Under the Mistletoe

by Mary Balogh

  “You were doing quite well a few minutes ago,” he said.

  There were tears in her eyes. “His is so thin,” she said. “And he was so frightened. Thank you for being gentle with him, Allan. He did not expect you to be.”

  “I would not imagine he knows a great deal about gentleness or kindness,” he said.

  “He should not be working,” she said. “He should be playing. He should be carefree.”

  He smiled. “Children cannot play all the time,” he said. “Even children of our class have their lessons to do. Mrs. Ainsford will not overwork him. If you fear it, you must have a word with her tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I will. How old do you think he is, Allan? He did not know when I asked him.”

  “I think a little older than he looks,” he said. “I will see what I can do, Estelle. I need to make a few inquiries.”

  Her face brightened. She smiled up at him. “For Nicky?” she said. “You will do something for him? Will you, Allan?”

  He nodded and touched her cheek lightly with his knuckles as he had touched the child’s a few minutes before. “Good night,” he said softly, before taking one of the candles and going into his own dressing room.

  He shut the door quietly behind him.

  Estelle looked at the closed door before beginning to undress herself rather than summon her maid from sleep. She wished fleetingly that she had apologized for calling him a marble statue. He was not. He did have feelings. They had shown in his dealings with Nicky. But what was the point of apologizing? If she could not call him that in all truth, there were a hundred other nasty things she would call him when next he angered her. And his own words and suspicions were unpardonable.

  She climbed into bed ten minutes later and tried not to think of the night before. Soon enough she would have to accustom herself to doing without altogether. She needed to sleep anyway. It was very late.

  But even before she had found a totally comfortable position in which to lie and quieted her mind for sleep, the door of her dressing room opened and closed and she knew that after all she was not to be alone. Not for a while anyway.

  And as soon as he climbed into the bed beside her and touched her face with one hand so that his mouth could find hers in the darkness, she knew that he had not come to her in anger. She put one arm about his strongly muscled chest and opened her mouth to his seeking tongue.

  During the week before their guests began to arrive and the Christmas celebrations could begin in earnest, Estelle kept herself happily busy with preparations. Not that there was a great deal for her to do beyond a little extra shopping. She was not the one who cleaned the house from top to bottom or warmed the extra bedrooms and changed their bed linen and generally readied them for the reception of their temporary occupants. She was not the one who would cook and bake all the mounds of extra food.

  But she did confer with Mrs. Ainsford about the allocation of rooms and with the cook on the organization of meals. And she insisted, the day before her parents were to arrive, and her husband’s mother, and a few of the other relatives, on decorating the drawing room herself with mounds of holly and crepe streamers and bows and a bunch of mistletoe.

  The earl was called in to help, and it was generally he who was having to risk having all his fingers pricked to the bone, he complained, handling the holly and placing it and re-placing it while Estelle stood in the middle of the room, one finger to her chin, directing its exact placement.

  But there was not a great deal of rancor in his complaints. There had been no more quarrels since the night of the concert. And Estelle seemed to be happy to be at home, aglow with the anticipation of Christmas. She smiled at him frequently. And he basked in her smiles, pretending to himself that it was he and not the festive season that had aroused them.

  “Oh, poor Allan,” she said with a laugh after one particularly loud exclamation of protest as he pricked his finger on a holly leaf. “Do you think you will survive? I will kiss it better if you come over here.”

  “I am being a martyr in a good cause,” he said, not looking over his shoulder to note her blush as she realized what she had said.

  The mistletoe had to be moved three times before it was in a place that satisfied her. Not over the doorway, she decided on second thought, or everyone would get mortally tired of kissing everyone else, and Allan’s cousin Alma, who was seventeen, with all the giddiness of her age, would be forever in and out of the room. And not over the pianoforte, or only the musical people would ever be kissed.

  “This is just right,” she said, standing beneath its final resting place to one side of the fireplace. “Perfect.” She smiled at her husband, and he half smiled back, his hands clasped behind his back. But he did not kiss her.

  She made some excuse to see Nicky every day. Mrs. Ainsford would despair of ever training him to be a proper servant, the earl warned her at breakfast one morning when the child had come into the room to bring him his paper, if she persisted in putting her arm about his shoulders whenever he appeared, whispering into his ear, and kissing him on the cheek. And the poor housekeeper would doubtless have an apoplexy if she knew that her mistress was taking a cup of chocolate to the child’s room each night after he was in bed.

  But he did not forbid her to do either of those things. For entirely selfish reasons, he admitted to himself. Estelle was happy with the child in the house, and somehow her happiness extended to him, as if he were solely responsible for saving the little climbing boy from a life of drudgery. She smiled at him; her eyes shone at him; she gave him tenderness as well as passion at night.

  The Earl of Lisle was not entirely idle as far as his new servant was concerned, though. He had learned during his interview with the chimney sweep, of course, that Nicky was no orphan, but that there was a mother at least and perhaps a father, and probably also some brothers and sisters somewhere in the slums of London. The mother had paid to have the boy apprenticed. The sweep had shrugged when questioned on that point. Someone had probably given her the money. He did not know who, and why should he care?

  The mother had not come to protest the ending of the apprenticeship.

  Neither had anyone else. His lordship had not tried to penetrate the mystery further. He had decided not to question the child, not to confront him with his lie. Not that first lie, anyway. But the second?

  Had Estelle really believed that the boy had been in search of a drink and had gotten lost? Yes, doubtless she had. She had seen only a thin and weeping orphan, alone in the dark.

  The earl had still not done anything about the matter five days after the incident. But on the fifth day he entered his study in the middle of the morning to find Nicky close to his desk, his eyes wide and startled.

  “Good morning, Nicky,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  “I brought the post,” the boy said in his piping voice, indicating the small pile on the desk and making his way to the door.

  Lord Lisle did not stand aside. His eyes scanned the desktop. His hands were behind his back. “Where is it, Nicky?” he asked eventually.

  “What?” The eyes looked innocently back into his.

  “The top of the inkwell,” the earl said. “The silver top.” He held out one hand palm-up.

  The child looked at the hand and up into the steady eyes of his master.

  He lifted one closed fist slowly and set the missing top in the earl’s outstretched hand. “I was just lookin’ at it,” he said.

  “And clutched it in your hand when I came in?”

  “I was scared,” the child said, and dropped his head on his chest. He began to cry.

  Lord Lisle strolled over to his desk, and sat in the chair behind it.

  “Come here, Nicky,” he said.

  The boy came and stood before the desk. His sobs were painful to hear.

  “Here,” the earl directed. “Come and stand in front of me.”

  The child came.

  The earl held out a handkerchief. “Dry
your eyes and blow your nose,” he said. “And no more crying. Do you understand me? Men do not cry-except under very exceptional circumstances.”

  The boy obeyed.

  “Now,” the earl said, taking the crumpled handkerchief and laying it on one corner of the desk, “look at me, Nicky.” The boy lifted his eyes to his master’s chin. “I want you to tell me the truth. It must be the truth, if you please. You meant to take the inkwell top?”

  “I didn’t think you’d miss it,” the boy said after a pause.

  “Have you taken anything else since you have been here?”

  “No.” Nicky lifted his eyes imploringly to the earl’s and shook his head. “I ain’t took nothin’ else.”

  “But you meant to a few nights ago when we found you outside this door?”

  His lordship’s eyes advised the truth. Nicky hung his head. “Nothin’ big,” he said. “Nothin’ you’d miss.”

  “What do you do with what you steal, Nicky?” the earl asked.

  “I ain’t never stole nothin’ before,” the child whispered.

  A firm hand came beneath his chin and lifted it.

  “What do you do with what you steal, Nicky?”

  The boy swallowed against the strong hand. “Sell it,” he said.

  “You must have a lot of money hidden away somewhere then,” the earl said. “In that little bundle of yours, perhaps?”

  Nicky shook his head. “I ain’t got no money,” he said.

  The earl looked into the frightened eyes and frowned. “The man you sell to,” he said, “is he the same man who apprenticed you to the sweep?”

  The eyes grew rounder. The child nodded.

  “Who gets the money?” the earl asked.

  There was no answer for a while. “Someone,” the boy whispered eventually.

  “Your mother, Nicky?”

  “Maw’s dead,” the boy said quickly. “I was in the orphanage.”

  The earl’s tone was persistent, though not ungentle. “Your mother, Nicky?” he asked again.

  The eyes, which were too old for the face, looked back into his. “Paw left,” the child said. “Maw ’ad me an’ Elsie to feed. ’E said we would all ’ave plenty if I done it.”

  The earl removed his hand from the child’s chin at last. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers against his mouth. The boy stood before him, his head hanging low, one foot scuffing rhythmically against the carpet.

  “Nicky,” Lord Lisle said at last, “I will need to know this man’s name and where he may be found.”

  The boy shook his head slowly.

  The earl sighed. “Your mother’s direction, then,” he said. “She will perhaps be worried about you. I will need to communicate with her. You will tell me where she may be found. Not now. A little later, perhaps. I want to ask you something. Will you look at me?”

  Nicky did so at last.

  “Do you like her ladyship?” the earl asked.

  The child nodded. And since some words seemed to be required of him in response, he said, “She’s pretty.” And when his master still did not say anything, “She smells pretty.”

  “Would you want her to know that I found you with the silver top in your hand?” the earl asked.

  The child shook his head.

  “Neither would I,” the earl said. “We are in entire agreement on that.

  What do you think she would do if she knew?”

  Nicky swallowed. “She would cry,” he said.

  “Yes, she would,” the earl agreed gently. “Very hard and very bitterly.

  She will not be told about this, Nicky. But if it happens again, perhaps she would have to know. Perhaps she would be the one to discover you. I don’t want that to happen. Her ladyship is more important to me that anyone or anything else in this life. Do you know what a promise is?”

  The child nodded.

  “Do you keep your promises?”

  Another nod.

  “Are you able to look me in the eye and promise me that you will never steal again, no matter how small the object and no matter how little it will be missed?” Lord Lisle looked gravely and steadily back into the child’s eyes when he looked up.

  Another nod.

  “In words, Nicky, if you please.”

  “Yes, guv’nor,” he whispered.

  “Good man. You may leave now.” But before the child could turn to go, the earl set a hand on his head and shook it slightly. “I am not angry with you,” he said. “And you must remember that we are now in a conspiracy together to make her ladyship happy.”

  He removed his hand, and the child whisked himself from the room without further ado. Lord Lisle stared at the door for a long while.

  Estelle was not entirely pleased with the ring when she returned to the jeweler’s to fetch it. It was very beautiful, of course, but she did not think she would have called it the Star of Bethlehem if this had been the one Allan had put on her finger. The diamond no longer looked like a star in a night sky. She did not know why. It was surely no larger or no smaller than the other had been, and yet it looked more prominent. It did not nestle among the sapphires.

  But no matter. She had not expected it to look the same, anyway. There could be no real substitute for the original ring. This one would serve its purpose-perhaps. She took it home and packed it away with the rest of her gifts.

  The following day the guests would begin to arrive. She would see her parents for the first time in six months. She had missed them. And everyone else would be coming, too, either on the same day or within the few days following. And Christmas would begin.

  She was going to enjoy it more than any other Christmas in her life. It might be her last with Allan. The last during which they would be truly husband and wife, anyway. And though panic grabbed at her stomach when she thought of what must happen when the holiday was over and Mama and Papa began to talk about returning home, she would not think of that.

  She wanted a Christmas to remember.

  The Earl of Lisle was no better pleased with his ring. He knew as soon as he saw it that the original must have had nine sapphires. The arrangement of eight just did not look right. They did not look like a night sky with a single star shining from it.

  But it did not matter. Nothing could look quite like the Star of Bethlehem, and this ring was lovely. Perhaps she would know that it was not meant to be a substitute, but something wholly new. Perhaps. He wrapped the little velvet box and carried it about with him wherever he went.

  Nicky, in the meanwhile, was feeling somewhat uncomfortable, for several reasons. There was the whole question, for example, of what Mags would do with him if he could get his hands about his throat. And what his new master would do with him if he caught him thieving again. Nicky had the uncomfortable feeling that it would not be a whipping, which would be easy to bear. The governor would force him to look into his eyes for a start, and that would be worse than a beating. He was proving to be not such a soft touch after all.

  Then, of course, there was his mother. And Elsie. Were they starving?

  Was Mags bothering them? He knew what Mags did to help girls to a living. But Elsie was not old enough yet. Nicky did not know what he would do, short of abandoning his family to their fate. Nothing had been said about any money in this new position of his. Plenty of clothes and food, yes, and very light work.But no money.

  There was, of course, the shiny shilling the lady had given him the first night she came to him with a cup of chocolate. Nicky had never seen so much money all at once. But he couldn’t give that to his mother.

  He needed it for something else.

  And that brought him to the nastiest problem of all. That ring and that diamond almost burned a hole in his stomach every day, pressed between the band of his breeches and his skin as they always were. He couldn’t sell them to Mags now. It would seem like breaking his promise, though the things were already stolen when he had been forced to look into his master’s eyes and make the promise, and though he
had never thought of keeping a promise before.

  And he couldn’t put them back in the lady’s room, though he had thought of doing so. Because she would tell the governor and he would know the truth. He was a real sharper, he was. And he would not whip or even scold. He would look with those eyes. He might even put a hand on his head again and make him squirm with guilt.

  There was only one thing he could think of doing. And that would mean leaving his room again during the night, and the house, after the lady had brought him his chocolate and kissed him and allowed him to breathe in the scent of her. And the governor might catch him and look at him.

  And the stupid clothes he would be forced to wear would draw ruffians like bees to a honey pot. And Ned Chandler might refuse to help him at the end of it all and might not believe where he had got the things and what he meant to do with them.

  Nicky sighed. Sometimes life was very hard. Sometimes he wished he were all grown up already so that he would know without any difficulty at all what was what. And he was getting used to a warm and comfortable bed and to a full night’s sleep. He did not particularly want to be prancing about the meaner streets of London at an hour when no one would ever hear of him again if he were nabbed.

  Ned Chandler had been a jeweler of sorts at one time. He still had the tools of his trade and still mended trinkets for anyone who came to ask and dropped a few coins his way. Nicky, as a very small child, had often crept into the man’s hovel and sat cross-legged and openmouthed on the floor watching him when he was busy.

  It was doubtful that Chandler had ever held in his hands a gold ring of such quality set with nine sapphires of such dark luster, and a diamond that must be worth a fortune in itself.

  “Where did you get these ’ere, lad?” he asked in the middle of one particular night, not at all pleased at having been dragged from his slumbers and his two serviceable blankets. He held the ring in one hand, the diamond in the other.”

  “It belongs to my guv’nor’s missus,” the child said. “I’m ’avin’ it mended for ’er. She sent me. She sent me a shillin’.”