The Christmas Carrolls

by Barbara Metzger

  Her parents’ plan to throw them together was working. She seethed. Evan was growing on her—like mildew. Holly would rather be working on her German or helping Mr. Rendell with his papers. His handwriting turned out to be nearly as hopeless as Evan’s, so she offered to write some of his letters, meanwhile listening to Ren’s ideas, stories of his travels, the plans he was making for new ventures.

  Instead of being so pleasantly engaged, Holly was forced to spend hours amusing a guest who did not like books or music, who did not like losing whether they played cards or the old nursery games, and who wanted to reenact for her edification every battle of the Peninsular campaign.

  “It’s not polite to leave your father alone so often, Evan. Papa’s gout is bothering him too much to be good company, and everyone else is too involved with wedding plans, with the date barely five weeks away. Comfort’s parents will both be coming, so Mama is in a fidge over how to keep them separated. Your father has no one for conversation.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking to him, Hol. I told you the pater was great guns, didn’t I? Did I explain Wellesley’s strategies for the stand at Coruna?”

  * * * *

  Comfort took pity on Holly one afternoon when it seemed as if rain had been falling for weeks instead of days. Reluctantly leaving Joia’s side—she was busy with the local seamstress—the viscount invited Evan to practice fencing with him, since they were both needing the exercise.

  They took over the ballroom, after promising Lady Carroll to keep clear of the gold velvet draperies, the striped silk wallpaper, and the newly re-covered chairs. Evan was content for two blessed afternoons, during which Holly learned six irregular verbs, the proper way to address a Bedouin chief, and a new Beethoven sonata. Along with his correspondence, Mr. Rendell had his London couriers bring the music and some books he thought might interest Holly. His messengers had no trouble getting through the mired roads; at the prices the nabob was paying, they would have swum.

  On the third afternoon Evan had the knacky notion to invite Holly to watch, thinking to impress her with his prowess. “And you too, sir,” he said, inviting his father. “You must be dashed sick of this musty library and your dry-as-dust papers.”

  Merry and Joia came along, and the earl and countess, too, for a diversion. Half the servants also seemed to be in the ballroom, making book, no one doubted.

  The foils, of course, were buttoned.

  Comfort and Evan were evenly matched. The viscount had ten years’ more experience, but Evan had youthful stamina and a wiry athleticism that Comfort’s larger, more muscular frame could not duplicate. They wore slippers, breeches, and shirt-sleeves, and Holly couldn’t help noticing Joia’s avid interest in Comfort’s undress. As for herself, she was interested in getting back to Mr. Rendell’s theories concerning the future of steam locomotion. Then he quietly asked if he might challenge the winner of the match.

  Comfort bowed politely and waited for Evan to help Mr. Rendell shrug himself out of his superfine coat and his shoes.

  When he removed his neckcloth and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt so he had more freedom of movement, Holly began to understand Joia’s fascination. Who would have thought the male figure could be so attractive?

  Evan was frowning. “I say, sir, don’t you think you ought to wear a face mask?” Even Lady Carroll appeared worried, for scarring the wealthiest man in England would be decidedly bad ton.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, bantling.”

  And it wasn’t, not by half. Rendell wasn’t more experienced or more agile; he was, quite simply, a master. The most novice of watchers could recognize at a glance that Comfort was literally defenseless against the older man’s blade, when they could see the flashing steel at all.

  The viscount stepped back and held up his hand in surrender. “I have been gulled, I believe,” he said with a smile. “The only way I’ll take you on again, sir, is if you use your left hand.”

  Ren cocked his head to the side, then he tossed his sword in the air. Without a glance from Rendell, it arced, flickered, and landed in his other hand. “But, my lord, I am left-handed.”

  Evan’s mouth was hanging open. Holly feared hers was, too. The earl was laughing and slapping his thigh. “Deuced good show, Rendell. Where did you learn such skill?”

  “Here and there,” was all he said, gesturing Evan to take his place. “Come, twig. If you want to be a soldier, you must sharpen your techniques.”

  Everyone could see he was going easy on Evan, moving more slowly, letting the younger man set the pace and take the offensive. Still, in five minutes Evan was wiping sweat from his eyes and breathing through his mouth. Rendell was chatting as if he were at tea. “The English, you see, are too predictable. I can recognize an Italian instructor in your stance, while Lord Comfort studied with a Frenchman. Northern France, I’d hazard. The French have finesse, the Italians have the speed, the Spanish, where the swords of fables were born, have the flair. Russians and Slavs depend more on strength, the Orientals more on control. You must learn them all, brat, before you take on the world.”

  “What... do... Englishmen have?” Evan panted.

  “Perseverance, halfling, bloody single-minded perseverance, no matter how poor the odds or how lost the cause. An Englishman doesn’t give up.”

  * * * *

  So Evan asked Holly again when they finally got the chance to ride out to Rendell Hall, two days later. “This shillyshallying ain’t like you, Hol. You always know your own mind. So what’s it to be?”

  “I’m sorry, Evan, I just need more time.” Holly could not have said whether she needed more time to decide, or more time before taking on the role of a soldier’s grass widow, Squire’s brood mare. Evan was scowling, so she added, “Let’s just look at the house today.”

  Annoyed at not getting his way, Evan rode ahead to where Merry and his father were debating the merits of purebred dogs versus mixed breeds. He rudely interrupted. “C’mon, Merry, let’s race.”

  Mr. Rendell smiled at Merry and nodded, then let his horse fall back until he was alongside Holly. Without commenting on her stony-faced expression or her swain’s defection, Ren started giving the German name to birds, trees, and other objects as they passed them. When he couldn’t think of the German, or didn’t know it, he made up an absurdly long word like hoffenschnitzel, just to see her smile.

  The two-hour ride seemed like minutes before they arrived at Rendell Hall, a sprawling Gothic edifice. “My father had an agent purchase it for him,” Ren explained in excuse for the turrets and arched windows. “Sight unseen.”

  “I’ll bet it’s haunted.” Merry was delighted at the idea. “Let’s go see, Evan.”

  The two went exploring upstairs, arguing over the existence of ghosts, while Mr. Rendell conferred with the caretaker and his wife. Holly glanced through half-open doors at shrouded rooms, rows of armor, and hearths that could have roasted oxen, though she doubted they would warm the vast, three-storied rooms. The house didn’t look haunted. It only needed people and attention, the windows widened to let in more sun; lighter, brighter hangings on the dark wood panels; children to play in the long corridors.

  “How could you think of selling such a fairy-tale castle?” she asked Rendell when he rejoined her. “Don’t you want to have a place of your own to come home to between travels? Don’t you miss having roots someplace?”

  “How can I miss what I never had? I was raised by amahs, servants, tutors, schoolmasters, in as many different houses. My roots are in the counting house.”

  How different her own childhood had been, Holly thought, surrounded by family, immured in the stronghold of generations of Carrolls. On the other hand, she’d never been farther than London and Bath, except for one horrendous visit to Aunt Irmentrude in Wales. “I think you can regret not having what others enjoy, what might give you pleasure.”

  Ren purposely misunderstood. “I have always found hotels adequate, the finest ones, of course. The chimneys in th
is monstrosity smoke and the windows let in drafts. I’d never patronize such an inn.”

  “But it’s your home, or could be. You could make it perfect, I’m sure.”

  “It’s too big, too empty for one man. He’d feel haunted indeed, if only by his own past, his own future.”

  “You are right. It needs a family.”

  He looked at her sharply, but Holly was lost in her own dreams. “I cannot think of anything better, a magic carpet to travel the world, and a magical palace to return to. I’d fill Rendell Hall with treasures from around the globe and children to enjoy them, yes, even if I had to borrow my sisters’ children or the neighbors’.” She twirled around, setting dust motes to dancing in the air.

  “Why would you have to borrow someone else’s brats?”

  “Oh, if I were a man—a rich one, of course—I’d be too busy to find a wife. Isn’t that what happened to you?” she asked abruptly.

  “I had a wife.”

  “For less than a year. Why didn’t you remarry?”

  How could he tell this idealistic, innocent woman-child that he could never trust another woman after Blakely’s chit? That his fortune was a magnet for every adventuress in every country he’d visited. That he would rather spend the rest of his days alone in hotels than be someone else’s pawn. “I was too old.”

  “What a taradiddle! You’re not old even now. I’ve seen you fence, remember.”

  Merry and Evan came downstairs then, quibbling over the number of rooms they’d counted. Ren nodded in their direction. “All that energy makes me want to take a nap. Come, children, we have seen enough.”

  Holly didn’t think he looked the least bit tired, sitting effortlessly atop his horse, muscles visibly working under the tautly stretched breeches. And she definitely wasn’t tired of looking at Ren, so she was more curt with Evan than usual when he took the place next to her for the ride home.

  “So what do you think of the house, Holly? I know you already like m’father, so that’s aces. We could talk to him tonight about giving us the old pile if you want it.”

  “It’s his house, Evan. He should keep it and make himself a home.”

  “Then where will you— Where will we live?”

  “I had thought,” she snapped at him, “to live with my husband, wherever he happened to be. I had thought my husband would want me at his side, wherever he happened to be.”

  “Deuce take it, Holly, we’ve been through that. What, do you want me to pour the butterboat over you and swear my heart will break for every minute we’re apart? Is that what you want, Holly? I never took you for one of those spoiled belles, but, Zeus, I’ll write you a blasted poem as soon as we’re married.”

  Now, there was an offer, Holly thought. Not only would she be left to molder along with Rendell Hall, but she’d have to read bad poetry to boot! She kicked her horse into a canter and rode alongside Merry.

  When they reached Winterpark, Merry’s mongrel pup caught sight of his mistress and came running to greet her, barking and tearing across the lawns. Evan’s horse took exception and reared. If Evan had been paying attention, no harm would have been done. Master Rendell, however, was still in a sulk over his old friend’s intransigence, insensitivity to his needs, and increasingly feminine behavior. In two shakes he was in the dirt.

  Flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him, Evan still managed to hold the reins. That would have been the right thing to do, if the horse weren’t still dancing around, doing crow-hops perilously close to Evan’s head. The groom came running. Merry shouted for the dog, and Holly started to edge her horse between Evan and his mount—but Ren was there, leaping off his horse and over Evan’s, throwing his body over his son’s and rolling him out of danger.

  When the dust settled, Evan was mortified. Not only had he parted company with his horse, but he’d done it in front of the girl he wanted to impress, the father who never seemed to put a foot wrong, and the brat who owned the misbegotten mutt. Since he couldn’t take his frustrations out on Holly or Rendell, he shouted at Merry.

  “Of all the cursed canines, that’s the most miserably behaved animal I’ve ever seen, missy. It ought to be taken out and shot. Or you should, for your hoydenish behavior. When are you going to grow up and stop embarrassing your family?”

  The front door was open—the odds-makers were working overtime—and Merry’s lip was trembling, but Evan was too agitated to notice. “I was ashamed in front of my friends when they saw you in breeches in the barn. You’re nothing but a draggle-tailed tomboy.”

  Merry was crying in Holly’s arms. No one had ever yelled at her but Papa, and he never meant it.

  “Hush, dearest,” Holly was saying, “you did nothing wrong.” To Evan, in quite a different tone of voice, she said, “I think you owe Merry an apology. Your fall was your own fault, not hers. We all saw Downsy coming across the lawn, but you weren’t paying attention.”

  “By all that’s holy, you’re defending her? Whatever happened to loyalty?”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “And I’m the man who—”

  “Has been my friend for a lifetime. Do not ruin that friendship by insulting my sister, whose manners are everything pleasing.”

  “Oh, yes? How pleased are you to know I caught her playing billiards with Comfort! No lady would ever do such a thing.”

  Holly vowed to learn that very day. Out loud she said, “The viscount obviously didn’t find anything wrong with Merry’s playing, so why should you, unless she beat you at that, too?”

  “Now Joia’s toff is the social arbiter? My opinion doesn’t matter because I have no title? Is that what you’re holding out for, Holly? If you are, speak to him”—jerking his head to where his father was soothing the horses—”since you’re already as close as inkle-weavers. I’m sure he’ll buy you a title, too. Of course, you might have to wait a few years for me to inherit it, but hell, I’ve been waiting a few years to join the blasted army.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I said perseverance, twig, not persecution.” The Rendells were in the ballroom, fencing. That is, one was fencing. The other was working off all his anger and frustrations on empty air, which was all Ren would let the lad hit, in such a temper. If ever there was a hotspur ready for the army, he thought, Evan was it. Too bad Blakely insisted on an heir or Ren would have the youngster shipped out tomorrow, into a safe regiment, out of action, where he knew the commanders. There would be no more of this nonsense of marrying him off to a close but incompatible match. Still, he’d vowed to keep mumchance, to let this stranger with his name make his own choices. “Gravely offending the woman one wishes to wed is bad strategy, brat.”

  Evan was panting, but he did manage to gasp, “The old girl’s a Trojan. She never takes a pet for long. I’ll have to apologize to the infant, but Holly will come around. I just wish she weren’t taking so blasted long about it. I could have been with the chaps in London.”

  “Spoken like a true love-struck suitor. Did you ever think that you and Lady Holly mightn’t suit? That she might expect more out of a marriage?”

  Evan had called halt to wipe the perspiration out of his eyes. He took the conversation as an excuse to catch his wind, rather than having his father notice his labored breathing. “Like what? It ain’t as if Holly’s a Diamond like Joia. She don’t even enjoy the social whirl. Said so herself many a time. She’s a regular bluestocking, in fact. Turns most fellows off, don’t you know.”

  Ren was convinced the boy was deaf, dumb, and blind, besides being weak in the chest. “So you’re actually doing her a favor by taking her off the Marriage Mart?”

  Evan tipped his head in deliberation. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But doesn’t every female want a home and babies? And there’s the money when you, ah, that is, from the Manor. What else could she want?”

  “En garde, twig. You have a lot to learn.”

  Evan thought his father meant fencing, so he took up his position again. He was improv
ing, too. In ten years or so he might be half as good as the older man.

  Just when Evan thought he couldn’t hold his arm up another minute, Holly entered the ballroom. As soon as Rendell lowered his sword, Evan thankfully let his blade rest on the ground. He’d never been so happy to see his old friend, even if she did look different. Her hair was tied in one long braid down her back, her spectacles were off, and she was wearing breeches. “Good grief, Hol, have you lost your mind?”

  “No, Evan, I am trying to find it. I have just left the billiards room, where Papa”—she emphasized the last word, daring Evan to criticize the earl—”taught me how to play. Now I wish to learn to fence.”

  Two swords clattered to the floor.

  Evan recovered first. He’d seen the breeches; Ren saw the woman in them. “Well, I ain’t going to do it, Holly, for it ain’t decent.”

  “I wasn’t asking you.”

  Ren picked up both swords and wiped them with a towel before placing them in a case. He was not going to interfere between these two, he swore to himself again. Then he swore at himself, for letting his eyes slide down her delicately curving legs.

  Evan was in a rant. “I’d expect something like this from your hey-go-mad sister, Holly, wanting to dress up in some stableboy’s clothes and compete with men. I find the whole idea distasteful. Abhorrent. Almost sinful.” And frightening, in case she turned out to be better at swordplay than he was. “Impossible.”

  Holly wasn’t looking at him. “Papa agrees with me that a soldier’s wife, if I should decide to be one, which I haven’t, should know how to defend herself.”

  Evan knew better than to contradict the earl. The archbishop of Canterbury’s word held less weight in this household. He snorted, though. “What are you defending yourself from, Holly, Berkshire heifers?”