The Christmas Carrolls

by Barbara Metzger

  The auburn-haired lad looked to be all Carroll, by the dim glow from the other room. She couldn’t recognize anything of a stranger about him as he lay on his back, thin arms flung to either side on top of the rumpled covers. Noel was not any plump and dimpled cherub, Bess could see, but was thin and wiry, more like Meredyth than either of her sisters. Bess tucked his hands in and smoothed the blankets, dislodging one of the priceless porcelain dolls. The doll’s long hair had been lopped off—with a penknife, it appeared—and a rough uniform had been cobbled out of some red fabric. Surely those were Meredyth’s uneven stitches, and surely the gold braid on the little doll-soldier’s chest was the trim from her own parasol that Downsy had chewed last week. Tomorrow the boy would get real toy soldiers, Bess vowed, if she had to send to London for them.

  She touched his soft cheek—only to see if he was warm enough—and brushed the tumbled tresses off his forehead. How he must hate those sweet girlish curls, she thought, and how short must they be trimmed before he returned to school, so none of the other boys teased him? Happily, he didn’t have to worry about those freckles as a girl would have done. Then again, Meredyth never did, tossing her bonnet aside as soon as she was out of sight of the house. As if her mother couldn’t tell the chit was sun-speckled more than ever. A loving mother always knew those things, and that was what Noel deserved.

  Bess touched her fingers to her lips and then to the boy’s forehead in farewell. She was doing the right thing. She could never love him. He snored.

  * * * *

  The house party proceeded. The ladies exclaimed over the gardens, and the gentlemen enjoyed the stables, except for the duke, who dallied with Dora at the Carrolton Arms, so he was not a nuisance. The weather held for three fine days of sport.

  Joia didn’t ride out with the hounds, blushingly citing her condition. Merry didn’t go either, declaring that if she couldn’t wear breeches, she wouldn’t enjoy the hunt. She spent the time with Noel instead, schooling him on his pony or teaching him to do handstands. Joia took him sketching. Watercolor paintings appeared regularly with Lady Carroll’s breakfast tray. Cook claimed Master Noel for an hour in the morning, ostensibly to teach him French, but more likely to fatten him up on strawberry tarts and syllabub, the countess suspected. Bartholemew let him help in the butler’s pantry, educating him in the Carroll family history with every silver heirloom they polished.

  When the gentlemen returned, Max played war games in the nursery, and Comfort played jackstraws. Both couples together taught the boy archery, billiards, and cricket, with much laughing and shouting. Lord Carroll watched from the window, a melancholy smile on his face. Bess was right: he was too old to play father to the little scamp.

  And Lady Carroll pretended Noel was not there.

  None of the guests commented, for there was nothing in the boy’s presence to stir the scandalbroth. A connection of the earl’s late brother, eh? Every noble family had relatives of dubious descent, so what? The wine was excellent, the food delicious, and the brat was behind closed doors. The Carrolls were kind enough not to subject their guests to a child’s prattling or plunking on the pianoforte or poetry recitation, unlike most houses where the youngsters were paraded around like prize pullets. A toast to the host and hostess.

  The countess simply smiled.

  * * * *

  When the company left, family and guests alike, Lord Carroll started taking Noel about with him again, on horse and pony-back or beside him in the curricle. They went to visit the tenants, to check the fields, and to make sure Rendell Hall was ready for its owners—and for the earl’s first grandchild.

  Bess didn’t begrudge the boy the time with his father now that she knew he’d be leaving soon. And she didn’t miss her girls as badly, knowing they’d return for Christmas. Hollice would, too. Lady Carroll kept busy cleaning up her flower beds before winter and sewing infant dresses before the grandbabies were born.

  The crisp fall weather of the hunt party gave way to cold, raw days with chilling rains that made the earl’s bones ache. As he fell into bed each night the earl complained—but only to himself—that indefatigable small boys were hell on old men.

  Then Merry’s letter came, saying she and Max were returned to Kent. Should they come fetch Noel? And did he want a pet turtle? Carlisle’s niffy-naffy French chef was going to make soup out of this one, so Merry had borrowed it. Perhaps she and Max could stay at Carroll House in Grosvenor Square during their next visit to London.

  The earl decided to deliver Noel himself. Bradford said he wanted to go to see the new livestock and how Max was managing his property. Bess believed he wanted to spend a few more days with the boy, so chose not to go along. She supervised the packing of Noel’s trunk while the boy and the earl took one last jaunt about the countryside the day before departing. Bess made sure the nursery maid packed Noel’s paints and soldiers and books, as well as his meager supply of clothes. If she knew her daughter, the boy would come home muddied every day. He’d need additional changes of clothing, so Bess made a quick trip to the village to purchase more shirts and stockings, another heavy jacket. That afternoon while they were yet out riding, she raided the pantry and the still room and even her lord’s wine cellar, filling a hamper for Merry.

  By teatime, the countess ordered water heated for baths. They’d be chilled, and Bradford would be creaking louder than Prinny’s corsets.

  While she dressed for dinner, Bess fretted. It wasn’t like the earl to worry her unnecessarily, or to miss his meal. He wouldn’t have absconded with his son to avoid the separation, so he must have run into some difficulty. One of his precious horses must have come up lame or something. A messenger would be arriving soon, she was confident.

  “Hold dinner,” she told Bartholemew, and started pacing in front of the windows. So it was that the countess was the first to see the small figure limping along the carriage drive in the dusk. No messenger, no horse, only Noel. “My God,” she cried, flying for the door.

  Also on the watch, the head groom and Jem Coachman were already there when she reached the boy, Bartholemew wheezing behind her. The two stable men and their assistants were surrounding the child, shouting questions at him. Noel was sobbing.

  “Stop this, all of you!” the countess commanded. “Can’t you see you are frightening the boy worse?” They all fell back, giving her room to kneel in the muddy lane and put her hands on the boy’s soaked jacket, feeling his thin body trembling beneath. “Hush, Noel, you know his lordship doesn’t like crying. You have to tell us what happened, so we can go help him.” She unwrapped her shawl and placed it over his slim shoulders.

  Noel hiccuped and nodded, gulped and wiped his nose on the back of his wet sleeve. “We went to the old Mahoney place, to see if Merry and Max might like living there or if it’d been deserted too long. Then m’lord said he knew a shortcut back.”

  Jem groaned. “There be five lanes through the woods.” The countess gave him a lowering look until he subsided so the boy could go on.

  “And m’lord said I could hold the ribbons.” More moans and a few curses, one from Lady Carroll. “He said you’d be mad.”

  “But not at you, darling. Go on.”

  “A deer ran out, right in front of the horses, and... and the horses bolted and the carriage overturned and m’lord is under it and I couldn’t lift it. I tried, my lady, I swear I tried!”

  He was sobbing again, so Bess wrapped him in her arms and rocked him back and forth, even though her own heart was breaking. “I’m sure you did, Noel, I’m sure. But what then? He spoke to you? He was awake?” And alive, she prayed.

  Noel bobbed his head again. “He told me to unhitch the horses and ride for help. Castor was limping,” he said with a fearful look at Jake, “but his leg wasn’t broke. And Pollux didn’t like anyone on his back, but I got a fistful of his mane in my hand. M’lord pointed which way to go, and said the horse would find his way home. But it started to rain again and my fingers got cold and Pollux didn’t lik
e the trees so close. I... I fell off. You won’t tell Merry, will you?”

  “Meredyth fell off many a time herself, Noel, but I won’t tell. How did you get home, then? Did you pass someone who went back for Lord Carroll?”

  Noel shook his head. “No one came, and there were no houses. I walked and walked and then it got dark.”

  “You poor boy, alone in the woods. You must have been very frightened.”

  He looked surprised. “No, ma’am. I climbed a tree, is what, the tallest I could find, and I saw the lights.” He pointed behind her, at the four stories of Winterpark, candles burning in half its windows.

  Bess kissed his forehead and nudged him toward Bartholemew. ‘Take Master Noel inside and see he is warm and dry, as soon as you send someone for the doctor. I want every manservant who can sit a horse out front in five minutes, with lanterns. Jem, we’ll need a carriage to bring his lordship home, but that will have to follow as fast as you can. I want my mare saddled first.”

  Everything was already being done, of course, but Bess needed to make sure.

  Jake was shouting orders to his grooms, cursing. “We’ll have to start at Mahoney’s and divide up, followin’ every one of those blasted paths. Be deuced hard to find ‘em in the dark, too.”

  “I can find the right one from this side, through the woods,” a small voice spoke up. “I left markers.”

  “What a brave, clever boy you are,” Bess told him. “Let’s get you into dry clothes and then you’ll ride with me on my mare to find your... Lord Carroll.”

  “Pardon, m’lady,” Jake put in. “Every minute counts. I’d never forgive m’self for leavin’ ‘is honor out in the woods under the rig a second longer’n necessary.”

  “And he would never forgive me, nor I myself,” Bess said, headed back toward the house, the boy’s hand in hers, “for letting his son catch his death of pneumonia.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Two broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and a twisted knee were nothing compared to what Lady Carroll was going to do to her husband when he woke up, for giving her such a fright. She hadn’t left his side since they found him unconscious under his curricle two days ago. The doctor pronounced him out of danger, unless the congestion in his chest worsened. Bess had every herb in the still room brewed and ready. She sat by his bedside listening to his every breath for signs of peril or improvement. Her sewing was in her hands, but prayers were on her lips.

  The earl stirred restlessly and Bess dropped the infant gown to feel his forehead, to hold his hand.

  “Bess, is that you, my love?”

  “Who else did you think would be here, you old fool?” She tried not to weep, knowing how he hated her tears.

  “Saint Peter, actually.” He spoke in a raspy voice, then gripped her hand harder. “The boy?”

  “He is fine, Bradford, don’t worry. You should be proud of such a brave child. Now, go back to sleep. You need your rest.”

  The earl couldn’t rest yet. “He is a fine lad, isn’t he, Bess? You’ll look after him for me, won’t you? I know you’ll do right by him, I can trust you.”

  “Of course you can trust me, you looby. I wouldn’t put the reins of a high-strung pair into the hands of a little boy.”

  He nodded and tried to smile. “My love. Now I’m ready for Saint Peter.”

  “Nonsense. I shall not have you talking that way, Bradford. You’ll be here for many a long year to come because that boy needs you, and I need you. Besides, I am already planning Noel’s wedding. It’s to be the grandest affair London has ever seen. I might even rent all of Vauxhall Gardens if you aren’t around to complain. You owe me that wedding, Bradford.”

  But the earl’s eyes were already drifting closed.

  * * * *

  “Will he die, Lady Bess?” Noel had finally been allowed in to see the earl. Everyone had been whispering for days, though, so he feared the worst as he beheld the white-haired man, so pale in the huge bed.

  Bess brushed the red curls back from Noel’s forehead, where a bruise was fading. “No, darling, he’s just sleeping. He’s too stubborn to die and I’m too stubborn to let him. Besides, you saved his life, remember?”

  “I did, didn’t I?” He turned to her, all freckled smiles. Then his grin faded. “If m’lord isn’t dying, why are you weeping? He doesn’t like it, you know.” He fumbled through his pockets for the handkerchief Barty had insisted he carry. “Here.” He offered it to Lady Carroll. “Mine is bigger’n yours.”

  “And your heart is, too, precious.” She lifted him onto her lap in the chair next to the earl’s bed. “But that is going to change.”

  Noel leaned back against her, content in her warmth and comfort as he’d never been in his memory. “I am too old for this, you know,” he said sleepily a minute later.

  Bess kissed the top of his head. “So am I, darling, but we’ll both have to suffer.”

  * * * *

  They wouldn’t let the earl out of bed, to his outrage. “Who is going to look after my horses, my investments, my tenants?” he bellowed.

  “Meredyth and Sir Maxwell, Hollice and Mr. Rendell, and Joia and Viscount Comfort, in that order. Quite capably, too, my dear.” Lady Carroll was at his bedside, as usual, with her sewing. “One or the other of them is here reporting to you every minute, so it’s no wonder you aren’t getting enough rest. And shouting won’t help you recuperate any faster, my love.”

  He plucked at the bedclothes. “But what about the boy?”

  “What, did you think the girls would leave him alone for an instant after he rescued their papa? Noel is as busy as a fox in the henhouse. I could have saved the effort of hiring him a tutor, for all the man sees of the boy.”

  “But it’s nearly Christmas and I haven’t done any shopping.”

  “The girls need nothing, now that their husbands are indulging them, and if it’s the boy you are worried about, you’d do better to worry that they are spoiling him past redemption. I’ve never seen so many toy soldiers, miniature swords, games and puzzles and books, in my life.” And that wasn’t including the pile of gifts she’d purchased for him.

  The earl took her hand. “But what about you, my dear? I’ve been a sore trial to you, I know. I would get you a gift to make up for that.”

  She raised his hand to her lips. “Having you and my family together at Christmas is the best present I could ask for. If I’d lost you...” She couldn’t finish. “And you, what do you want for Christmas, Bradford?”

  “Your love is all I’ve ever wanted, Bess.”

  “I know, dearest, and you have it, forever.”

  * * * *

  On Christmas morning Lord Carroll insisted on holding the morning prayers in Winterpark’s own chapel, as the earls of Carroll had done since the family’s beginnings. He walked, slowly to be sure, and on the arms of two of his handsome sons-in-law, to the front of the small chapel, to the chair that had been placed there, the Bible beside it. He saw that the servants were already assembled in the far pews, along with a small handful of houseguests. In the front sat his daughters and their husbands, Holly big with child, Joia with a Madonna-like glow, and Merry grinning with her own supposedly secret news. The earl and Bartholemew were already making book on another little soldier.

  Bess hadn’t come yet, but it was Christmas. She had a hundred things to do. And the boy was likely with his tutor. Bradford sighed. He had so much, his heart was so full, he wouldn’t wish for the moon. He started to read the Christmas story, as heads of households all across England were reading it that morning.

  Toward the middle he heard a latecomer arrive. Without lifting his head, he knew it was his Bess, the way he always knew when she entered a room. He kept reading.

  “Well, I never!” he heard the Duchess of Carlisle exclaim.

  And Bess answered, “No, and that’s why you see your son but twice a year. I’m surprised Comfort turned out as well as he did.”

  Now the earl looked up, to see his beloved wife take
the very front seat in the chapel, light from the stained-glass windows casting a reflected rainbow on her—and on the boy by her side in the family pew. Bess straightened Noel’s neckcloth and placed her arm around his shoulder.

  It didn’t matter that tears blurred the page in front of him, Lord Carroll knew the words by heart: “And lo, unto them that day a son was born....”

  Copyright © 1997 by Barbara Metzger

  Originally published by Fawcett Crest (ISBN 0449225100)

  Electronically published in 2007 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.