A Season of Love

by Carla Kelly

  They ate at the same ordinary tavern. To her delight or chagrin—the matter was in some doubt—Miles joined them just as she was paying the bill. His coat was dirty and mud covered, but his eyes had their same twinkle.

  “I’m leaving my nag here, because I rode him hard,” he said, after asking the publican for a bag of pasties to tide him over. “You get me in all my dirt in the chaise. My parents will stop here and retrieve my horse when they come for the wedding.”

  “We’re hoping there isn’t a wedding,” she reminded him as the four of them, veteran travelers now, piled into the chaise again.

  “We’ll do our best,” he said, which struck her as ambiguous in the extreme, and unlike the man she adored. If she hadn’t been so miserable, his reply would have made her grumpy.

  The boys were asleep when the chaise slowed and the post riders followed Miles’s directions to the humble side of Tidwell. Her heart full, Lucy watched as the door opened and Mrs. Lonnigan stood there with open arms. A few words from Miles reduced her to smiles through tears. A few words from Mrs. Lonnigan had him reaching for his own handkerchief.

  “Good news. The best news,” he told Lucy as he got into the chaise again. “Your housekeeper has found Mrs. Lonnigan indispensable. She has permanent employment. And Mary Rose slices onions better than he does, according to Honoré.”

  Lucy leaned back in relief.

  “You don’t mind that I told them all to come to the wedding?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” Lucy replied, “but we’re trying to prevent the wedding, remember?”

  “I remember,” he said, and nothing more, until they arrived at Number Five Mannering Street.

  Finally looking tired—Lucy wondered what fueled his energy—Miles paid off the post riders and wished them Happy Christmas. He picked up his baggage and hers, too, which made her protest. He ignored her objections, but did allow her to go first and open the front door.

  All was quiet within, amazingly quiet, too quiet. “Milsap?” she asked finally. “Mrs. Little?”

  She looked at Miles, who shrugged, went to the still-open door, and banged on the knocker. She heard a shuffling of feet, and there was Milsap, looking far older than he had only yesterday. He paled noticeably to see her, and then unbent so far as to grasp both her hands, which made Miles stare, open mouthed.

  “Miss Lucy! You will not believe what has happened!” he said, sounding more like Clotilde than their old tried and true butler.

  “Uh, Napoleon has escaped from St. Helena, too?” Miles asked, which earned him a freezing stare from the Danforth’s normally proper butler.

  Milsap opened his mouth and nothing came out. He tried again. “Miss Danforth has eloped to Gretna Green.”

  Lucy gasped and sat down with a thump in one of the spindly hall chairs that seldom were sat upon. It groaned alarmingly, even though she was not heavy.

  “Why in the world would Lord Masterton ever do something like that?” she managed to say at last. “A wedding would puff up his pretensions.”

  “It was not the marquis.” Milsap rolled his eyes and sat in the opposite chair, something he had never done in Lucy’s memory.

  “Who … who … who?” Miles tried, and then stopped, because he was making himself laugh.

  “James Petry,” Milsap said, “our next door neighbor!”

  Lucy stirred in the chair, which creaked so alarmingly that Miles took her by the hand and walked her to the bottom steps of the hall staircase, where he sat them both down.

  Milsap joined them, a shaken man. “You probably passed Lord Masterton in the lane,” he said. “He arrived an hour ago. I’ve never seen someone turn so red, or jump up and down and dump flowers from vases, and just generally make a fool of himself.”

  Lucy felt a huge laugh welling inside, which she welcomed, after her melancholic thoughts from London to Tidwell. “I wish we had witnessed this,” she said, more to herself than anyone else in the room, which now contained a servant or two, in addition to Milsap.

  “Aye, miss, he screamed and carried on, breathing out all manner of curses and foul language,” the ’tween-stairs maid said. “Your papa just stood there and listened, then handed him his hat, dusted it off, and showed him out.”

  “Clotilde is well and truly gone?” Lucy asked, still unable to contemplate such a blessed turn of events.

  “On her way to Gretna Green, according to this note.” Milsap took a much-creased bit of paper from his breast pocket. “Here.”

  Lucy opened the note and held it so Miles could read it, too. “ ‘Dear averyone,” she read, “‘I have aloped with my dearest friend, James Petry …’”

  “She never could spell,” Miles said, looking at the note. His shoulders started to shake. He made strangling noises, which meant Lucy felt duty-bound to loosen his muffler and jerk on his neckcloth. “Oh, my, thank you!” he managed. “Who in the world is—”

  “James Petry,” Lucy said. “He lives next door. He is a solicitor. In a fit of rare bravery once—perhaps he was mizzled—he told me how much he loved Clotilde, and that he would never have the courage to ask for her hand.” She laughed. “And Clotilde told me once what a nice fellow he was, but so shy.”

  “People confide in you, don’t they?” he asked.

  “All the time.” She stopped and didn’t even try not to lean against Miles’s shoulder. “People used to do that to Mama.” Her face felt wet then, but she didn’t mind. She turned to face her cousin. “Miles, when did I turn into my mother?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “You’ve always been like her—quiet, calm, a home-body, a problem solver, and so kind.”

  “That is quite the nicest thing you have ever said to me,” she told him, hunkering down to be closer to him.

  “I’ll say something nicer in a few minutes, but first, we’d better find your father,” he told her, just when she was comfortable in that excellent place under his arm, close to his chest. “Up you get. Milsap, go have a drink of something stronger than barley water. You need it. We’ll close up here.”

  The butler gave Miles no argument, which impressed Lucy. She couldn’t think of a time when Milsap let anyone else lock the front door. This was turning into a day of surprises.

  “Where do you suppose my cousin is?” Miles asked.

  “Let’s try the library. Papa never reads, but he likes to sit there.”

  He took her hand and they ambled down the hall, neither in any particular hurry, now that Clotilde and her shy suitor were coursing through the night to Scotland.

  “Whatever gave Mr. Petry the nerve to propose to my already engaged sister?” she asked.

  “Love does strange things to a man,” Miles said, as they walked along, arm in arm.

  “Oh, now, how would you know?” she asked. “You told me only a few days ago that neither of us had any idea what it felt like to be in love.” She could tease him now. The crisis with Clotilde was over, and he would leave soon. She had all winter to discover how strong she was. With any luck, in ten or twelve years she could see him again and not want to cry. “I remember distinctly that you told me so.”

  “I now suspect that life can turn on a penny,” he said, his voice full of humor. “Only consider Clotilde!”

  Sure enough, Papa sat in the library, his stocking feet propped on the ottoman, a glass of something dark in his hand. He gave them an owlish stare, then waved them closer.

  Lucy took a sniff. The fumes weren’t too strong. He might still be lucid. “Papa, what in the world possessed Clotilde?” she asked.

  “There was a note. Ah, you have it, Miles,” he said, his words barely slurred.

  “I do, and I didn’t finish reading it. Let’s see: “‘my dearest friend …’ ah, here we are. ‘I have been mizzerabul for weeks …’ I do love how she spells.”

  “Miles,” Lucy said, “must I thrash you?”

  “Like to see you try,” he teased, all exhaustion gone from his voice. She could tell he was hugely enjoying this bit of Danfort
h drama. “Here I go. I will finish it. ‘… for weeks. Jemmy just asked me why on earth I was marrying that old toady and not him. I didn’t have a good answer.” He held the page closer, “‘He is a graded tosser!’ That can’t be. Oh! Oh! ‘He is a great kisser!’ We’ll be home soon. Happy Christmas and love from both of us. Clotilde.’” He folded the note and laid it in Papa’s lap. “He simply asked Clotilde. My hat’s off to Jemmy Next Door. Better tell me, Lucinda: is he a suitable match?”

  “Oh, my yes,” she said. “He’s steady and hardworking, and worth a bit of money himself. And he’s right next door.”

  Miles was laughing again, except he had his overcoat off now and his neckcloth loosened. He held out his arm to her, and she resumed that comfortable spot where she fit so well.

  She closed her eyes, so grateful to Jemmy Petry for working up his nerve. He was the perfect husband for her flibbertigibbet sister who had no more than two or three brain cells, but an ocean of kindness and love to make up for it. Even better, Clotilde would be living right next door to Papa.

  Drowsy now, she listened as Miles told her father about the less-than-wealthy Lord Masterton, who was more of a fortune hunter than anyone knew, except his banker. Papa set aside his dark brew.

  “This is good news, indeed, Miles. We’ve probably been saved from ruin by an ugly customer. Heaven knows my dear wife had all the intelligence in the family. She’d have seen him for what he was right away.” He shook his head, and his voice broke. “By the eternal, I miss her.”

  So it turned out that Miles had another arm available for his cousin Roscoe Danforth. Papa sniffed a bit, blew his nose, and managed a watery chuckle. “By George but this will make a good story to tell around the district,” he said.

  Papa sat up, as reality surfaced. “Lucy, we have to write a lot of letters tomorrow. Clotilde’s nonexistent wedding is in two days—Christmas Eve!—and we need to warn everyone away.”

  “Or we could just have a really fine party,” she said. “There’s so much food, and a cake, too. I do love cake.”

  “We could do that,” Papa said. “Why not?”

  “I have a better idea,” Miles said. He tightened his grip on Lucy’s shoulder, then moved his arm down her back until his hand rested on her waistband, comforting her and teasing her at the same time. “Lucinda, I can do one of two things. You know I’m headed back to Oxford as soon as the wedding is over.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she whispered, her voice small. She took a ragged breath, then decided to try out her future brother-in-law’s remedy for cardiac distress. What could it hurt to take a page from Jemmy Petry’s book? It would be aye or nay. She could just ask.

  “I’m not certain when it happened, Miles, but I love you.”

  “I know you do,” he said, but he sounded unsure of himself.

  “Even more than as a cousin,” she continued doggedly. Might as well play this out to the end and leave herself no doubt. “So much more. I … I wish you would marry me. I know I’m not supposed to ask, but …”

  She turned to face him, her hand on his chest now, her eyes on his. “I am so happy that Papa invited you to come to Tidwell and help us out.”

  He smiled then, a smile so huge that she could see it, even in the darkness of the library, lit only by a struggling fire in the hearth. “He didn’t invite me, Lucinda.” He tapped her nose in that silly way again. “I invited myself. I wanted to see you. I had to see you.” He took her hands then. “Not sure when all this started. I mean, all I was doing the last few weeks of the Michaelmas Term was sitting in my carrel and doodling your name in the margins of expensive books.”

  She gasped and kissed him.

  Or maybe he kissed her. However it happened, she knew she wanted to kiss him lots more, maybe for years. And then she was clasped in his arms, and he was saying silly things that no one at Christ Church College would ever imagine could pass the lips of a double first scholar.

  Only a mighty clearing of her father’s throat brought them up for air. “Should I sit between you two lovebirds?” he asked, sounding like Papa again.

  “Only if you want me to call you out, Cousin, or Father-in-Law, or both, I suppose. What will our marriage—oh, that sounds good—do to future genealogists, I wonder?”

  “Nothing, my lad. It’s quite legal, as you well know. You could be first cousins, and it would still be legal.” Papa sighed. “I just wish Mama were here to savor the moment.”

  “She probably knows, Papa,” Lucy said, from the depths of Miles’s generous embrace. “My goodness. She would be way ahead of us and wondering about crying banns … Oh, bother! We have to wait three weeks! I can’t. I love this man.” She giggled. “I’m sounding like Clotilde.”

  “No, you’re not. You sound like a woman in love. We only have to wait until tomorrow,” Miles said. He sat up enough to reach inside his coat pocket. “Why did you think I was late this morning? A quick visit to chancery court bought me a special license.” He took a deep breath, and suddenly looked so young, even a bit unsure of himself. “I had to take the chance, same as you just did.” He grinned at her. “You were just a bit braver than I was.”

  “Sort of like Jemmy Petry next door?” she asked, teasing him, because he was still going to be Miles, the cousin she had loved and teased for years.

  “Jemmy’s kind of love must be contagious, Lucinda.” Another deep breath. “I intend to take my wife—my, that also sounds good—my wife back to Oxford, where I have quite a nice home all ready for her.”

  “Don’t you live on the quad at Christ Church?” she asked.

  He kissed the top of her head and must have liked it, because he did it again. “I did until about a month ago, when for some inexplicable reason, I bought a house.”

  “Miles, you amaze me,” she said.

  “Me, too.” He patted her hip and must have liked that, too, because he did it again.

  “In three weeks we’ll be starting the Hilary Term, and I can’t be late.”

  Lucy sat up. He tugged her back down. “How long have you been planning this, my love?” she asked, trying out the words and finding them entirely compatible with the way she felt.

  “I’ve known you eighteen years,” he said. “This last year, I’ve noted how greatly improved you have become, over the previous seventeen, up to and including my doodles in the Bodleian. More likely, I have improved. I suspect you were always wonderful. What about you?”

  She thought the matter through. “Blame your mother. Vivian told me that being in love was almost an uncomfortable feeling, when the man you love was farther away than the next room.” She kissed his cheek. “She was right. The idea of you in Oxford and me in Tidwell …” She hesitated, barely able to continue. “I couldn’t bear it, so I had to … propose to you.” She laughed, then felt her face go warm. “You have my permission to tell our children someday that you proposed first.”

  “I’ll do it.” Miles kissed her, then he cupped her face in his hands, his expression more serious. “My love, I still want to become a diplomatist. That means strange places and bigger cities than little Tidwell. I know you prefer the quiet life.”

  She kissed his cheek and then his lips, because there they were, and she was never one to waste anything. “If you are by my side, I have no fear.”

  “I’m not certain I deserve such praise,” he said, his voice subdued. “I intend to spend my life, our lives, earning it.”

  He laughed softly, smoothing over the solemnity because he was Miles. “And a Happy Christmas this has become. With Lord Masterton gone, we are at leave to sing all the loud carols we want, and drink wassail until we’re tiddly. What did you tell Honoré you wanted?”

  “Toasted cheese, wassail, and you alone,” she said promptly. “Will anyone mind?”

  Miles looked around elaborately. “Any dissenters? I hear no objections. If there are any, the cheese and wassail will keep until Oxford. I may not have much in the way of cooking utensils yet, but I have a long-handled fork
.”

  They laughed together. Lucy leaned her head against Miles’s shoulder. “I have another thought.” She sat up, and Miles gently pushed her back. “Miles, do you have a housekeeper yet?”

  “I barely have a house, and I already told you about the long-handled fork. That roughly constitutes my domestic property.”

  “It’s this: why not ask Mrs. Lonnigan to do the honors? And Mary Rose could work with the cook.”

  “When we get a cook,” Miles told her. He picked up her hand and kissed it. “You are brilliant, my love. We’ll ask them tomorrow.” He glanced over at Lucy’s father. “Cousin Roscoe, maybe we’ll kidnap Honoré.”

  Papa glared at Miles. “Do it and I will call you out.” He giggled, then hiccupped. “Twenty paces with those long-handled forks.”

  “Oh, Papa,” Lucy said. “Miles only has one fork.”

  “We’ll have to take turns killing each other,” Miles teased. “Honoré is safe. For a while, anyway. Dear Cousin Roscoe, go to bed.”

  Papa staggered to his feet. “I’ll contact our vicar tomorrow morning early,” he told them. “What do you say to a wedding tomorrow at ten of the clock, and the party the day after that on the twenty-fourth, as planned? I doubt you want to wait all the way to Christmas Eve to be married. That’s a whole two days!”

  “No, Papa, I don’t,” she agreed, seeking for some dignity, even though Miles thought it funny. “People will be here for the party, and we will already be married.”

  She looked at Miles, who smiled back. “You’ll get your toasted cheese and quiet time with me alone, Lucinda.”

  Her face fell. “Miles, your parents won’t be here if we marry tomorrow morning. We can’t do that to them. We’ll wait.”

  In answer, he pulled out his timepiece and studied it elaborately. “They’re on their way. I expect them sometime tomorrow morning, quite early.” He kissed her cheek. “Believe it or not, my love, I was going to propose to you this evening, and so I told my parents. You were faster, as it happened.”

  Suddenly shy, she turned her face into his chest, where she felt the steady beat of his generous heart.