Christmas at Carriage Hill

by Carla Neggers

  “I don’t like the cutthroat parts of what achieving them can require. I know that much.” She realized she was half talking to herself and nodded to the zigzagging trail. “I wonder if the rabbit is a descendant of one who was here when Grace and Philip were. This place...it’s hard to imagine there were villages here a hundred years ago. It’s so peaceful and beautiful.”

  “Wait until a heron swoops down and carries off your cute little rabbit—”

  “Ian.”

  He grinned. “The hard realities of nature.”

  “You couldn’t allow me my fantasies, could you?”

  He removed a glove and flicked snowflakes and tears off her cheeks. He let one fingertip drift over her mouth. “You were getting a faraway look. There’s a time and a place for certain types of fantasies, though.”

  “Ian-approved fantasies?”

  “Mmm. Yes.”

  Her blood heated there in the snow when she saw his amused, knowing look. She didn’t try to explain that she’d still been thinking about rabbits and birds and the isolated New England wilderness, while he was thinking about sex.

  They trekked back to Carriage Hill and tackled the Brussels sprouts and chestnuts together. Alexandra pictured the life she’d had in London and the one she was making for herself, still unformed, in her quiet, pretty Cotswolds village. Was she serious when she’d told Ian she was giving up on her dream of creating her own high-end fashion house? She’d felt herself turning away from that life when she’d left London.

  When she’d fallen in love with Ian Mabry.

  But he’d fallen in love with the on-the-move Alexandra Rankin Hunt, the confident, ambitious independent evening wear and wedding dress designer. She’d arrived in the Cotswolds—in his arms—filled with dreams and ambition.

  She thought of the photograph Ian had brought to Grace. Something about her and Philip’s story was changing her. She could feel it happening, and she could only hope that it was for the better.

  * * *

  Alexandra arrived back in the mudroom a few steps behind Ian and was hanging up her snowshoes when Loretta Wrentham descended on Carriage Hill. Dylan hadn’t exaggerated about her, but Alexandra liked her immediately. The Californian was pulling off an expensive—and obviously new—shearling jacket as she complained about the snow and the cold while, at the same time, commenting on how gorgeous the New England winter scenery was.

  Julius Hartley, her fiancé, came into the warm kitchen behind her and winked at Alexandra. “Loretta will never forgive Dylan for having a Christmas Eve wedding in New England. She had to buy a winter coat.”

  They were both in their fifties, energetic, wearing what Alexandra recognized as expensive travel clothes. Loretta’s heeled boots weren’t particularly suited to the ice and snow at Carriage Hill, but she would no doubt blame the conditions rather than the boots. Alexandra smiled to herself, familiar with the type.

  She went into the dining room while Loretta and Julius took their things up to their room. Alexandra decided that, given the crackling tension between her and Ian at Grace’s hideaway, it was just as well they wouldn’t be alone at Carriage Hill tonight.

  She examined a crèche on a sideboard. It looked worn, and a camel had clear crayon markings across its rump. A Frost family heirloom, she suspected. She could hear Maggie and Ian in the kitchen—his laughter as they checked on the pudding, now out of the oven and set to rest.

  “You’re a decent cook, Ian,” Maggie said, “and it’s obvious you enjoy the work.”

  “I’m soaking up your knowledge.”

  Such a charmer, Alexandra thought, surprised at how pleased she was that he and everyone at Carriage Hill were getting on well.

  Maggie continued, “Dare I ask how a fighter pilot knows about cooking and actually likes to do it?”

  “My family owns a pub in a small Cotswolds village,” Ian said. “It’s just down the street from Alexandra’s shop.”

  “Sounds lovely. Are you the pub’s heir apparent?”

  “I’ve always planned to go home after the service.”

  Home. For Alexandra, the village was new, a fresh start, a dramatic change from her life in London. For Ian, it was home.

  She realized Loretta had entered the room and was eyeing her with a kind of knowing concern. The older woman handed her a mug. “Time for some mulled wine, Alex.”

  “Thank you, but I couldn’t take yours—”

  “No worries. Julius is right behind me with mine.”

  As she spoke, her fiancé joined them, handing Loretta another mug of the hot mulled wine. He sipped his as he looked out the window at the front of the house. “Pretty,” he said, “but Loretta and I won’t be having a snowy wedding.”

  “Damn straight,” she said.

  Alexandra laughed, relaxing. They retreated to the living room. Dylan and Olivia drifted in, followed by various family members—and Grace Webster, wearing a simple gray wool dress that Alexandra estimated was at least forty years old, a bit worn in places but still stylish. Ian and Maggie finally gave up the kitchen to the caterers preparing for the rehearsal dinner.

  Maggie dusted a spot of flour on her sleeve and grinned at the gathering in the living room. “I don’t know why you guys wouldn’t let me do dinner tonight. I could have managed a lasagna and salad and still performed my bridesmaid duties.”

  Dinner, of course, was a more elaborate affair. The caterers transformed the dining room, adding to the festive decorations and producing crystal, silver, champagne, wine, hors d’oeuvres and a crispy roast duck with a range of side dishes—including Alexandra’s Brussels sprouts and chestnuts, perfectly roasted. Dessert was an array of bite-size Christmas cookies.

  Somehow Alexandra ended up at Ian’s side throughout the evening. She didn’t object or in any way draw attention to herself and her awkwardness—or whatever it was. Self-consciousness, maybe? Awareness of the man next to her? Longing for the kind of love that Olivia and Dylan so obviously had for each other? Phoebe, and Noah, too—and Olivia’s sister and her architect husband. Loretta and Julius. New love but enduring love, Alexandra thought wistfully. In time, the young couples gathered tonight would be like the Frosts, Olivia and Jessica’s parents, a long-married couple as comfortable with each other as two people could be.

  Alexandra was drawn into a conversation with Phoebe and her youngest sisters—they were twins, Ruby and Ava—about theatrical dresses Phoebe had discovered a few months ago in a secret room in the town library. They had been sewn decades ago by a young woman who’d dreamed of having a different life and ultimately had left Knights Bridge to become a Hollywood costume designer. Ava and Ruby were theater graduate students and plotting with the designer to do “something” in town. Even with few details, it all sounded like fun, and Alexandra was intrigued by the idea of the dresses, among them copies of gowns worn by Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn and other Hollywood icons.

  Ian stayed by the fire during that particular conversation.

  Eventually, the evening wound down, and Alexandra, Ian, Loretta and Julius had the house to themselves. Except for Buster. Loretta pretended to be afraid the big dog would bite her, but she also stretched out on the floor next to him in front of the fire. She asked about the dresses. “Almost finished?”

  “I’m going into the workroom now to do the last stitches,” Alexandra said.

  “Well, I hope you didn’t drink too much champagne,” Loretta said lightly. “I can’t imagine sewing at all, never mind with a couple of glasses of champagne in me.”

  Alexandra laughed. “I had two sips with a similar scenario in mind.”

  She decided to get busy and ducked into the workroom. Ian, however, followed her. “Just making sure you have everything you need,” he said.

  “I do, thank you.”

  “Your sprouts and chestnuts we
re a hit.”

  “Because I only bought them and didn’t make them. Are you homesick?”

  He shook his head, his face half in shadow, making him more difficult to read.

  Alexandra unzipped the bag containing Olivia’s dress but didn’t open it. “I don’t care about the high-fashion scene, Ian. The work I’m doing here—it’s what I love to do. Designing and sewing beautiful dresses.”

  “What brought this on?” he asked from the threshold.

  “It was in the making before I met you. It’s why I moved from London. I didn’t have all the pieces why at the time. I’m not sure I do now, but I’m getting there.”

  “You’re giving up on your dreams.”

  “No. Never. There’s a difference between giving up and redirecting.”

  “Maybe so.”

  He left her, and Alexandra sat on a comfortable chair and finished the dresses one stitch at a time. When she finally returned to the living room, the fire had died down and only Buster was there. She headed upstairs, filled the bathtub with hot water and added a scoop of bath salts as she eased deep into the heat and imagined tomorrow’s wedding.

  A Recipe for Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Chestnuts

  Ingredients:

  4 cups Brussels sprouts

  2 tablespoons butter

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  2 cups (or less to taste) boiled chestnuts (can use canned)

  1 cup chicken or vegetable stock

  ½ cup cream

  can top with dried bread crumbs

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Preparation:

  Preheat oven to 400°F (200°C).

  Cook the trimmed sprouts in boiling water for about 5 minutes; drain and set aside.

  Heat the butter and oil in a skillet. Be sure the chestnuts are peeled; crumble (not too finely) and add to the skillet. Add stock and simmer, covered, for about 20 minutes.

  Add the sprouts to the chestnut mixture. Add the cream.

  Put chestnuts-sprouts mixture into a baking dish. Top with dried bread crumbs and bake for 20 to 30 minutes, until mixture is bubbly hot and bread crumbs are golden brown.

  Season to taste and serve hot.

  Five

  Christmas Eve dawned cold and sparkling. Alexandra was the first down to the kitchen. Well, except for Buster, of course. He nudged her hip and led her into the mudroom, clearly eager for a walk. She snapped on his leash, shrugged on one of the jackets hanging on a peg, borrowed a pair of gloves and then exited through the back door. She hadn’t put on boots, but her walking shoes would suffice for a short trek. She hoped Buster didn’t have anything longer in mind.

  The sunrise took her breath away with its vibrant pinks and purples streaking low on the horizon across the fields. The snow-covered landscape glowed with color, as if to celebrate the wedding of Olivia Frost and Dylan McCaffrey.

  Buster pulled Alexandra onto partially cleared garden paths. Before she’d come downstairs, she had washed with some of Olivia’s and Maggie’s herbal soaps, made with milk from goats raised by Maggie’s mother, who would, of course, be at today’s wedding. Knights Bridge and The Farm at Carriage Hill couldn’t be more different from the world Dylan had known in the National Hockey League and then in San Diego with Noah Kendrick and NAK, Inc., but Alexandra couldn’t imagine a happier man.

  She tugged on the leash, leading Buster back into the garden. The colors of the sunrise were blending now with the lightening sky, and she shivered, feeling the cold.

  Ian came out onto the stone terrace, wearing his own jacket open over a sweater. Her breath caught at the sight of him. For a split second, she imagined them getting married in such a spot—she could see the dress she would wear...his smile as she walked down the aisle to meet him.

  It was a split second that cost her. She knew it instantly as her right foot hit ice and she went down, landing on her side in the knee-deep snow covering one of the garden beds. She dropped the leash but Buster didn’t bolt. He climbed into the snow next to her and licked her face, knocking her hood off her head as she started to her feet.

  Ian was there in a flash. “Are you all right, Alex?”

  “Yes—yes, I’m fine, thanks. The snow cushioned my fall.”

  He helped her up. She’d dropped the leash and had snow up her arm and down her socks. He swept the leash out of the snow, then grinned at her. “Your cheeks are rosy.”

  “That would be because of driving my face into the snow.” She eyed him. “Are you laughing at me, Ian Mabry?”

  “Now that we know you weren’t hurt, you have to admit it was quite a tumble.”

  “Spectacular, was it?”

  He laughed. “I don’t know if I’d go that far.” He reached a hand behind her head and pulled snow out of her hair, then tucked a finger under her chin. “It’s a gorgeous day for a wedding. Shall we go inside?”

  He tucked his free hand into her ungloved one, and they walked up the path to the terrace, Buster bounding happily at their side as if he knew today was a very special day.

  * * *

  Alexandra stood between Ian and Grace for the wedding ceremony, held in the living room with a fire blazing and Christmas lights twinkling. The air was scented with spruce from the Christmas tree and spices from cinnamon-studded oranges and more mulled wine and cider. For anyone—not just multimillionaire Dylan McCaffrey—it was a simple, lovely service. Olivia looked radiant in her gown, its fabric and design perfect for the atmosphere of her wedding. Her bridesmaids couldn’t have been more perfect in their dresses, although Maggie did almost set hers on fire. She laughed, unworried.

  Grace took Alexandra’s hand when Dylan and Olivia exchanged rings but remained steady on her feet, smiling, clear-eyed, until the couple kissed. The gathered friends and family sighed in appreciation of their love for each other and the commitment they’d just made.

  “To have lived to see this day...” Grace squeezed Alexandra’s hand. “I couldn’t have asked for more, and I know—oh, Alex, I just know his grandfather would be so proud.”

  She heard Ian take in a breath next to her and glanced at him. He had tears in his eyes, and Alexandra realized that as a fighter pilot himself, he understood in a way that she never could what Philip Rankin had felt going off to war all those years ago—and what he’d experienced in combat. But he rallied and gave Grace one of his sexy winks. “He’d be damned proud, Grace. No question.” He edged over to her. “Now, come with me. Dylan and Olivia are posing for their wedding photographs, and I promised them I’d get you over there.”

  Grace seemed genuinely surprised. “Me?”

  “You’re his grandmother.” Another of those Mabry winks. “Why do you think he pinned that corsage on you?”

  She blushed, smiling as she touched her fingertips to the beautiful corsage. Ian seized the moment and spirited her off.

  Alexandra sank onto the sofa by the Christmas tree. Her grandmother—Dylan’s aunt, his father’s half sister—had sent a gift. Alexandra knew it was a china tea service her grandmother had selected herself, but also that the package included her father’s pocket watch, inherited from his father. She believed he’d have wanted for his only grandson and his bride and their children to have it and had admitted to Alexandra that she’d cried when she’d wrapped it.

  When the photographs were finished and the first of the hors d’oeuvres were brought from the kitchen, Grace returned and sat next to Alexandra. The old woman looked tired but nowhere near done in. “I have a feeling your RAF pilot isn’t always such a gentleman,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “He can be a bit of a rake, can’t he?”

  Alexandra felt her cheeks flame. “Well...”

  Grace patted her knee. “Don’t you worry. You don’t have to explain to me. Before I allow myself to be tempt
ed by stuffed mushrooms and mulled wine, I’ve got a present for you, Alexandra.”

  Alexandra hardly had time to protest before Grace dipped into her handbag and produced a worn, yellowed copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel. “It’s one of my favorites,” Alexandra said.

  “It’s one of my favorites, too. I chose it for you because it’s English. I gave Dylan Scaramouche. A lifetime ago, I read them aloud to your great-grandfather as he recovered from his injuries and we hid from the world.”

  “And fell in love,” Alexandra said, her voice cracking with emotion.

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” Grace looked up at the Christmas tree, as if she could see her British airman again. “We fell in love.”

  * * *

  By late Christmas morning, The Farm at Carriage Hill was empty. Loretta and Julius had joined Alexandra and Ian for breakfast before leaving for Boston and their return flight to Southern California. Olivia and Dylan were on their way to Hawaii for their honeymoon via a short stop at his house—their house—in San Diego. Phoebe and Noah were moving from their larger rental house to her little house off the village green while they enjoyed Christmas week with her family and took some time to figure out what was next for them. They’d invited Ian and Alexandra to join them at the O’Dunn farm for Christmas dinner. They were to bring Ian’s pudding. None of them, apparently, had ever had a proper English figgy pudding.

  A nor’easter was again brewing down the coast. Alexandra had called her grandmother to wish her a happy Christmas and she’d related the dire forecast. “You could be trapped there for days, Alex.”

  What a delicious prospect that was, she thought as she went into the living room, where Ian was down on one knee, lighting a fire with Buster sprawled at his side. Ever since snowshoeing out to the remains of Grace’s hideaway, Alexandra had been afire herself, wanting nothing more than to make love to Ian again. It’d been worse since her slip in the garden. She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge just how much she ached for him, but with the wedding over and people leaving—and him staying—it had become more and more impossible to ignore.