by Mary Balogh
Veronica was sitting cross-legged on the stone floor, smoothing the cat’s fur.
He could not quite believe that this was himself. Himself up a tree, balanced precariously on a branch, feeling hot and disheveled and dusty.
His boots, he was sure, though he did not look down at them, must be in a condition to give his valet heart palpitations. Below him Miss Craggs stood with arms partly spread as if to catch him if he fell, Deborah had her hands to her mouth and was alternately squealing and giggling, and Veronica was gazing gravely upward.
“Miss Craggs believes that in addition to all the holly we have gathered and all the pine boughs we have cut down we need some mistletoe,” he had said to his daughter a short while before. “What do you think, Veronica?
Do we need mistletoe?”
“Yes, please, Papa,” she had said.
And Deborah had giggled-she had started giggling during their morning visits and had scarcely stopped since-and had added her voice to everyone else’s. It just would not be Christmas, it seemed, unless there was some mistletoe hanging in strategic places so that one might be caught beneath it accidentally on purpose.
She here he was up a tree.
And then down with a sizable armful of mistletoe and a tear on the back of one kid glove and a scrape so deep on the inside of his left boot that it would never be the same again.
And all in the name of Christmas.
“Do you know why I have risked life and limb just to gather this?” he asked Veronica, frowning.
“Because Miss Jane wanted it?” she asked.
Jane. He might have guessed that she would have such a name. And yet it suited her. It was quietly, discreetly pretty.
“Not at all,” he said. “This is what it is used for.” He held one sprig above the absurd hat, which Nancy had doubtless thought suitably flamboyant for the daughter of an actress, stooped down, and kissed her soft, cold little cheek. And took himself quite by surprise. Now why had he done that?
“Any gentleman has the right to kiss any lady he catches beneath the mistletoe,” he said, “without fear of having his face slapped. It is a Christmas custom. You see?” And he straightened up and repeated the action with Deborah, who giggled. “Now we have to carry all this greenery back to the house.”
“What about Miss Jane?” a grave little voice asked him.
And he knew he was caught. Caught in the act of maneuvering. For when he had demonstrated the use of mistletoe on his daughter and his niece, he had really wanted to use Miss Craggs as his model. Even though she was prim and gray and every inch the schoolteacher.Though that was not the whole truth this afternoon. Since they had left the house there had been a light in her eyes that had touched him. She was enjoying all this just like a child.
“Oh, it works with Miss Craggs, too,” he said, turning to her and raising his sprig of mistletoe again. And he felt suddenly and stupidly breathless. She was standing very still and wide-eyed.
He kissed her lightly and briefly, as he had kissed the other two.
Except that foolishly he kissed her on the lips. And ended up feeling even hotter than his excursion up the tree had made him.
She turned hurriedly away before their eyes could meet and began energetically arranging the heap of holly they had gathered into three bundles.
“Here, Veronica,” he said, “you may carry the mistletoe, since it will not prick you all to pieces. Deborah, take that bundle of holly. I’ll take this one.”
His hand brushed Miss Craggs’s as he gathered up the largest bundle and belatedly their eyes met. Her own were still large and bright. Brighter.
Was it the cold that had brought the tears there? Or was it the kiss?
Surely she had been kissed before. Surely that had not been her first kiss.
Had it? Once again he wondered about her past, about her life.
Impoverished parents and the need to go out and make her own living? But she had not been planning to go home for Christmas.
“I will send someone back with a wagon for the pine boughs,” he said.
“ ‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly,’ ” Deborah sang suddenly with loud enthusiasm and no musical talent whatsoever.
“ ‘Fa la la la la la la la la,’ ” Miss Craggs sang with her in a rather lovely contralto voice.
“ ‘Tis the season to be jolly.’ ” He joined his tenor voice to their singing and looked down at Veronica.
“ ‘Fa la la la la la la la la.’ ” She piped up with them, off-key.
“ ‘Don we now our gay apparel.’ ” Three of them sang out lustily while the fourth continued with the fa-la-las.
And the damned thing was, Viscount Buckley thought, that it could grab at one quite unawares. Christmas, that was.
Jane had never been very assertive, even as a teacher. She had never been the type who liked to boss and organize people. And yet over the next couple of days she seemed to be transformed into a wholly different person.
It was she who directed the decorating of the house-of drawing room, staircase, and hall. The viscount had suggested that the servants could do it, but she had exclaimed in horror and disappointment before she could stop herself, and he had meekly agreed that perhaps they could do it themselves, the four of them.
“But I have no eye for design, Miss Craggs,” he had told her. “You will have to tell us what you want.”
And she had told them. She stood in the middle of the drawing room giving orders like a sergeant with a company of soldiers. Boughs and sprigs and wreaths were hung exactly where and exactly how she directed, and if she did not like the look of them when the deed was done, then she directed their replacement. And everyone obeyed, even the viscount, who was given all the climbing to do. He balanced on chairs and tables and ladders in his shirtsleeves, decking out pictures and mirrors and door frames while she stood critically below him, head to one side, examining the effects of his handiwork and criticizing any slight error on his part.
She felt so happy by the time they were finished that she thought she might well burst with it. She was surrounded by Christmas-by the sights and smells of it. She could smell the pine boughs, and there were interesting smells wafting up from the kitchens. Particularly the smell of Christmas puddings.
“Oh, it is so very beautiful,” she said, her hands clasped to her bosom when they were all finished and were all standing admiring their efforts. “If only we had some ribbons for bows.”
“Oh, yes,” Deborah said. “Red ones and green ones.”
Viscount Buckley sighed. “Ribbons and bows,” he said. “And bells, too, I suppose? Doubtless you will find what you need in the village, Miss Craggs. Go there if you must and purchase whatever you need and have the bill sent to me.”
“Oh.” She turned to him with glowing eyes. “May I? Oh, thank you, my lord.”
He looked at her and made her a little mocking bow. And she remembered the earth-shattering feeling of his lips touching hers and wondered if he realized what an enormous treasure this Christmas was going to be to her in memory. The most precious treasure of her life.
Veronica was tugging at her skirt. “May I come too, Miss Jane?” she asked.
“Of course, sweetheart,” she said, hearing in some surprise the unexpected endearment she had used. “I will need you to help me choose.”
“And I will come too, Craggs,” Deborah said. But she flushed suddenly and added, “Miss Craggs.” And then she extended both arms and twirled into the steps of a waltz. “Uncle Warren,” she said, “do you think we may dance on Christmas Day?”
Deborah had completely changed since the visits she had paid with her uncle during the morning. She had come rushing into the house on their return home to announce to Jane that she was to have a party of her very own on Christmas Day. Fifteen young people were to come during the afternoon for walks and games and were to stay for the evening while their parents-and her uncle-engaged in an adult party at the home of the Oxendens. Even the seventeen-year-old and very dashing George
Oxenden had decided to come to Cosway, though his parents had agreed to allow him to attend the adult party if he wished.
Jane saw the viscount grimace. “A dance?” he said. “And who is to provide the music, pray?”
But Deborah made it instantly clear that the idea had not come to her on the spur of the moment. “Mr. George Oxenden told me that his aunt plays the pianoforte rather well,” she said, “and that she would be only too pleased to be with the young people rather than with the adults on Christmas Day.”
Her uncle looked skeptical. “I will have to see what can be arranged,” he said.
“Oh, thank you, Uncle Warren,” she said, darting back across the room to hug him. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever, after all, I just know it.”
The viscount raised his eyebrows and looked at Jane.
Jane could only agree with his niece.
But there was work to be done. The village shop had to be visited and yards of the widest, brightest ribbon to be chosen and measured. Jane felt guilty when she was told the total cost, but she did not change her purchases. Viscount Buckley was a wealthy man, was he not? When Veronica gazed admiringly and rather longingly at some porcelain bells, she even added three to her purchases, a dreadful extravagance. But they would look lovely hanging from the holly on the mantel in the drawing room.
And then she discovered during a visit to the kitchen that the servants were murmuring over the fact that there was to be no Yule log. The head gardener was only too delighted to go in search of the largest one he could find when Jane insisted that they must have one. A Yule log! She had not even thought of it. She knew so little about Christmas.
During the same visit she learned that one of the grooms was skilled with his hands and loved to whittle on wood whenever he had a few spare moments. When Jane admired a spoon he was carving for his girl in the village, he offered to carve a small crib for the drawing room. And that other detail of her dream returned to Jane. Time was short, but the groom agreed to try to carve a baby Jesus to go inside the crib, and a Mary and Joseph to kneel beside it, and perhaps even a shepherd or two and an animal or two to worship and adore.
The decorations would be complete, Jane decided, standing alone in the drawing room after the ribbons and bells had been added to all the greenery, if only there could be a Nativity scene in the window.
Oh, Christmas would be complete. She twirled around and around rather as Deborah had done and thought of the little bonnet and muff for Veronica and the small bottle of perfume for Deborah she had had set aside in the village shop as Christmas gifts. They would take all the meager hoard of money in her purse, but she could not resist. She had never bought Christmas presents before. She had nothing for Viscount Buckley, but it would be inappropriate anyway to give a gentleman a gift.
For Deborah’s sake she was going to make this a wonderful Christmas. And for Veronica’s sake. Veronica was quietly obedient, but Jane knew that the child was still hiding inside herself. And she knew from long experience how that felt. She was going to do her very best to see that Christmas brought the child out of herself again, even if it was only to a realization of her grief and her insecurity. At least then she could be properly comforted.
If there could be any meaningful comfort. Jane stopped twirling. Her heart chilled to the memory of the viscount’s asking how he was to find his daughter a good home. He intended to send the child away again to be cared for by strangers. They would be strangers, no matter how kindly they might be.
Oh, for the viscount’s sake, too, this must be a wonderful Christmas. He must be made to see that love was everything, that family was everything. Why could people who had always had family not see that? Why could he not see that his daughter was his most priceless possession?
And for her own sake she was going to see that this Christmas was celebrated to the limit. It was her first and might well be her last. It was going to be a Christmas to remember for a lifetime.
Yes, it was. Oh, yes, indeed it was.
She twirled again.
Christmas Eve dawned gray and gloomy, and Viscount Buckley, surrounded by all the foolish sights of Christmas, his nostrils assailed by all the smells of it, felt his irritation return. Because she-Miss Jane Craggs, the tyrant-had persuaded him into the madness of allowing a party for young people to take place in his home tomorrow, he had been faced with the necessity of absenting himself from that home. And so he was facing the unspeakable monotony of a Christmas gathering at the Oxendens’. He was being forced to enjoy himself.
Well, it could not be done. Just look at the weather. He did just that, standing at the window of his bedchamber, gazing out at raw, cheerless December.
But one hour later he felt foolish. How was it he had recognized none of the signs when they had been as plain as the nose on his face? For of course the grayness and the gloom were harbingers of snow, and before the morning was even half over, it was falling so thickly that he could scarcely see six feet beyond the window. And it was settling too, just like a white blanket being spread.
Good Lord, snow! He could not remember when it had last fallen at Christmastime. Certainly not the year Elise had humiliated him and broken his foolish young heart. It had been raining that year and blowing a gale. Typical British winter weather. This was not typical at all. He wondered if Veronica had seen the snow, and was halfway up the stairs to the nursery before he realized how strange it was that he had thought of sharing the sight of snow with a child. But he continued on his way.
They were all in there, Veronica and Deborah kneeling on the window seat, their noses pressed against the glass, Miss Craggs standing behind them.
“Look, my lord.” She was the only one who had glanced back to see who was coming through the door. “Snow. We are going to have a white Christmas. Can you conceive of anything more wonderful?”
Sometime before she returned to Miss Phillpotts’s school he was going to have to sit down and have a good talk with Miss Jane Craggs. There was something deep inside the woman that could occasionally break through to her face and make her almost incredibly beautiful. She was beautiful now, flushed and wide-eyed and animated. And all over the fact that it was snowing for Christmas.
He found himself wondering quite inappropriately what her face would look like as he was making love to her. Totally inappropriately! He had a mistress waiting for him in London with whose services he was more than satisfied. He had had her for only two months. He had not even begun to tire of her yet.
“I am trying,” he said in belated answer to her question. “And at the moment I can think of nothing.”
She smiled at him and his heart and his stomach danced a pas de deux.
Good Lord, he wanted her, the gray and prim Miss Craggs.
“Look, Papa,” his daughter was saying. “Look at the trees. They are magic.”
He strolled over to the window and stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Jane Craggs, looking out on a Christmas wonderland.
“And so they are,” he said, setting his hand on the child’s soft curls.
“I have just had a thought. There used to be sleds when I was a boy. I wonder what happened to them.”
“Sleds?” Deborah turned her attention to him, “Oh, Uncle Warren, could we go sledding tomorrow. A sledding party. Do you think so? How many are there?”
“Wait a minute,” he said, holding up one hand. “I am not even sure they still exist. I suppose you are going to insist that I get on my greatcoat and my topboots and wade out to the stables without further delay.”
Yes. Three pairs of eyes confirmed him in his suspicions. And then three voices informed him that they were coming with him, and Jane Craggs was bundling Veronica inside her coat and winding her inside her scarf and burying her beneath her hat while Deborah darted out to don her own outdoor clothes.
“I knew,” Miss Craggs said, looking up at him with a face that was still beautiful, “that this was going to be a perfect Christmas. I just knew it.”
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How could it be perfect for her, he wondered, when she had been brought here merely as a glorified servant to chaperon a sullen girl and then had been saddled with the responsibility of caring for an illegitimate child, whose presence in the house might well have offended her sensibilities? How could it be perfect when she was away from her own family?
But there was that light in her eyes and that beauty in her face, and he knew that she was not lying.
And he knew suddenly that for the first time in many yeas there was hope in him. The hope that somehow she might be right, that somehow this might be the perfect Christmas.
That somehow the magic might come back.
There were four sleds, three of them somewhat dilapidated. But he was assured that by the morrow they would be in perfect condition.
“Well, Veronica,” he said as they were wading back to the house with the snow falling thickly about them and onto them, “are you going to ride on a sled tomorrow too? Faster than lightning down a hill?”
“No, Papa,” she said.
“With me?” he asked her. “If I ride with you and hold you tight?”
“Yes, Papa,” she said gravely.
He could not ask for a more docile and obedient child. Nancy had brought her up well. And yet he could not help remembering what Jane Craggs had said about her-that she was hiding inside herself. And wondering how she could know such a thing, if it were so. But he was beginning to believe that perhaps it was true. Over the past few days the child had joined in all the activities, and she had made a great friend of the kitchen cat, whom he had found curled impertinently in his favorite chair in the drawing room, of all places, just the day before. But there had been no exuberance in her as there had been in Deborah and even in Miss Craggs.
He was beginning to worry about Veronica. The sooner he found her a good home to go to, the better it would be for her. She needed a mother and father to care for her. As soon as Christmas was over he must set Aubrey to work on it. It must take priority over all else.
“Look at me,” Deborah shrieked suddenly, and she hurled herself backward into a smooth drift of snow, swished her arms and legs to the sides, and got up carefully. “Look. A perfect angel.”
