. His own inheritance was secure, his uncle’s happiness was complete, and no one suggested Miss Emma Partrick’s misfortunes extended to anyone other than her own cursed lovers. To be sure, no one had tested the full range of her reach, but it was difficult to anticipate any ill tidings whilst Pencliff was a veritable crucible of joy.

  The whole house hummed with excitement. He heard the maids singing carols as they polished the silver, the aging guests now wanted a New Year’s ball, Lady Westbrook looked about ten years younger than she had when she and her niece arrived at Pencliff, and Uncle Michael whistled as he went about his business. Nathaniel had never heard such a thing in his life.

  Which is why he found comfort with familiar things in his uncle’s library. Here is where he first discovered the civilizations of Greece and Rome, and traced the old military routes of the ancient soldiers as they pushed their way northwards through Europe all the way to Hadrian’s Wall. Early on, Uncle Michael recognized his passion and respected his curiosity, and took him to Chester to see what remained of the Wall. They also examined old mosaic floors in Fishbourne, and found treasures in Bath that had nothing to do with the Assembly Rooms or the Paragon.

  And now, Nathaniel only wished to escape into his old geographic atlas, but could not find it anywhere. Instead, he settled for a volume describing the antiquities in the Ashmolean Museum. It certainly was more satisfying than listening to Uncle Michael whistling Greensleeves off key. After all, what did the man know about unrequited love?

  He heard the door open behind him, and asked the servant to put the bottle of limoncello and wine glass on the desk.

  “I am not Hiller,” said Emma. “And I have something better than lemonade.”

  “I am not expecting lemonade,” Nathaniel said, “and there is nothing better than limoncello.”

  But as he turned in his seat, he knew there were many things better than the potent liqueur of Southern Italy. Miss Emma Partrick in a close fitting blue dress was one. And Miss Emma Partrick carrying his atlas was another.

  “I expect I am interrupting something terribly important, Nate, but I wish to find Paestum on a map. I have searched all over for it, and cannot locate it,” she said, and opened the book on his desk.

  “Are you looking in Italy, Poppet?” he asked. Why had he thought of that name now? Surely he had not used it in at least twenty years.

  “Oh, that must be the problem. I was searching for it in London,” she said sarcastically, and pulled up a chair next to his. “Do you think me a complete idiot?”

  “Are you not the girl who thought Coriolanus was our neighbor in Manchester Square?”

  “I believe I was ten years old at the time. And the Earl was rather terrifyin
g.” She leaned forward and he had a very tempting view of the back of her neck, where little tendrils of hair curled. “Please do not call me Poppet. It is not very dignified.”

  He blew very gently and watched the tendrils dance. “Please do not call me Nate. It puts me in mind of a little insect.”

  “Very well, Nathaniel,” she said sweetly, with the air of one who has not yet given up the argument. “If you will only show me Paestum.”

  “The problem is that it is not on the map,” he said. “Though it is situated just here.”

  His arm brushed against her breast as he pointed out a green spot.

  She did not notice his unintended intimacy in her agitation about the apparent misunderstanding.

  “But you have told me it is an ancient place! Is that another joke?”

  Nathaniel shifted position and felt the grinding pain in his knee. “If only it were. Paestum is real enough, and it is the site of some of the grandest Greek temples ever discovered. But the settlement was abandoned when the surrounding marshes became malarial, and over the centuries Paestum was lost to memory. That is an excellent example of your Aunt Daisy’s tree sprites at work, for they quite overran everything.”

  “How did you find it, then?” Emma asked.

  “The locals knew it was there. One could hardly ignore three massive temples in the neighborhood. Builders had been looting the place for centuries. Before the accident, I managed to find a few interesting pieces that had been overlooked.”

  “Will you ever be able to return, Nate—Nathaniel?”

  “Right now, I should be happy to manage a stroll from Mayfair to Hyde Park. No, I doubt I will be able to return.”

  “But what if you had someone to help you? To ease your way?”

  Nathaniel wondered whom she might have in mind when Hiller came into the library, with the limoncello.

  “Thank you, Hiller. No, we will not need another glass.”