The Mistletoe Countess

by Pepper Basham

  The thought slithered to life as a whisper. Frederick shook his head. No, ridiculous to even compare the two. Father had been sick for weeks. Surely they couldn’t be linked. Especially with two years between them.

  “Have you ever researched how much it would cost to gather coal from Creswell to provide for our glassworks? There’s a chance we could make it viable again, I think.”

  Frederick’s frown dissolved at Grace’s chatter as they moved toward the east wing, her arm tucked through his. She’d talked of little else but improvement ideas since meeting the tenants of Havensbrooke. From hydraulic-powered water gardens inspired by her meeting with the gristmill workers to orphan education encouraged by her talk with Astlynn Commons’s schoolteacher, Mrs. Jones, her creativity knew no bounds. Just the sound of her happy monologue calmed the uncertainty in his heart as they strode toward the darkened corner of the house.

  “Your mind doesn’t stop, does it?”

  “I’ve watched Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock use the resources available at their estate to help create a self-sustaining property, and now I’m free to put some of my own imaginings into action. Oh, the possibilities of an evolving plan!” She chuckled. “Can you imagine all the questions I asked the dear, long-suffering couple?”

  He could. And envisioned the illustrious couple thriving off Grace’s curiosity and passion.

  “I spent nearly two hours with Mr. Whitlock, asking questions about orchards the day before our wedding.”

  He released his hold on her to reach for the door. “Orchards?”

  “Oh yes, they’re a wonderful means of income. Speaking of income.” She looked up at him with those curious eyes dancing. “I wonder why the glassworks were left in disrepair. Plenty of tenants are still interested in working there, and it’s not so broken, from what Mr. Lark says.”

  He pulled his attention away from the door. Why had Edward stopped the glassworks? Or reduced the hours of workers at the gristmill? It was almost as if he wanted to cripple the estate.

  “Frederick?” Grace slipped her hand in his, bringing him back to the present. “We can wait another day if you need more time to garner your courage. It can’t be an easy feat to return here.”

  He shook off the melancholic turn of his thoughts and hardened his resolve. Grace was right. If something sinister led to his brother’s death, then it was his duty to bring the truth to light, even if it meant facing possible ghosts from his past. He gave her hand a squeeze, attempting a bit of levity. “What do you say to a game of word making after our morning excursion?”

  “Word making? Against me?” Her countenance brightened and chased his darker thoughts to the shadows. “You are very brave.”

  He took a taste from her pink lips and pushed open the door to the east wing. The sitting room emerged with every bit of otherworldliness he’d imagined. Streams of sunlight filtered like lamplight through the half-shuttered windows, blending into grays and golds. The quiet—as cold as the morning he’d last entered the room—chilled him, stalling his steps.

  More than just the memories of his brother’s death, these spaces held a storm of recollections branding him a failure. The overwhelming sense of responsibility and disappointment nearly froze him to the spot, but Grace drew him forward and threw back the window shutters so that the full rays of morning bathed the room with light.

  “There! Now it’s much more cheerful.” She turned and examined the room, her nose wrinkling. “But yellow?” She offered Frederick an apologetic tilt of her head, drawing him further from his introspection. “Don’t you think a sitting room should have a rich, dark color? Or even a pale blue?”

  “This was called the Morning Room.”

  “Oh!” She reexamined the space.

  “But I’m not fond of yellow either.”

  “In flowers it’s positively glorious, but for a room?” She shook her head. “The sunshine should be able to do its work without competition.”

  She moved without the gravity of the past, flitting from one space to the next, dusting off the awkwardness. As he watched her, his pulse calmed, his breath settled. He wasn’t alone to face his ghosts anymore. He had Grace.

  “What was your brother like?” Grace examined trinkets on a writing desk near the back of the room. “Was he burdened by the weight of this land like you?”

  Frederick offered her a half smile. “He was never burdened by much at all, which is why this letter is so peculiar.”

  Grace tossed a glance over her shoulder, her pale green day dress almost fairy-like in the morning gold. “From that response, you’ve confirmed my suspicions.”

  “And what were those?”

  She stepped close again and touched his arm. “That somehow you’ve carried the weight of firstborn all your life, even before you inherited the title. And your family never valued the strong and kind person you are or the love you have for your legacy.”

  He tipped his head toward her, breathing in the life she brought into these dead rooms. “You think I’m strong enough for this?”

  “Of course I do, but not only I. God doesn’t go about placing people haphazardly into their stories. He must think you are strong enough too.”

  He pressed a kiss to her soft cheek. “Stronger now, I think.”

  “And undeniably smarter, from a clever response like that.”

  He chuckled and took her hand, leading her down the hallway. “If there’s to be any information left behind, it would be in Edward’s or Celia’s rooms.”

  “If your grandfather made improvements to the east wing before he died, were they extensive enough to deplete the estate’s funds to such an extent you were forced to marry to save it?”

  Frederick paused his hand on Edward’s study door. “I wasn’t privy to the finances before Edward died, and I’m just now attempting to sort through them, but I never heard of financial trials while Grandfather held charge. What I uncovered when I inherited the title was a shock. It seemed impossible my brother had allowed matters to become so dire.”

  Frederick pushed open the door, the unexpected scent of cigar smoke hitting him with the force of a fist. His breath lodged in his lungs.

  “Oh, would you mind if I confiscated your grandparents’ letters?” Grace’s voice pushed him back in motion. She took a small box from Edward’s desk and presented it for his examination. “After all the wonderful things you’ve said about them, I’m terribly curious to learn of their romance.”

  Frederick touched the edges of the first letter, his grandfather’s handwriting pricking a renewed sense of grief. “I’d like that.”

  “Perhaps I could read them aloud to you.” She leaned nearer, her eyes twinkling. “Wouldn’t that be romantic?”

  A few more shadows dispersed in the wake of her smile.

  They rummaged through the desk and cupboards, collecting ledgers and papers, Grace making comments here and there about the furnishings or comparing the situation to a novel or suggesting how one room or other could look different with this or that.

  The longer he stayed among the halls, the warmth of the morning knocking the chill off the place, the more Frederick felt ready to make this part of the house his own.

  He glanced at Grace. Their own.

  Grace’s exuberance about the turret windows in his sister-in-law’s old rooms brought a grin as he stacked the letters from her desk to carry away. This room was meant for Grace—the morning light, the delicate moldings, the turrets on either side, and only a walk through an excellently windowed parlor to the room he’d make his.

  A knock to the door brought his head up. Brandon entered, gaze taking in the space before approaching Frederick. “Sir, a telegram arrived for you.”

  “How are you this morning, Brandon?” Grace’s voice lilted from the bookshelf near the window.

  “Very good, miss.”

  Frederick stifled his smile as he looked at the butler who, if Frederick wasn’t mistaken, had taken quite a fancy to the new lady of Havensbrooke. Not only had
the man resurrected a sudden interest in the weather to prepare for any upcoming storms, but strawberries appeared in great abundance this year. At almost every meal.

  “Dear Brandon,” Grace fidgeted with the sleeve of her gown as she crossed the room. Frederick grinned at the habit of her busy finger to match her busy mind. “I’m sorry to bring up such a sad memory, but during the last week of Edward’s life, were there any unexpected visitors?”

  Frederick’s attention shot to Grace, then to the butler, who shifted his attention to Frederick as if to ask for permission to answer.

  Frederick gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Lady Celia had a gentleman visit. A Mr. Turner, her cousin, if I recall.”

  “You didn’t like this Mr. Turner?” Frederick had known Brandon a long time, long enough to read the man.

  Brandon lowered his gaze, as if thinking. “He wasn’t a pleasant sort, sir. He had a look about him.”

  “Did he have a protruding nose like a pirate’s hook?” Grace shuffled a few steps closer, “Or a black, shaggy set of eyebrows perched above two beady eyes?”

  Frederick squinted at his wife, trying to sort out her train of thought.

  Brandon’s brows raised northward at Grace’s very specific question. “As a matter of fact, my lady, he did.”

  Grace sent Frederick a wide-eyed look but quickly diverted her focus back to Brandon. “And he was the only visitor?”

  “Mr. Parks came to see the late Lord Astley earlier in the week.”

  Brandon shifted his attention to Frederick. “May I ask why the sudden curiosity regarding your brother, sir?”

  “We discovered information in my brother’s papers that led to some unanswered questions.”

  Brandon nodded and backed toward the door.

  “Brandon, did the late Lord Astley or his wife, Celia, share breakfast together that morning?”

  He paused, his attention moving back to Grace. “No, ma’am. The lady in question left hours before breakfast and in quite an emotional state.”

  “Hours before? Emotional?” Frederick stood, nearing the butler. Why hadn’t he asked about these things before now? “Did she give a reason?”

  “She was nigh inconsolable, sir. She said Lord Astley, your brother, had cast her out.”

  “So she wasn’t here when he died.” Frederick directed his statement more to Grace than Brandon. “Thank you, Brandon.”

  The butler left the room, and Grace looked up at Frederick, a plan of fictional proportions sparkling behind those eyes.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Oh, nothing of consequence, really.” She smiled and braided her hands behind her back. “It’s curious that the very day Celia leaves is the day your brother dies and you suddenly arrive. It’s all too well scripted.” One of her ginger brows peaked. “And now with your brother’s letter? What if she knew he was trying to bring her to justice for some past crime? Or he intended to change his will? What if—”

  “You’ve been reading too much Sherlock, darling. She wasn’t here when he died, and what sort of past crime could Celia have done?” Father’s face flashed to mind and paused Frederick’s thoughts.

  “Just because she wasn’t here doesn’t mean she couldn’t have killed him. There are many ways to kill a person before they actually die.”

  He stared at her profile a bit disconcerted in the fact that she even contemplated how to kill someone, let alone knew various ways to do so. He shifted his attention to the nice, predictable telegram. “This might provide some answers. Mr. Parks has agreed to meet with me tomorrow in London.”

  “London? Tomorrow?” She moved to his side, taking the telegram. “Well that’s all very sudden.”

  “I’m afraid he’s away to France again the following week. If I plan to speak with him sooner rather than later, tomorrow it is. I need to meet with my solicitors at any rate.”

  “I’ll have Ellie…um…Miss Moore pack my things at once.”

  “But you have tea with my sister on Saturday.” He studied her upturned face. “I won’t be back from London by then.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right. Would she be terribly disappointed if I cancel?”

  “She’s been looking forward to meeting you since our arrival.” He groaned. “And the workmen arrive in the morning for directions regarding the lavatories.”

  “I can see to them, Frederick! I know I can.” She grabbed his arm. “I’ll be here anyway, and I helped Father in his designs for Rutledge House. Besides, I’ve read a few books about fixtures and pipes.”

  “Of course you have.” He rolled his eyes to the heavens with his grin spreading to a laugh. “What have you not read about, darling?

  “Rodents.” Her nose crinkled in a frown. “Or drains. I’ve not really discovered much about drains.”

  “Then I’ll not expect you to perform the duties of a plumber as well as wife, sleuth, and renovator.” He chuckled and slipped his arm around her waist, drawing her close to place a kiss against her head. “Now I must prepare for my journey.”

  “I shall miss you terribly.”

  The slightest pucker of her forehead urged him near again. “You’ll have free rein of the house without my distraction to devise how to reinvent these rooms.”

  “But I have a particular fondness for your kind of distraction.”

  He tapped the box beneath her arm. “You can spend time with my grandparents’ letters.”

  Her lips tilted into a smile, despite her evident hesitancy to release it. “I suppose I could get to know the staff better while you’re gone and collect some ideas for the gardens. And do a bit more investigating of my own.”

  He hoped not. “And you’ll have the library with all your friends safely housed for your pleasure.”

  She rocked up on tiptoe and left a lingering kiss against his jaw. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so much. Had he ever?

  His palm slid down her back, pinning her against him. He lowered his lips to almost touch hers, reveling in the catch of her breath as he closed in. Of course, they still had the afternoon to enjoy a lengthy goodbye.

  Those beautiful eyes of hers darkened. “‘The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?’”

  “She quotes Percy Shelley to me.”

  “You know Shelley?” She slipped back an inch, eyes wide. “Oh Frederick, you have to be the most wonderful man in the world. I’m certain of it. If you confess to reading Austen, I’m fairly confident I’ll reward you more valiantly than any Gothic romance Catherine Morland could ever conjure up.”

  No longer able to keep his distance, he claimed her lips. He would only be gone for two nights at the most. Surely she’d manage a couple of nights without too much trouble.

  Grace stood at the door watching Frederick’s car move down the long drive on its way to the rail station. Of course he needed to meet with Mr. Parks without delay, but it seemed much too soon for an overnight separation.

  The car edged farther away. It would be terribly romantic if he stopped just at the curve in the lane, hopped out, and ran back to her, coattails flapping in the wind.

  She waited, holding her breath. The car turned and continued out of sight.

  Oh well, what did she expect in the real world? Although she did hope he pined for her a little. Not enough to grow deathly ill like some men did in novels, but enough to cause the slightest discomfort in his stomach. That would be enough.

  And perhaps a sleepless night.

  A cavernous silence engulfed the massive house at Frederick’s absence. Grace spent a few hours decorating the Great Hall with Mary and Brandon, feeling quite pleased with her design and abundant—yet strategic—mistletoe hanging. Her grin grew as the delicate plant found its way over almost every threshold in the room. No husband should ever disapprove of extra kisses. She felt certain Frederick wouldn’t. He’d welcomed every one of hers from last night quite ravenously.


  The thought brought a slight skip to her step and heat in her cheeks as she made her way to the servants’ wing. A din of laughter tugged her down the narrow stairwell from the dining room and to the threshold of the kitchen. She peered around the doorframe.

  A sturdy woman, dark hair refusing to stay beneath a white kerchief, stood by the stove coaxing a younger blond-haired woman to follow her instructions.

  “May I help you, ma’am?”

  Grace spun around to find Brandon standing behind her.

  “Oh Brandon!” Her palm flew to her chest. “I heard laughter and wished to investigate. I’m a huge proponent of laughter.”

  He tucked his chin in assent but made no further response.

  She leaned close, lowering her voice. “Would you mind reintroducing me to the staff?”

  “Of course.”

  The two women at the stove had stopped their work. Two other men and women stepped in from the next room, and Mary, the maid she’d already met, waited in the hallway behind Brandon. One of the men was a footman, John, she recalled from their evening meals, and though she’d seen the other man around the house, she couldn’t remember his name. Mrs. Powell emerged from the stairwell, her key ring jingling at her side, her expression as impassive as ever.

  “This is Mrs. Lennox, our cook.”

  The heavyset woman gave a curt nod. “Pleased to meet you, my lady.”

  “As am I, Mrs. Lennox. You’ve made my introduction to Havensbrooke so delightful with your wonderful meals.”

  The woman’s smile pressed into her round cheeks. “Thank ya, ma’am. I aim for my best.” She turned to the girl at her side. “This is Amy, my help.”

  The young woman curtsied. “My lady.”

  “There is John and Laurence.” Brandon added. “Our footmen, ma’am.”

  Grace nodded to them, hoping her smile encouraged their comfort. “I believe you know Mary,” Mrs. Powell added, stepping forward, hands folded in front of her. “With her is another housemaid, Jane. We have two more housemaids, Lucy and Alice, who are not here at the moment.”

  “And James is another footman,” Brandon said.

  “I’m pleased to meet you all again. You’ve all been so kind.” Grace glanced to each face. “And I hope to have your input as Lord Astley and I progress with improvements.”