by Lauren Royal
It took a few seconds for Chrystabel to find her voice.
“Oh, my God, Joseph! Oh, my God! I think he’s dead!”
“What? Did you say something?” Still halfway up the stairs, Joseph shook his head. “I can’t hear you. Did you say something?”
“I yelled something!” She was yelling now as she rushed toward him. “I said Sir Leonard is dead! What’s wrong with you?”
“My ears are ringing. They hurt.” He shook his head again, then clapped his hands over his ears with a grimace. “They feel all clogged up.”
She gasped when his fingers came away coated in blood. “Joseph!”
“The gun went off right by my head, Chrysanthemum, and now I cannot hear you!”
Twenty-Five
A month later
THE CHURCH OF St. Mary the Virgin was immediately adjacent to Tremayne Castle. A high, covered timber bridge linked the two buildings. The duke who built Tremayne had used the bridge to directly reach a church balcony that overlooked the sanctuary, so he could come and go and attend services without deigning to speak to any parishioners.
The duke didn’t sound like a nice man. Chrystabel thought maybe he’d deserved his beheading.
In any case, the bridge was long in disrepair, so the Ashcrofts and Trevors had walked out to the road and over to the church for the wedding on this fine, if cold, day. Since big church weddings were frowned upon by the Commonwealth government, there were only the seven of them attending and no parishioners to talk to, anyway.
As they weren’t really out in public, Chrystabel had decided to wear her new strand of pearls for her church wedding, together with a pre-Cromwell gown: a pale blue confection with silver scrollwork and seed pearls on the stomacher and underskirt. Joseph had gaped appreciatively when he saw she’d changed into it after this morning’s civil ceremony. Although they had already been declared man and wife by a Justice of the Peace, she didn’t feel married yet. She thought she might not feel married until after the wedding breakfast. She’d been planning the menu for weeks.
But this church service was taking so long that she feared half of the delicious meal might spoil before their families got to enjoy it.
The tall, majestic church had been built in stages over the last several centuries. It had a Norman doorway, a Gothic chancel, a Tudor bell tower, a soaring dark wood hammerbeam ceiling, and many beautiful, colorful stained glass windows. Standing before the intricately carved altar while the vicar read the interminable service, Chrystabel felt dwarfed in the enormous old building. But she couldn’t help smiling at the thought that she was getting married in the Church of St. Mary the Virgin when she wasn’t a virgin.
She was very much not a virgin now.
Down in the priest hole, when she’d told Joseph that his mother might be all right with them making love before marriage, she hadn’t really believed that. She’d just been trying to talk him into bedding her. But now she had to wonder, because either Lady Trentingham did question convention to that extent, or else the woman was completely oblivious.
Chrystabel had only had to seduce Joseph once.
After that, he’d taken over the seducing.
In the weeks since their betrothal, Joseph had made love to Chrystabel in his conservatory. He’d made love to Chrystabel in his bedchamber. He’d made love to her in her bedchamber, in the great room, in the library, and once in the kitchen when they’d sneaked down in the wee hours for a midnight snack.
That had ended up being a different kind of snack than the one Chrystabel had originally had in mind. A much better one.
It seemed they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. He was constantly surprising her, teaching her new and different ways to enjoy each other. Though at first she’d found herself wondering where he might have learned all the different ways, she was far too busy feeling blissful to bother herself about that—so she’d decided he was just an inventive lover. When she envisioned their future, full of exciting days and even more exciting nights, she felt like the luckiest woman in the world.
And she had a secret: She’d missed her monthly two weeks ago. She’d been waiting for their wedding night to tell Joseph, as a wedding present. She hoped he’d be as happy as she was—she couldn’t wait to hold their babe in her arms. And she knew she’d be a much better mother than her own mother. She felt it with a certainty that filled her with peace and gratitude. On the brink of motherhood herself, she knew she’d finally forgiven Mother in her heart.
After all, she’d learned how not to be a mother from her, and that was a priceless lesson.
Besides, she had a new mother now, a kind and nurturing one. This morning, when Lady Trentingham had requested she call her ‘Mother’ from now on, Chrystabel had felt a warm glow from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
After droning on for another twenty minutes, the vicar turned a page in his prayerbook and cleared his throat.
At last, Chrystabel thought. Her heart soaring, she squeezed Joseph’s hand as the vicar began chanting their vows.
“Joseph Ashcroft, The Right Honorable Viscount Tremayne, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?” He was a very soft-spoken man, which she found a bit worrisome. “Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
An expectant silence filled the church.
“Say that last part louder,” Chrystabel whispered.
“So long as ye both shall live?” the vicar repeated.
“Louder.”
“So long as ye both shall live?” he fairly yelled.
“I will,” Joseph said, his confident words finally booming through the magnificent arched sanctuary.
Along with everyone else, Chrystabel breathed a sigh of relief.
She’d recovered quickly from the shock and horror of seeing a man die—Sir Leonard had been a bad man, after all. But Joseph still hadn’t fully recovered his hearing. Chrystabel thought his ears would eventually heal, but over the last weeks she had assured him—very loudly and very often—that she would be just as thrilled to wed him hearing or deaf.
The soft-spoken vicar cleared his throat again and looked back down at his Book of Common Prayer. “Lady Chrystabel Trevor, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…”
Off to one side, Chrystabel’s brother and his new wife held hands, whispering their own vows surreptitiously. They hadn’t been able to have a church wedding, so it warmed her heart to see them pretending to have one today.
After their civil ceremony, they’d returned from Bristol toward the end of Christmas Day and been thunderstruck to find Sir Leonard dead.
“Do you want our marriage annulled?” Matthew had asked Creath solicitously. “It hasn’t been consummated yet, and now your odious cousin cannot come after you…”
Creath had burst into tears. Racking, heart-rending, inconsolable tears.
“You’re an idiot!” Chrystabel had railed at her brother.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Arabel had put in politely.
At Creath’s demand, their marriage had been consummated within the hour. Now they were living in her father’s mansion while they built a new house on her land. Given that it had taken nearly a year for the authorities to find and verify Sir Leonard as her father’s heir, they figured they had at least that much time before the next baronet came to claim Moore Manor.
Creath’s son wouldn’t inherit her father’s title, but eventually he’d inherit Matthew’s title instead. He’d be an earl instead of a baronet. She was fine with that.
Matthew made no secret of the fact that he was glad he hadn’t needed to move to Wales with his sisters. He also no longer had financial troubles, since his income from Grosmont in Wales plus Creath’s income from her own lands here had them well on their way to rebuilding the Trevor family fortune.
But that was n
ot why he had married Creath, of course. Anyone could see that he loved her.
If she had agreed to the annulment, he would have been devastated.
Arabel and Creath had become great friends, a convenient turn of events since they were now sharing a home. Arabel would naturally continue living under her brother’s roof until she found a husband. Or rather, until her matchmaking sister found a husband for her. At seventeen, Arabel was still in no hurry to wed, although, thanks to Chrystabel’s bliss and reassurance, she’d become a great deal less resistant to the idea. And in the meantime, she was happy she wasn’t in Wales and that she had her sister close by. As ever, Arabel was easy to please.
As she’d dreamed, Chrystabel would be living at Tremayne Castle when Joseph’s Tudor gardens bloomed in the summer. But she hadn’t dared to dream of being just a mile from her siblings. While they’d always treasure fond memories of their old life at Grosmont Grange, Chrystabel knew they’d make even better memories in their new homes. It was a fresh start for all three of them, and one they’d sorely needed.
“…so long as ye both shall live?” the vicar concluded expectantly.
In the hush that followed, Chrystabel drew a deep breath. “I will,” she pledged, her voice ringing clear and true through the sanctuary.
A few more words, a family heirloom ring slid onto her finger, and she was astonished to find she felt married, the new Viscountess Tremayne.
She felt married. Before the wedding breakfast.
It was, quite definitely, the most wonderful feeling ever.
When Joseph lowered his lips to meet hers, Arabel burst into applause. Chrystabel didn’t allow Joseph to kiss her for long, because they were in a church, after all. She wanted to get him alone so they could kiss properly—well, improperly—as husband and wife for the first time, but that would have to wait until they were back at Tremayne.
When he released her, she saw that Matthew and Creath had been kissing as well. And that Arabel was grinning at them like a lunatic, clearly overjoyed for both her siblings.
Chrystabel saw that Lady Trentingham—no, make that Mother—looked thrilled.
And that Lord Trentingham looked perplexed.
He’d been looking perplexed a lot lately.
“I still don’t understand,” he grumbled as they all walked back to Tremayne, looking forward to Chrystabel’s masterpiece of a wedding breakfast. “You all met just three days before Christmas. How can it be that four people fell in love so fast?”
Feeling happier than she’d thought possible, Chrystabel linked arms with her new father-in-law. “Obviously, it was a Christmas miracle.”
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
Oliver Cromwell is one of the most controversial figures in British history. Depending upon viewpoint, he’s been described as both a regicidal military dictator and a revolutionary hero of liberty. But few people today would support his decision to ban Christmas.
Following the execution of King Charles I in 1649, England was ruled by Parliament. Prior to the end of the English Civil War in September 1651, three months before this story starts, Cromwell had become the country's de facto leader. He was officially Lord Protector from 1653 until his death in 1658.
Cromwell and his fellow Puritans believed that everyone should lead their lives according to a strict interpretation of the Bible. They felt it was their mission to cleanse the country of decadence, and their decrees affected all aspects of society.
They believed that women and girls should dress in a “proper” manner. Dresses that were too colorful were frowned upon, and those that weren’t modest were banned outright. Makeup was banned: Puritan soldiers actually scrubbed off makeup seen on women in the streets. The theaters were all shut down. Most sports were banned. Swearing was punished by a fine for the first offense, and repeat offenders could be sent to prison.
But most controversial of all, the Puritans regarded Christmas as a wasteful, “popish” festival that threatened core Christian beliefs. Nowhere, they said, did the Bible claim God wanted Christ’s birthday celebrated—and so they set about banning all activities relating to Christmas, including going to church on Christmas Day. Shops and markets were ordered to stay open on December 25, and everyone was expected to go about the day as if Christmas didn’t exist.
The government outlawed every last remnant of Christmas merrymaking. Christmas carols were banned. Christmas puddings were banned. Christmas decorations were banned. In London, soldiers were ordered to patrol the streets and take, by force if necessary, any food being cooked for a Christmas celebration. The smell of a goose roasting could bring wrath down upon a family.
Like Chrystabel’s family, however, many people continued to celebrate in secret. And in not-so-secret, too, especially as the years of Cromwell’s Protectorate went on. Semi-clandestine religious services were held on Christmas Day, and the secular elements of the holiday occurred more and more often. On Christmas Day in 1656, Members of Parliament were unhappy because they’d got little sleep the previous night due to the noise of the neighbors’ “preparations for this foolish day,” and because that morning they had seen “not a shop open, nor a creature stirring” in London. Many writers anonymously argued in print that it was proper to celebrate Christmas and that the government had no right to interfere.
At the Restoration in 1661, when King Charles II returned to claim his throne and all legislation from 1642-60 was declared null and void, Christmas was celebrated with much joy and wide popular support. And it’s been that way ever since.
On a much less serious subject: The oldest mulled wine recipes do not have orange or lemon or any other fruit in them. But many modern mulled wine recipes do. I like to think that someone like Joseph might have first tried adding those ingredients!
Most of the homes in my books are modeled on real places you can visit. Tremayne Castle was inspired by Thornbury Castle in Gloucestershire, which is twelve miles from the city of Bristol, just where Joseph’s castle is in this story.
Thornbury Castle was built during the reign of Henry VIII, by Edward Stafford, 3rd Duke of Buckingham. But he didn’t get to finish it, and he wasn’t able to enjoy it for long. At the time, Buckingham was one of few peers with substantial Plantagenet blood, and he felt he should be in line for the throne. After a disgruntled servant betrayed him to the king, he was arrested for treason, tried, and executed on Tower Hill. King Henry claimed the castle for himself and spent ten days there while on his honeymoon tour with Anne Boleyn. It remained royal property until the death of his daughter Mary I, when it was returned to the duke’s descendants.
The beautiful Church of St. Mary the Virgin is next door to Thornbury Castle, and there used to be a timber bridge connecting them. Although the bridge itself is long since gone, bits of evidence remain.
Is there a priest hole at Thornbury? No one knows for sure, but there are rumors there’s one to be found—and several secret panels have been discovered at Thornbury, so it doesn’t seem terribly unlikely. On the south side of the castle, part of the outer wall extends in a U-shape that’s divided down the middle into two rooms. Curiously, one room is larger than the other, and the suspicion is that there may be a priest hole in the blocked-off space. Thornbury also has a tunnel that starts by the former dungeon (now the wine cellar), runs beneath the courtyard, and comes up by the old castle well.
Thornbury Castle is now a luxurious hotel. Castle accommodations aren’t ever inexpensive, but Thornbury’s prices are more reasonable than most. If you’ve ever dreamed of staying at a castle, I highly recommend this one. It is absolutely gorgeous inside, and you might get to stay in Chrystabel’s bedroom with the curved oriel windows like I did!
I hope you enjoyed A Secret Christmas! I love sharing free and 99¢ book recommendations with my readers, as well as notifications of my new releases. Click here to sign up for my email newsletter.
Next up is Never Doubt a Viscount, the first of three books about Chrystabel and Joseph
’s daughters. Happy reading!
Always,
Never Doubt a Viscount
For Ken Royal
Mom calls you the perfect son,
but I think you’re the perfect brother.
Thanks for always being there for me!
One
England
July 15, 1673
ST. SWITHIN’S DAY. Well, it was fitting.
Viscount Lakefield stared out his carriage window at the miserable, wet landscape. According to St. Swithin’s legend, if it rained on the fifteenth of July, it would continue for forty days and nights. Normally not a man given to superstition, today Ford Chase found such nonsense plausible.
This was shaping up to be the worst day of his life.
The carriage rattled over the drawbridge and into the modest courtyard of Greystone, his older brother’s small castle. Cold raindrops pelted Ford’s head when he shoved open the door and leapt to the circular drive. Drenched gravel crunching beneath his boots, he made his way down a short, covered passageway and banged the knocker on the unassuming oak door.
Benchley cracked open the door, then slipped outside and shut it behind him. “My lord, what brings you here today?”
“I wish to speak with my brother.” Ford frowned down at the small, wiry valet. What was he doing answering the door? “Will you be letting me in?”
“I think not.” Benchley lifted his beak of a nose. “I’ll fetch Lord Greystone.” And with that, he disappeared back into the ancient castle.
