by Lauren Royal
So far the evening had gone even better than Chrystabel had hoped. To start, Lady Trentingham had insisted on leading a tour from room to room, exclaiming over the decorations to the point where Chrystabel had almost felt embarrassed. Halfway through the tour, Lord Trentingham had handed out goblets of wine, which had put them all in a merry mood as they’d traipsed from chamber to chamber.
Christmas spirit abounded. Everyone was dressed in their pre-Cromwell best. To complement her festive red gown, Chrystabel had added her favorites of the few jewels she owned: a small heart-shaped ruby ring, an enameled drop pendant with a single pearl, and matching single-pearl earbobs.
Joseph’s deep green brocade suit made his brilliant eyes look even greener. It was trimmed with gold braid, and with his glorious long hair loose and gleaming, he looked so delicious that the sight of him made Chrystabel’s mouth water. If only they could get their portrait painted, she imagined the two of them would make a perfect Christmas picture.
Arabel had found a necklace with tiny emeralds and seed pearls to wear with her green and silver gown, and Lady Trentingham was in gold again, having donned a second gold gown that was even fancier than the one she’d worn in the daytime. She wore two long strands of pearls, a beautiful cameo stomacher brooch, and amazing gem-encrusted earbobs that looked like swans. “I haven’t found an excuse to wear my jewels in ages,” she’d told Chrystabel. “Thank you, my dear girl!”
Creath had borrowed a lovely gown from Arabel. In white velvet with a split silver overskirt, she looked like a snow princess. Matthew couldn’t seem to keep his gaze off her, which Chrystabel took as a hopeful sign. She loved helping people, and nothing would make her happier than saving Creath from Sir Leonard by helping her wed Matthew instead. Creath seemed supportive, patient, and kind—she would make a wonderful mother for Matthew’s children, and Chrystabel looked forward to welcoming her as another sister.
A girl could never have enough sisters.
Excited chatter filled the dining room all the way up to the minstrel’s gallery, where Chrystabel had stationed the Cartwright brothers to play Christmas tunes. Supper was nearly over, and everyone had loved the Christmas pie with its turkey, chicken, bacon, and vegetables swimming in savory gravy. The fish cooked in wine and butter, the buttered cauliflower, and the cinnamon ginger artichoke hearts had been enjoyed to the last morsel. And they had all adored Joseph’s potato pudding, especially Matthew and Arabel, who, like Chrystabel, had never seen or even heard of potatoes before.
But through it all, Chrystabel had barely tasted a bite. Though she should have been exhausted after a long day of dashing about, instead she was exhilarated.
She’d finally been kissed!
And Joseph’s kisses had been divine. Sublime. Everything she had dreamed of and more.
It was unfortunate that he’d decided he was too much a gentleman to continue kissing her, but she had no doubt they’d be kissing again soon. The pull between them was too great. They so clearly belonged together, it was a wonder to her that everyone around the table couldn’t see it.
She couldn’t wait to give him her roses tomorrow. Surely those would prompt at least a few more kisses. And after that, if he felt half as in love as she did this evening, he wouldn’t countenance her leaving for Wales. Which meant the roses might also prompt a proposal.
Her heart soared at the thought.
“Chrys?” Arabel kicked her under the table. “Chrystabel, did you hear me?”
“Oh, my heavens. I’m sorry. I was daydreaming.” She dragged her thoughts from the man of her dreams and looked to her sister. “What did you say?”
“Is there something you want to tell us about the strawberry tart?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” While Chrystabel had been daydreaming, Mrs. Potter’s giant strawberry tart had been brought in. A footman was busy cutting it. “Since we haven’t any Christmas pudding, Joseph and I hid tokens in the tart. Please be careful not to swallow one, and do share what you find.”
“What a wonderful idea!” Her spoon poised over the slice that had been set before her, Lady Trentingham glanced at her son and then Chrystabel. “Thank you both.”
“It was Chrystabel’s idea,” Joseph said. “And one of the tokens is very small, so do take care.”
“Oh!” Arabel exclaimed. “I found”—she dug something out—“a wishbone!”
Chrystabel clapped her hands. “That means you’ll have luck in the coming year.”
“Strawberry tart in December feels lucky enough.” Arabel set the small wishbone aside. “But I suppose some luck in our new lives wouldn’t be amiss. I’m hoping Wales won’t feel too very different.”
“People are people,” Matthew said soothingly. “I’m sure we’ll get on with the Welsh just fine.”
If only he looked as confident as he sounded, Chrystabel might have believed him.
Lady Trentingham was the next to find a token. “A thimble!”
“A life of blessedness,” Arabel told her with a smile.
The countess nodded. “Quite fitting, I suppose, since I’m blessed indeed to still have a husband and four healthy children after the war.”
“And five grandchildren,” Creath reminded her, making Chrystabel realize how well the girl knew Joseph’s family.
“Yes, five grandchildren, too. And another on the way.” Lady Trentingham seemed perfectly content this evening. “I am truly blessed.”
“What is this?” Creath asked, plucking something from her tart. “A ring?”
“A sign of marriage, is it not?” Lord Trentingham looked pleased to have remembered the meaning.
Sympathy in her eyes, Arabel turned to Creath. “Not to Sir Leonard, let’s hope.”
“Not to Sir Leonard,” Joseph said firmly.
He appeared to be gritting his teeth.
“A silver penny!” Matthew said, holding it up.
Lady Trentingham smiled. “A fortune in the offing.”
“And heaven knows I could use a fortune these days.” Though her brother sounded light-hearted, Chrystabel feared she knew better. “Have any pirates sailed up the Severn lately?” he added. “Perhaps we should mount a treasure hunt.”
Everyone laughed except Chrystabel.
And in the end, she was the one who found the tiny anchor.
“What is that?” Lord Trentingham asked, squinting across the table to where she held it up.
“Half of a hook-and-eye fastener,” Joseph said, sounding amused.
“It’s meant to be an anchor,” she protested. “Symbolizing safe harbor.”
“I do wish you safe harbor, my dear,” Lady Trentingham said kindly.
Safe harbor, Chrystabel thought. Ever since spotting the Dragoons, she’d seemed to be floundering.
Would Joseph be her anchor?
Seventeen
THE YULE LOG burned merrily in the great room, its dancing flames adding joyful ambiance to the evening. The two musical brothers were readying their instruments. Chrystabel had asked for couches and chairs to be arranged in a half circle before the immense fireplace so everyone could see one another while they sang carols after supper. Joseph was impressed. She’d thought of everything.
Impressive. Yet another i word.
“Mulled wine,” Grosmont said before they’d even taken their seats. “We always have mulled wine on Christmas Eve. I cannot sing without mulled wine.” The fellow looked to his sister. “Please tell me we’re having mulled wine.”
Chrystabel gave a pert little shrug. “Isn’t it illegal?”
Grosmont’s expression fell. “But—”
“You goose,” she cut him off with a laugh, “of course we’re having mulled wine! How could we celebrate illegal secret Christmas without illegal mulled wine to accompany our illegal Christmas carols? They all go together so well!”
Everyone laughed along with her.
Except Joseph. He was too busy noticing how delightful Chrystabel was. How playful. As his mother kept saying, how r
efreshing.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Grosmont told her. “In this one instance only, I must commend you in your disobedient ways.”
“We call that questioning convention,” Mother informed him pleasantly. “Interroga Conformationem. Our family motto.”
“Well, that’s…unique.” Eyebrows raised, Grosmont nodded politely. “I believe I’m in favor of questioning convention, so long as it involves drinking lots of brandy.”
“Joseph and I made the mulled wine, and I fear we put in far too much brandy,” Chrystabel assured him. “Just wait till you taste it.” Moving closer to Joseph, she gave his arm a friendly squeeze. “He added two secret ingredients to make our mulled wine extra special.”
Meeting her gaze, Joseph wondered if his face gave away his feelings. Did she know that she made his blood race with just a touch? That he couldn’t stop thinking about their kisses in the cellar? Could she tell how much he wanted her?
She was beautiful and alluring, but he wanted her because of so much more than that. He wanted her because she was charming, surprising, and, yes, irresistible.
But the day after tomorrow, he was marrying Creath.
Wasn’t he?
For a moment, he allowed himself to consider other possibilities. What if he didn’t have to marry his friend to save her? What if his mother was right? What if they could send Creath to Wales while they helped her make a good match with another suitable gentleman?
It wasn’t as though he and Creath were in love. If he got her safely married and out of Sir Leonard’s reach, was that just as good as marrying her himself? Or maybe even better? Another gentleman might make her happier.
“Shall we sit?” Chrystabel prompted.
The musicians struck up a familiar tune, and everyone settled onto the couches and chairs, joining in the first verse of “Here We Come a-Wassailing.” Joseph seated himself between his parents—directly across the circle from Chrystabel—and a footman offered him a steaming mug of the mulled wine. The cup warmed his hands, and the sight of Chrystabel enjoying herself warmed his heart. All the voices raised in joyous song seemed to raise his spirits, too. His chest swelled with hope and faith that everything would turn out right.
It was Christmas, after all.
And somehow, despite his earlier protests, tonight he felt lucky and grateful to be celebrating. It would have been a shame to miss this. Being here among family and friends on this magical evening was a gift, and a tradition worth fighting for.
As he sang “Love and joy come to you, and to you your wassail too,” he wondered if he might have misjudged Chrystabel. Perhaps she wasn’t as irrational and irresponsible as he’d thought.
“This mulled wine is uncommonly good,” Lady Arabel said when the song ended. “You must tell us, Lord Tremayne—what are your secret ingredients?”
He couldn’t help flashing Chrystabel a triumphant smile. “Lemon and orange.”
“Are they imported from Spain?” Lady Arabel asked.
“I grow them in my conservatory.”
“When Joseph suggested the additions, I must own I had my doubts.” A gracious loser, Chrystabel inclined her head and smiled at him. “But he was right. The fruit complements the liquor and spices perfectly. Ours must be the only mulled wine with this flavor in all of history,” she declared grandly.
“And it’s delicious!” When Lady Arabel gulped more, she sloshed a bit down the front of her dress and giggled.
“And you weren’t jesting about the brandy,” Grosmont said pointedly, passing his youngest sister a handkerchief. He raised his cup to Chrystabel and Joseph. “My compliments.”
“Mine, too,” Mother put in. “The fruit is a brilliant innovation. How lucky I am to have such a talented son.”
“And I, to have such a talented…friend,” Creath finished weakly, making Joseph realize she’d been about to call him something else. Had she nearly said ‘betrothed’ in front of their guests? When her wide, worried eyes sought his, he sent her a reassuring smile, and she looked instantly at ease. As if, whatever happened, she trusted him to make it all right.
She always had. Three years younger than he, she’d looked up to him as an older brother and protector since they were children. When her family took ill last year, she’d run to him first and relied on him utterly. When her parents and little brother had slipped away, one by one, he’d held her as she cried and promised her he would always take care of her.
Looking at her innocent, vulnerable face now, guilt hit him like an arrow to the heart.
Puncturing all his fledging hopes and dreams and what-ifs.
Here was another what-if: What if he took an unnecessary risk with Creath’s future, and she paid the price? What if he broke their betrothal for selfish reasons, and she fell into Sir Leonard’s hands?
How could he have thought there might be other possibilities? There was just one possible way to ensure her safety, keep his promise, and do right by her. Of course anything less than that wouldn’t be good enough.
Anything less was impossible.
He drained his cup of mulled wine and held it out for a refill.
“What shall we sing next?” Chrystabel asked the circle.
“How about ‘Sir Christèmas’?” Lady Arabel suggested. “We always sing that while the flaming pudding is brought in.”
“That would just remind us we had to leave our Christmas pudding behind.” Chrystabel turned to the musicians. “Do you know ‘Joseph Dearest, Joseph Mine?’ It’s my favorite.”
Lady Arabel hiccuped. “Since when is it your fav—”
The music resumed, and they all began singing.
Joseph couldn’t help his gaze straying to Chrystabel. Couldn’t help noticing she was watching him, too. Couldn’t help wondering if she’d chosen the carol for him.
“Joseph dearest, Joseph mine,
Help me cradle my child divine…”
Oh, how he suddenly wished he could.
He’d always liked children and knew he would have his own someday, but he’d never felt a particular need for them. He’d never felt fatherhood was something missing from his life. But all at once, watching Chrystabel sing sweetly, he found himself wanting to cradle her child—their child—more than anything.
“Gladly, dear one, lady mine,
Help I cradle this child of thine…”
He couldn’t. He loved her, but he couldn’t.
He had to tell her he couldn’t.
But how could he?
Eighteen
“LADY CHRYSTABEL, you have outdone yourself!” The next morning, Lady Trentingham licked nutmeg and cinnamon off her lips. “A flawless Christmas Day breakfast. This panperdy could change a person's life.” She speared her last bite of the panperdy, fine manchet bread fried in eggs and spices. “I wouldn’t mind having you plan next year’s secret Christmas.”
Chrystabel wouldn’t mind, either. In fact, if her dream came true today, she’d begin planning next year’s secret Christmas immediately. She’d be happy to spend the rest of her life planning secret Christmases at Tremayne.
“Thank you for the kind words,” she told Lady Trentingham. “I’ve had so much fun that none of the planning seemed like work. Shall we repair to the great room now? I have one more surprise, and then Arabel and I have a few small gifts we’d like to bestow. To be followed by Christmas Day games, of course.”
“Oh, my heavens.” Lady Trentingham looked alarmed. “I didn’t know you were planning gifts. We normally exchange gifts on New Year’s Day.”
“As many families do, I know. But our family tradition is Christmas Day. I dearly hope you will accept our gifts in the spirit in which they’re intended. They’re very small, simply tokens of our appreciation. We’re exceedingly grateful to you and your family for hosting us the past few days.”
“I cannot even imagine what our Christmas would have been like on the road,” Arabel put in. “Spending the holiday here has been such a pleasure.”
“I
t’s been our pleasure,” Lady Trentingham said, rising to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I shall join you in the great room forthwith.”
When the rest of them entered the great room, the yule log was still burning, casting a merry glow to counteract the dull gray day outside the windows.
“Excellent job choosing the log,” Chrystabel told Matthew.
“I reckon it may still be burning when we leave tomorrow,” he said, sounding proud of a job well done but also somewhat dejected. When his gaze trailed to Creath, Chrystabel suspected he was already dreading saying goodbye.
That boded well. She still had most of a day to talk him into proposing to Creath. With any luck, there might be two betrothals before the day was out.
When Lady Trentingham joined them, taking the last remaining seat in the semicircle Chrystabel had arranged to face the great fireplace, the footmen were handing out goblets. The countess took one and sipped, then all but squealed with delight. “Warm chocolate! Such a treat!”
“My final surprise,” Chrystabel said. “Mrs. Potter kindly offered her little hoard of cocoa. We used every last bean, I’m afraid.”
“I cannot imagine a more fitting use for them.” The countess paused for another appreciative sip. “Thank you, my dear girl. We’ve been leading a very quiet life since the war ended, and you’ve brought such joy to us. To all of us.”
Was it Chrystabel’s imagination, or had Lady Trentingham looked to her son when she’d said to all of us? Joseph’s mother did seem to like her. Would she approve of their betrothal? Or maybe even…encourage it?
She could only hope. She thought she could come to love the countess nearly as much as she loved the countess’s son. When she imagined Joseph’s devoted mother becoming the mother she no longer had—barely ever had, really—she felt her heart swell with joy.
“This is for you, Lady Trentingham.” Chrystabel handed her a gaily wrapped package. “From Arabel and me. We made it especially for you.”
