A Regency Yuletide

by Sharon Sobel

  “I have never heard a complaint about my eggs, your ladyship, and Lord Michael and the young master have always eaten heartily.” The cook might have said more, but she appeared to suddenly recall she spoke to the future mistress of Pencliff. “I wish to discuss the Twelfth Cake, your ladyship,” she said politely.

  Aunt Daisy released her hold on Emma, for she required both hands to explain what was required. “It shall have to be very grand, even larger than those in the past. There will be many more people, for one, and it will celebrate the two weddings that will come in the morning. I should like four layers, with a five inch step between each. And it shall be round, of course.”

  “Of course, your ladyship,” said Mrs. Corcoran, though Emma thought she might have gotten stuck on the first step. “Are you certain you would not wish to prepare the batter yourself, as you are such a proficient baker?”

  Emma winced, knowing her aunt would come up with a retort. And that she did, though it was subtle enough to seem a compliment.

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Corcoran. I am certain you will do an excellent cake for us. And in this case, appearance is more important than taste.”

  The cook hesitated, clearing mulling the words. “And what of the icing?”

  “You shall leave the decoration of the cake to Miss Partrick and me, for it is there we are indeed proficient,” Aunt Daisy said most convincingly.

  Mrs. Corcoran wiped her hands on her clean apron. “And is this the way it will be, your ladyship?”

  Emma understood, as Aunt Daisy perhaps did not, that the cook questioned the future of her preeminence in the Pencliff kitchen.

  “Not quite,” said Aunt Daisy, with a warning finger raised. “There is also the matter of the pea and the bean, and another little object to be added into the batter. Please see me before the cakes go into the ovens.”

  “As you wish, your ladyship.” Mrs. Corcoran bowed and retired to the pantry where the stores of limoncello were kept. Emma could not fault the woman for needing a potent drink.

  “You will not be her favorite in this household, I fear,” said Emma.

  “Cooks enjoy the company of other cooks. When everything is quiet in a few weeks, and you are safely married, I shall visit her here and share recipes. She shall be quite happy. As will you, my dear.”

  “When I am safely married? Dare I even contemplate such a thing?” Emma sighed, feeling a thrill of expectation. After all these years of loneliness and abiding sadness, she finally allowed herself to believe she would have a beloved partner for the rest of her life. “And dare I hope that Nathaniel will be safe with me?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Aunt Daisy, speaking with all the authority of a countess, soon twice-over. “The two of you had best be safe and happy with each other, because I assure you, his uncle and I do not want you back.”

  “Thank you, dear Aunt Daisy,” Emma laughed. “You always manage to say the right thing.”

  NATHANIEL HAPPILY delivered his friend Peter into the eager care of Miss Eveline Porter, knowing a man already an earl and with two sturdy legs beneath him was worth far more than a cripple with nothing more than expectations. Peter was a rake of the first order, of course, but Nathaniel supposed there was a time in every man’s life when he had to admit his adventuring days were over, be it amongst the ruined temples of Italy or amongst the bedchambers of the ton.

  It was a hard thing to admit, of course.

  “You cannot convince me of your happiness when you look so dour,” said Emma.

  Nathaniel paused and leaned on his cane, wondering where she was. He looked around the parlor and saw her white slippers before he saw the rest of her. She stood on a table with both arms above her head and a length of ribbon dangling from her lips.

  “Are you posing for a bit of statuary?” he asked.

  “Is that why you look so concerned?” she countered with another question. “That I would be recognizable as someone’s lawn ornament? I am only refreshing the greenery and am happy to report there are no tree sprites loose in Pencliff yet.”

  She dropped to her knees, and in a light fluid motion that Nathaniel could only envy, slipped off the table. As she came towards him, fingering the ribbon, he recognized a playful, teasing expression on her face that he had not seen in many years. Perhaps she intended to tie him up.

  And if she did, he would allow her to do so. In fact, he would happily hold out his wrists in complete surrender.

  “What made you think of statuary?” she asked, in what he perceived as an innocent tone. She stopped inches away from him and slipped the ribbon around his neck. “I wonder, because when I awoke on New Year’s Day I thought you looked like nothing so much as one of the statues in the hallway. Of course, that chap is wearing a toga and you certainly were not.”

  She most certainly was no longer an innocent, and he was delighted to admit he was entirely responsible for her new awareness.

  “I can be persuaded to wear a toga,” he said cheerfully.

  Emma tugged on both ends of the ribbon, bringing his lips very close to hers. “And yet I prefer it if you do not.”

  In the next few moments, she managed to convince him that he would be much happier without yards of fabric between them. He was responsible for this as well, and was very satisfied with himself.

  After some time, he managed to speak of sensible things. “I thought of statuary because I recalled my days among the ruins, in the heat and the dust.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes half closed and her lips rosy and moist. No sculptor ever beheld such a model.

  “You will miss that. No library of books can replace the journeys you have taken. And I confess I have had some doubts that domesticity will truly suit you.”

  “I have little choice in the matter and have spent months in bed with nothing to do but contemplate my future.” Somehow those days, not all that long ago, seemed a lifetime away. “But I am completely reconciled to my new life. Domesticity suits you, dear Emma, and you suit me. We shall manage very well.”

  He knew the new adult Emma well enough to recognize that something he said displeased her. He saw it by the way her eyelids lowered and she chewed on her lower lip. What now? he wondered. Did she again intend to trot out the argument about her bad luck and the three unfortunate beaux and how he ought to avoid her at all costs? If so, he was now prepared; he knew her in the most intimate way, intended to marry her in a few days’ time, and the worst that had befallen him was finding a bit of eggshell in this morning’s custard. True, some men might have choked to death on eggshell, but he was already immune to the dangers of Mrs. Corcoran’s cooking.

  Nathaniel leaned on his cane, readying himself for the familiar nonsense.

  “Domesticity does not altogether suit me, Nathaniel. I am quite proficient at it all. How could I be otherwise with Aunt Daisy’s mothering? But it is not what I dream about, what I have always longed for.”

  Nathaniel leaned so heavily on his cane it almost cracked. “What exactly are you saying?”

  Emma sighed. “I am saying that for years I listened to your uncle’s tales about your adventures and looked at the things you sent home to him. I wanted to be you. I wanted to stow away in one of your trunks and be with you.”

  “And now that you have finally convinced yourself that you are not a bad bargain, you realize that it is I who is damaged goods?” Nathaniel had dismissed this possibility days ago because Emma, of all women, knew the extent of his limitations. But his bride—if ever he managed to get her before the vicar—was determined to examine every facet of every gemstone.

  Incredibly, she smiled and placed both her hands over his on the cane, as she leaned closer to him.

  “Oh, no, Nathaniel. You are just perfect,” she said, and he was happy to believe her. “It is just that I hoped you might continue your adventures, but take me with you.
I know some things will be difficult, and you may not yet be ready for a long journey. But let me be your partner in this, as in all other things.”

  “What of our children?” If she imagined they were going to leave their babies behind with Uncle Michael and Aunt Daisy, as her own parents had, she had vastly misread his priorities.

  She blushed. “I am sure our children will do well wherever they are, as long as we are with them. That is what matters most, is it not? At the very least, they may become articulate in other languages and speak about us behind our backs.”

  “And probably complain to each other about why they are not spending the winter in a drafty old fortress in Cornwall.”

  “Precisely,” she said, smiling.

  “Mi piace moltissimo,” Nathaniel said.

  “Wie heissen Sie,” she answered promptly.

  “I believe, dear lady, you just asked me my name. At this point in our relationship, it should be fairly familiar. All the more so because it will be yours in a few days’ time.”

  “Ah, I should have guessed your friend Lord Peter did not really know German. Entschuldigung. I still have to practice my verbs,” she said.

  Nathaniel nodded, thinking of all the ways he knew how to say “I love you,” both by word and by deed.

  “You will find Lord Peter improves upon acquaintance. There are many things about which he is wrong, but somehow it all works out in the end.”

  “For Miss Porter’s sake, I do hope that is the case. The poor girl seems quite smitten with him,” said Emma.

  “From experience, I believe we can say that could be the start of a very fine affair,” said Nathaniel, sagely.

  Chapter Five

  TWELFTH NIGHT Day seemed a harbinger of good things to come. The morning was sunny and bright, and the sounds of preparations for a dinner party and two weddings were punctuated by occasional crashes of ice and snow sliding off the roof and hitting the ground below. Old blankets lined the entrance foyer, absorbing the water that melted off boots and clothing. But there was no hope for the mud, tracked throughout the house and causing much consternation among the staff.

  Nothing, however, could dampen Lady Marguerite Westbrook’s excitement. She waved off everyone’s concerns, including her niece’s fears about the safety of her betrothed on a slippery floor, and applied all her attention to the massive Twelfth Night cake being assembled in the kitchen. Pots of colored sugar and bits of ribbon and greenery spilled onto the floor, but Lady Westbrook, with a true artist’s temperament, saw only the masterpiece and her own vision of the seasons. Mrs. Corcoran did her part by hiding in the pantry.

  Somewhere in this mountain of sugar and flour, there were a bean and a pea, the finding of which would announce the king and queen of Twelfth Night. The vicar was still quite audible in his protestations that this was very much a pagan practice and not to be tolerated in a Christian home, but it was clear to Lady Westbrook that the vicar’s niece would gladly gobble down the whole cake if it meant that she could be queen for the evening. Goodness knows what the young chit intended to do with that power, but Daisy guessed it had much to do with Lord Peter Martin, and was likely to cause the vicar to go into shock.

  But the pea and bean, though traditional, were nothing to the other object that had been baked into the cake. Following a very different tradition, neither pagan nor Christian but very much in fashion, an emerald bracelet was hidden at the very summit of the cake, guaranteeing the serving that would contain it would go to the very woman for whom it was intended.

  Daisy always liked Michael’s serious little nephew. She decided she now liked him even more that he was taller and had the good sense to thoroughly disabuse Emma of any notions of bad luck attached to her. And certainly, deciding to bake his mother’s splendid bracelet into the cake was as brilliant as the bracelet itself. The years during which it had been hidden in the Pencliff safe had done it no harm, though Daisy polished it very thoroughly before drowning it in the cake batter. She only hoped Emma would not bite down too hard, for a gap-toothed bride would hesitate to smile, even in her happiest moment.

  Nothing, however, would prevent Daisy and Michael from smiling at the marriage of their dearest relations. This joy, so long desired and so many times deferred, seemed the final triumph of raising two lonely children to proper adulthood. And that her Emma and his Nathaniel should finally realize they suited as no others ever could presented a prospect that was truly Elysian. Daisy was to marry Michael, Emma was to marry Nathaniel, and the Twelfth Night Cake was a masterpiece.

  Truly, was there ever a better start to a new year?

  EMMA PARTRICK sat alone in her darkening bedchamber, musing on the transformation of her simple white gown into her bridal dress. When she packed it for the journey to Pencliff, she only knew it would allow her to comfortably blend into the scenery and would keep her warm in drafty hallways. Now, with the addition of yards of gold trim and clusters of pearls, it would set her quite apart from scenery, and standing next to Nathaniel was likely to warm her to the very core of her being.

  She scarcely dared to imagine such happiness was within her reach. They need only get through this evening’s festivities, and the elegant meal, and survive the night. The vicar and their other guests would stay at Pencliff, lest a blizzard prevent travel the next morning, and the marriages would take place before breakfast.

  Emma might have believed she was the only person concerned about the health and welfare of everyone involved until Aunt Daisy made it clear that she wished for the marriage of the younger couple to precede hers and Lord Michael’s.

  “I would first see you settled,” was all the older lady said, patting her hand, but a world of meaning was contained in those few words. Tears blurred Emma’s vision as she glanced at her groom, but he and his uncle seemed overly interested in the gold rings they would bestow on their brides.

  By this time tomorrow, if the Fates did not conspire against her, Emma would indeed be settled.

  She smoothed the creases in her silk gown for the hundredth time and reached for her elbow length gloves. Carriage wheels splashed on the gravel beneath her window, and Lord Michael’s spaniel barked a greeting to each arrival. Emma heard the sound of voices, a fiddler tuning his instrument, a groom calling to another. Everyone on the estate was invited, on this Twelfth Night, to join neighbors and guests in the Pencliff ballroom.

  Someone tapped at the door, but several moments passed before Emma realized the sound was closer and more immediate than the other sounds of the great house. She rose, walked across the lovely rug and opened the door to Nathaniel.

  “Are you well?” she asked, a little anxiously.

  He kissed her, which had the effect of reassuring her completely. “You must not worry, my dear. We shall make it to the morrow in good health and be married and have many children and even more adventures and die in very, very old age.”

  “Is that your warranty?” Emma asked, not entirely in jest.

  “It is. And as you know, I am very rarely wrong,” he said.

  “You cannot say such things to me any more, for I am no longer a guileless girl idolizing an older boy.” She turned back into her room and lifted her reticule from her dressing table. “I am a wise woman who idolizes a clever man. And you have utterly convinced me of the truth in the matter.”

  Nathaniel reached for Emma’s shawl, dangling from a peg near the door, and draped it over her shoulders. “I am clever enough to know you are not at all convinced, but I promise I will do everything to keep you safe.”

  “It is not I who must be kept safe,” she murmured, but if Nathaniel heard her, he gave no indication of it.

  THE COMPANY gathered around the wide serving tables was very grand, if not quite as elevated as those who were invited to Lord Michael’s gatherings on Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Tradition required that every person, from
the master of the house to the lowest stableboy, share dinner on Twelfth Night, dance together, and otherwise enjoy himself while on the most equitable terms. Such it was that the housekeeper might find herself in the arms of a duke, or a lady might serve lemonade to the gardener. By the next morning, all would be forgiven, if not altogether forgotten.

  But for all the possibilities of mischief and mirth, Emma would not leave Nathaniel’s side. She had her reasons, and they had nothing to do with the buxom laundry maid whose lace slipped down into her scanty bodice, or the gatekeeper’s wife who enjoyed Lord Michael’s brandy a bit too much.

  Miss Cartwell abandoned her uncle to Lady Tregaris so they might together bemoan such unchecked evidence of republican ideology, and dragged Lord Peter Martin away from Miss Porter to welcome Emma and Nathaniel when they walked into the room.

  “Lord Peter is so proud to stand up with you tomorrow, Mr. Evander,” she said, sounding as if she had had a nip of the brandy, as well. Lord Peter, for his part, had his eyes on the laundry maid.

  “Yes, it is fortuitous that my good friend can be here with me,” said Nathaniel. “But of course, I might not have come to Pencliff at all if Lord Peter had not suggested it when we met in London. So, you see I owe him my present happiness.”

  Emma looked up at him, wondering why it would have mattered to Lord Peter if Nathaniel spent the holidays with or without his uncle, or if it had anything to do with herself.

  “Of course,” Miss Cartwell went on. “But as you know, Lord Peter is very considerate of family and friends. Undoubtedly, he heard of your uncle’s intended nuptials and would not have you miss the surprise.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Nathaniel, and smiled. “I believe he heard a rumor to that effect and shared it with me. I am grateful he did so.”

  His arm tightened around Emma, and she decided it was not the moment to question this odd business. In fact, for all her general curiosity, she realized that with a new husband, there might be things better left unasked . . . and, therefore, unanswered. She smiled up at him.