“I don’t think he sees it as charity, Mama. I think … Oh, I’m going to catch up to the others and set them to work, or we’ll never gather enough.”
She ran off, suddenly all girl again in her fleet-footedness, her skirts revealing a bit too much ankle.
Elinor followed, torn between hope, fear, and a strange ache. She tried to remember Sir Nicholas’s visits to Ivy Cottage and whether he’d paid particular attention to Amy. She couldn’t think of any such moment, but that could be because she’d been enjoying the occasions herself.
If he did marry Amy, she would sometimes have occasion to enjoy his company and hear news of politics and international affairs, as well as tid-bits of society gossip. It wouldn’t be the same, however.
She wouldn’t live with them at Danvers Hall. Even though that might be good for Margaret and Maria, she couldn’t do that. She was sure he would provide a better house for them, however—a place similar to the Austens’ house, with ample rooms and a few servants. He would increase her income so that she could mingle with local society without embarrassment.
It would all be wonderful, so the rather sick feeling in her stomach must be fear that it wouldn’t come to pass. Or perhaps that Amy was intending to sacrifice herself for her family. She was capable of that. Elinor couldn’t imagine Sir Nicholas being a sacrifice for any woman, not even a girl still in her teens, but if that were so …
Which was worse—an unhappy marriage or a life of drudgery?
Why did she want to weep?
The girls ran to meet her and put lengths of ivy and a couple of branches of holly in the basket. The best sprigs of holly were higher, so Amy and Elinor cut as the younger girls directed.
Elinor considered the haul. “I do think we’ll find better ivy at home, dears. We need the younger stems and they’re very high here. Time to go home.”
A rattle and the sound of hooves made her look down the lane, where she saw a donkey cart carrying two women, one swathed in extra rugs. She’d heard Miss Jane Austen was not well, but she was out enjoying the warm afternoon, driven by her sister.
Elinor and her daughters stepped aside, and Elinor prepared to exchange a seasonal greeting in passing. But Miss Austen halted the cart, and Miss Jane smiled. “A merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Carsholt. And to your daughters.”
They all dipped curtsies. “And to you, Miss Austen, Miss Jane. A lovely day, is it not?”
“Delightful.”
Miss Jane Austen was probably in her forties and sallow with whatever plagued her. She was a most unlikely author of dangerous novels.
“We’ve been gathering holly and ivy!” Maria said, making Elinor wince for her manners, but as usual, the little angel gained approval.
“An important part of the traditions, my dear. Will you add mistletoe?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Margaret.
Miss Jane’s eyes twinkled. “Are you hoping for a kiss, dear?”
Margaret went pink, but said, “Amy is!”
“Probably from Sir Nicholas,” said Maria, surely in complete innocence.
“What nonsense!” Amy said, turning bright red in a way that confirmed Elinor’s hopes. “If he kisses anyone, he’ll kiss Mama.”
Elinor laughed at that, turning to share amusement with the Austen ladies. “I’m far past the age for mistletoe kisses, I fear.”
Miss Jane cocked her head. “That seems a shame, for we must be older still.”
Elinor hastily apologized, but Miss Jane shook her head. “I was only teasing, Mrs. Carsholt. I believe Sir Nicholas said you are thirty-six. I don’t think you should refuse the mistletoe its chance.”
“Chance, ma’am?”
“Do you not know that tradition?”
“Oh, sister,” said Miss Austen, as if uncomfortable with the subject.
“Cassandra doesn’t approve,” Miss Jane said, smiling. “She thinks it has a touch of pagan magic about it. Local tradition says that if true lovers kiss beneath a mistletoe bough, they will instantly know their devotion.”
“It sounds a little pagan to me, too, Miss Jane,” Elinor said, but lightly. “And perhaps overly romantical.”
“If by romantical you speak of men and women forming true matches based on love, does that not happen all the time?”
Maria spoke, with the disastrous honesty of a young child. “Did you never find your true love through the mistletoe bough, ma’am?”
“Maria!” Elinor chided, but Miss Austen replied.
“I did, my dear, but it was not to be. However, to experience true love is better than not, and one can always imagine a story with a different ending.”
Miss Jane inclined her head; Miss Austen added a good-day and drove on, leaving Elinor to wonder if Miss Jane had encountered her own Mr. Darcy, and he had not abandoned sense in order to marry a penniless woman.
In that case, it would have been a great deal more to the point to write the truth; if Miss Elizabeth Bennet had ended up as a penny-pinched spinster along with all her sisters, and Miss Lydia Bennet had been ruined as she deserved, foolish girls might have learned by it.
“That’s a wonderful legend,” Amy said. “We really must get some mistletoe, Mama!”
She was already over the stile and helping the others. Elinor was suddenly drained of the energy to fight. Let them have a kissing bough if they wanted.
She climbed carefully over the stile, dearly wishing the world was like Miss Jane Austen’s novel, full of happy endings.
Too late she remembered Sir Nicholas saying that his brother planned to raid the orchard. She hated to intrude. Her daughters were far ahead, so she could only pray that the Danvers Hall party had already left. When she found only some village children in the orchard, however, she felt let down.
As her girls ran around seeking the best branches, Elinor looked toward the mellow, golden manor house, trying to imagine Amy mistress there. It was larger and finer than Fortlings, and the mullioned windows glinted in the setting sun, making it seem like a fairy palace.
Indeed, it might as well be.
“Mama!” called Margaret. “Here’s a tree full of mistletoe!”
Elinor turned and joined them. “Those certainly are splendid bunches, dear, but they’re too high. Let’s look for some that hang lower.”
“But all the lower ones have gone,” Amy said. “There’s a ladder over there.”
Elinor grabbed her cloak. “None of us are climbing a ladder.”
“But what are we to do? Oh, I wish we had a man to assist us!”
“I am summoned.”
Elinor turned to stare at the dark-haired young man strolling through the orchard. It must be Captain Danvers, for he was very like his brother, though more dashing, with his longer hair and a scar across his forehead.
“Captain Danvers!” said Amy in a tone that crushed all Elinor’s hopes.
Oh, Amy! Miss Austen had represented that folly correctly in her novel, saying that the worth of a man of sense was nothing when put beside an ensign in regimentals. Here was not a mere ensign but a captain, wounded heroically in the service of his country. His lack of uniform didn’t weaken his power.
Elinor hadn’t truly feared Sir Nicholas might ruin Amy, or that Amy would allow herself to be ruined, but a man like Captain Danvers might deprive her of all good sense. Their manner was not that of strangers.
Amy must have been meeting not Sir Nicholas but Captain Danvers in the past few days.
“You are just in time to assist us, Captain Danvers,” Amy was saying, with bold familiarity. “We need mistletoe. Lots of it.”
“I am entirely at your service, ladies.” He politely managed to address them all with especial recognition of Elinor. “Only point to the sprig you want, ma’am, and it will be yours.”
Elinor had to play her part. “You’re very kind, Captain. I’ll let the girls each pick one.”
Maria excitedly pointed to a high one, and the captain carried over the ladder. He climbed it and returned to p
resent the sprig to her with a bow. Maria giggled, entranced.
Then Margaret demanded an even higher one and he repeated the performance, leaving sensible Margaret blushing, also with stars in her eyes.
“Shouldn’t you also choose one, ma’am?”
Elinor started and turned to find Sir Nicholas close by. To her eyes his more sober manner and his neat Brutus haircut were more attractive than his brother’s dashing style.
“You look lost for words,” he said.
“I feel caught out ravaging your orchard, Sir Nicholas.” And what will you make of my daughter’s folly over your brother?
“I invited you to ravage my orchard, Mrs. Carsholt.” He glanced up. “Are you aware that you are stationed directly below a laden sprig of mistletoe?”
Elinor quickly stepped to the side. “I’m past the age for games like that, sir.”
She managed to speak lightly, but for a moment she’d wanted that kiss, hungered to be kissed by the most handsome, most admirable man she knew. Shocking, scandalous, but despite the impossible five years between them, she desperately wanted Sir Nicholas, as a woman wants a man she might marry.
“I thought you and your guests would have finished by now,” she blurted, hearing the ungraciousness of it.
“We have, but my brother insisted we needed more mistletoe. An excellent idea,” he added, smiling over at Amy.
Was he blind not to see the truth there?
Miss Jane Austen had urged them off to the orchard with legends of mistletoe kisses, abetting Amy and her gallant swain.
Elinor was feeling trapped in a fairy tale, like a grove in Midsummer Night’s Dream, but it was closer to a nightmare. Could the brothers come to blows over this?
“The gentlemen pinch off a berry every time they steal a kiss,” he said, “but you must know that.”
“Yes.”
“We must have some remaining for our Twelfth Night festivities. Can I persuade you to relax your mourning and attend them, Mrs. Carsholt? You and your daughters? There will be traditional games, and mummers from the village.”
“I think not.…”
“Life must go on, dear lady, especially for the younger ones. Amy should be reveling in youth.”
Elinor couldn’t make sense of anything. He was speaking fondly of Amy. Amy was entranced by Captain Danvers, but she’d just shot a look at Sir Nicholas that implied he was the most wonderful man in the world. She couldn’t be infatuated by both of them!
“You will not dance, I know,” he said, “but perhaps you would permit Amy to?”
Couldn’t he see his heart was going to be broken?
“And I would very much enjoy your company, Mrs. Carsholt. I have always enjoyed your company, and flattered myself that you enjoyed mine.”
He was looking at her in an intent way, a way she was suddenly afraid to interpret. In Midsummer’s Night’s Dream people were enchanted into idiocy.
Elinor looked away. “You’ve always been most kind, Sir Nicholas. To all of us.”
“To you. It’s been a difficult year for you, but it’s nearing its end. You will all attend my Twelfth Night party?”
Elinor looked back at him. “I … I don’t know.” It encompassed everything.
“I was speaking with Miss Jane Austen earlier,” he said, “and she told me of a mistletoe legend.”
“Yes, she told us, too.”
“Apparently it doesn’t work when the mistletoe is still attached to the tree. It must be cut and formed into a bough.”
“A kissing bough.”
“Do you intend to hang a mistletoe bough in Ivy Cottage?”
“The girls will insist on it.”
“May I stop by this evening? I forgot to bring the bottle of port wine I had selected for you.”
Did he mean …?
Elinor was blushing. She couldn’t control it, and suddenly didn’t want to. She’d run mad to read what she did into his words and manner, but it was a madness she’d cling to as long as possible.
“Of course.” But then she realized everything he’d said could apply to Amy, not herself. Of course that was what he meant. So what should she do?
“Mama, Mama!” Maria plucked at Elinor’s skirts. “Can we go home and start decorating the cottage?”
Escape. “Of course. We must have all our greenery hung tonight, including our kissing bough.” She dropped a curtsy and took a bold gamble. “I hope to see you this evening, Sir Nicholas. You will be very welcome.”
He bowed and joined his brother. Elinor watched him for too long, allowing herself to tell a fanciful story, but then gathered her daughters and headed home.
Captain Danvers hurried after, however, insisting that they’d need help to hang the evergreens. Once back at the cottage, Amy shared that task with him while Elinor helped Margaret and Maria tie up the mistletoe with ribbons. She put aside her anxieties and joined in the Christmas Eve excitement.
Captain Danvers hung the bough in the middle of the parlor ceiling and then stole a quick, light kiss from Margaret and Maria, pinching off a berry for each as they giggled. And then he did the same with Amy. It was quick and light, but afterward the two looked into each other’s eyes as if startled.
Elinor would not believe in mistletoe magic.
Captain Danvers turned and pulled Elinor beneath the kissing bough. If there was anything to the legend, she wasn’t in love with Captain Danvers. But she already knew that.
When he left, Elinor provided a quick supper and then shooed the younger girls upstairs to bed. Amy remained to help her tidy up, still lost in a daze.
When all was done, Amy asked, “Will I have to wear mourning for Twelfth Night, Mama? It will be so close to the end. I don’t want … But you understand!”
Elinor did. Come what may, it was time to face the future. “We’ll all put on our colors. Why be crows at the feast? But we’ll all have to spend some time on alterations, I fear.”
Amy hugged her. “Thank you, thank you, Mama! And … I think Sir Nicholas is the most wonderful man in the world!”
“Amy, you can’t mean that.”
Amy flushed red. “Well, no. But … I have hopes … Oh, you know what I mean.” She raced upstairs, doubtless to spin wondrous dreams. Elinor remembered what it felt like to be sixteen and in love, perhaps now more poignantly than ever. She returned to the parlor, looking up at the mistletoe bough, rapt in her own impossible dreams.
Men of rank and fortune didn’t marry penniless young women. Even less did they marry penniless old ones. But she wanted the impossible to be true.
It wasn’t a matter of wealth and station, though it would certainly be pleasant to be Lady Danvers of Danvers Hall. It was Nicholas himself. His kindness, his intelligence, his gentle humor. Everything, including his broad shoulders, vigor of movement, steady blue eyes, strong hands.
At a clench of physical longing, she moved to pace the room; Lord save her, she might be tempted on the road to ruin by such physical hungers. It had been so long.…
Mince pies. The small oven by the kitchen fire was ready. She would make the pies instead of sinking into lewd thoughts.
She was rolling out the pastry when someone knocked on the kitchen door, but Sir Nicholas opened it without waiting. At the sight of her, he grinned.
“Oh!” Elinor put her hands to her face, only then realizing that they were floury from the pastry. “Why did you have to come barging in here?”
“My deepest apologies,” he said, putting a bottle of port on the table.
She turned to the basin of water to wash her hands, then wet a corner of her apron and scrubbed at her face.
“Allow me,” he said, and turned her to gently dab at some spots. “Though flour becomes you, my dear Elinor.”
Surely there was no mistaking the look in his eyes. “I’m five years older than you,” she said.
“Port improves with age.”
“Are you comparing me to wine?”
“Shall I compare thee to a we
ll-aged port …” he misquoted. “Good wine has depth, and warmth, and gladdens the heart. As you gladden mine.” He took her hand and led her into the parlor. “A very pretty bough. Now to put mistletoe to the test.”
“Should we?” Elinor whispered, frightened that his kiss might feel no different to his brother’s.
“We should.” He drew her gently to him and put his lips to hers.
Warmth. A warmth greater than lips to lips, a warmth that spread gently through her, melting, softening. She looked at him and he looked at her, as lightning-struck as Amy and his brother.
Knowing.
There could be no doubt in that, or in the hunger that instantly ignited deep inside her. She pressed close again, opened her lips to him, savored him, sliding her arms around him in order to be even closer.
She pushed back, but stopped herself from turning it into a panicked rejection. She shook with panic of another sort. She’d never felt anything like this before.
“In my opinion,” he murmured, “Miss Jane Austen knows a thing or two about mistletoe.”
“And about love. I do love you, Nicholas Danvers. I don’t know how I didn’t realize it months ago.”
“I’ve known for months, but you seemed such a stickler for the proprieties. When you denounced Pride and Prejudice, I feared I had a hard fight ahead.”
She chuckled, moving back to rest against his chest, despite or because of all her wicked hungers. “By all rights and reasons, you should not marry me, you know, any more than Fitzwilliam Darcy should have married Elizabeth Bennet.”
“We’ll have no shoulds. The mistletoe has spoken.”
She melted perfectly into another kiss, as if they’d kissed a thousand times, his strong arms around her already familiar.
Amy crept to the parlor door, squeezed into her prettiest pink gown. It just fit if she didn’t breathe too deeply. It would fit perfectly by Twelfth Night with some inserts of lace.
She peered around the corner and smiled, hugging herself in delight.
Sir Nicholas Danvers was going to be the most wonderfully perfect father.
As for his brother … time would tell.
She crept back upstairs to dream.
JO BEVERLEY writes bestselling historical romance set in her native England. She was born and raised in the U.K. and has a degree in history from Keele University in Staffordshire, but she lived in Canada for thirty years. Now that she’s returned to England she enjoys doing even more on-the-spot research.
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