The Christmas Foundling: A Christmas Regency Romance (Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair Book 5)

by Martha Keyes

  Of course she hadn’t. It was one of the things he loved about her. “It seems a very good idea to me. We can speak with Cook about it—see if she has any ideas.”

  Lydia smiled at him and nodded.

  They had been stringing up garlands and folding paper flowers for an hour when the form of Miles’s mother appeared in the doorway to the drawing room. She looked around, taking stock of the scene before her, which was a mess of half-hung greenery and stray remnants lying about the floor.

  “Good heavens,” she said with a smile. “What a scene you are to behold! Hello, Miss Donnely and Miss Mary.”

  The girls both offered a curtsy and a smile, and Miles walked over and kissed his mother on the cheek. “Hello, Mother. Glad you could come.” He hadn’t invited her, but then, she never required invitations.

  “Oh,” she said when she had stepped far enough into the room to see Thomas on the floor. “I thought the baby would surely be gone by now.” She looked at Miles with an expression he couldn’t identify.

  “Yes,” he said, crouching down to move one of the garlands from Thomas’s reach, “well, we made a trip to the Foundling Hospital, but they wouldn’t accept the little lad.”

  His mother drew back in blinking surprise. “Wouldn’t accept him?”

  “They are strict in their admissions.” He glanced at Lydia and noted how slow and measured her movements were. His mother put her on edge and had for nearly as long as Miles could remember.

  “Well”—she took a seat in the nearest chair—“I shouldn’t have thought they would be in a position to refuse a donation.”

  “They don’t accept donations, Mother. Not anymore.”

  She raised her brows. “Perhaps not formally, but everyone accepts the right donation. Never mind that, though. What do you intend to do now?”

  Miles shrugged and used a foot to sweep some of the greenery bits into a pile. “We will work to find a different situation for him. A family who might take him in after Christmastide.”

  His mother blinked at him. “I see. Well, I shall endeavor to put the word about myself.”

  Miles glanced at Lydia, whose eyes had widened. “Thank you, Mother, but we needn’t bother you with that. We shall manage, and in the meantime, we are content to have him here.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, looking to Thomas again. “I cannot deny he is quite charming. I do think that he cannot but add to your stress, though, and I am convinced that if you would both just relax a bit, you might find that you have a child of your own in a very short time. You know, it took nearly half a year before I became pregnant with you, Miles, and I was terribly concerned over it. It wasn’t until I took a trip to the countryside and left off thinking of it that I was rewarded.”

  Miles felt his muscles tensing, and he didn’t even dare look at Lydia. It wasn’t the first time his mother had suggested that their lack of children was due to something they were doing wrong—or had likened her own experience to theirs, despite the fact that hers was so short-lived in comparison. She was only trying to be helpful, he knew, but such comments couldn’t but add to the stress both he and Lydia felt. And their guilt as well. It never failed to make Miles think what his father would say if he were still here and could see just how far Miles was from fulfilling his promise.

  It was generally assumed that Lydia was the one to blame for their lack of children, but he found himself questioning the assumption. He’d known more than one situation where the husband of a couple seemingly unable to conceive had died, and his wife had gone on to remarry and have numerous children. It couldn’t help but make Miles wonder whether he was the cause of their troubles.

  “I do so wish for a grandchild to dote upon,” said his mother, settling back into her chair with a sigh. “And to meet the heir of this family. You cannot imagine what pride I felt when you were born, Miles.”

  “Excuse me,” Lydia said, hand to her mouth. “I believe Thomas needs to be fed.” She hurriedly picked him up from the floor.

  “Can not one of the servants do that?” asked Miles’s mother.

  “I am more than happy to do it myself,” Lydia said, and Miles could hear the slight trembling in her voice. She was gone a moment later, and he debated following after her. Diana and Mary were sharing grimacing glances with one another.

  “Thomas, did she say?” Miles’s mother asked.

  “Yes, that is what we’ve decided to call him.”

  She looked thoughtful. “I suppose you must call him something, but I do not think it is wise to become too attached.” She looked at the door Lydia had disappeared through. “It really ought to be one of the servants feeding him.”

  Miles was hardly listening. “Just a moment, Mother. If you’ll excuse me.” He hurried after his wife, catching sight of her a ways down the corridor.

  “Lydia,” he said as he came up beside her and slowed.

  He heard the sniffing before he saw the tears, which she strove to hide from him, but he placed himself in front of her, stopping her progress, then took her cheek in his hand, wiping at a little rivulet with his thumb. “I am sorry. She doesn’t understand.”

  “But she thinks she does.” She let Thomas grab the sleeve of her dress and pull it into his mouth.

  “Yes.” He dropped his hand from her face. “She doesn’t mean to hurt, you know.”

  “Does she not?” Lydia looked at him intently. “Does she not mean to make it clear that you made the wrong decision when you married me?” She looked away. “And you never counter her—you allow her to humiliate me and condescend to me. In front of my sisters.”

  Miles opened his mouth only to shut it again. He hadn’t thought of it that way. “I’m sorry, Lydia. I have become so accustomed to letting Mother say whatever she wishes. She does not brook disagreement very well. It is more unpleasant to contradict her than it is to let her speak and brush aside her words.”

  “For you, perhaps,” Lydia said.

  He thought on her words for a moment, wondering how to respond. In the beginning of their marriage, he had so seldom been obliged to think when he was with Lydia. It was all so natural. But now, he analyzed every interaction—before and after it occurred—and he often felt paralyzed with indecision.

  “I should go feed Thomas,” she said. “I shall only be a quarter of an hour.”

  He watched with a gathering frown as Lydia disappeared down the corridor.

  Chapter 8

  Brighton 1809

  “Look!” Lydia cried as she snatched another shell from the sand before the approaching wave crashed over her feet.

  Diana and Mary both came running over, holding their skirts up, gazes on Lydia’s hand. “What is it?”

  Lydia unfurled her fingers to reveal the pink and white shell. Its peaks and grooves fanned out from the bottom in a pattern that approached perfection more than anything Lydia had ever held.

  Diana stretched her hand toward it and rubbed a finger along the creases. “That is beautiful. You seem to have all the luck. I haven’t found anything but these small ones.” She revealed three mussel shells.

  “Those are beautiful, as well,” Lydia said. “Look how the colors change in the light.”

  “Iridescent,” Mary said, taking one and turning it from side to side. “That’s what it is called when the colors shift at different angles.”

  Smiling, Lydia watched the rainbow appear with every twist. A muffled yell sounded in the distance, and she glanced over at the group of ladies and gentlemen playing with a cricket ball and bat down the shoreline. They played with no wickets, and they seemed to be getting closer and closer to Lydia and her sisters every time Lydia looked in their direction. Her eyes lingered there for a moment, on the smiling faces whose laughs carried on the breeze, but on one figure in particular—the man she had seen at the lending library yesterday. She could still picture his smile and the kindness in his eyes.

  She pulled her gaze away and back to the shell in her hand. “Shall we put these shells with t
he others?”

  Her sisters nodded, and they walked toward the small collection they had set in a small basin in the sand, just out of the tide’s reach. A dozen seashells lay there, and they set the new ones carefully on top.

  “I think I see some over here,” Mary said, and she skipped away, bringing a smile to Lydia’s face. She was beginning to act much older now, particularly since they’d come to Brighton, but every now and then, some of her youth would reveal itself as it was now. She was only twelve, after all.

  Lydia and Diana followed her, stooping down to inspect what the last wave had brought in. Lydia inspected one, then took it over to set in the pile, taking a moment to spread out the treasures.

  The voices of the cricket players crescendoed, and Lydia glanced up in time to see a man running backwards in her direction as a ball arced toward her. She hurried to her feet and stumbled away from it, but not before the man, whose arm reached for the approaching ball, crashed into her, sending them both backward onto the sand.

  She rolled away from him and, wincing, put a hand to her side, which had been jabbed by the man’s elbow as they’d hit the ground. He turned toward her, his eyes so wide that there was no mistaking their blue hue.

  “My greatest apologies, miss,” he said in an embarrassed voice. He pushed himself up from the ground and held out his hand to her. In the other hand, he held the cricket ball. Somehow, he had managed to catch it and hold onto it.

  Diana and Mary came over as Lydia accepted the man’s hand. Not expecting the ease with which he pulled her to her feet, she bumped into him again and hurried to step backward. He wore trousers, a brown waistcoat, and shirtsleeves which were rolled up to his elbows, showcasing muscular forearms, while the ends of his cravat rippled with the breeze.

  “Forgive me,” she said with an embarrassed smile.

  He shook his head in a slow, dazed way, his gaze trained on her with evident curiosity and admiration. “The fault lies entirely with me.” His voice was soft and gentle, at odds with his powerful build.

  “Are you hurt, Lydia?” Diana asked.

  Lydia broke her gaze from the man’s, and she shook her head, brushing at her skirts. “No, No. I am well.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you certain? I believe I must have hurt you.”

  She put a hand to her side, which still throbbed, then shook her head.

  “But he has broken all of our seashells!” Mary cried out.

  Their heads all turned down, taking in the mess of shattered shells that filled the hollow holding the collection. The pink fan shell Lydia had just found seemed to be intact, though, and she bent to pick it up, only to find that it cracked in four pieces in her hand.

  “I am so terribly sorry,” he said, reaching for the pieces in Lydia’s hand. “I should have looked where I was going. I…” He let out a frustrated breath.

  “It is no matter,” Lydia said, eyes flitting to the woman who was approaching. She had been at the library, too. “The tide will bring in more shells tomorrow.”

  He grimaced apologetically, but before he could speak, his arm was taken up by the woman. “Mr. Blakeburn,” she said in a breathless voice. “Are you well? I saw you fall and…” Her eyes moved to Lydia and her sisters, and she smiled. She was one of the most beautiful creatures Lydia had ever seen: full lips that stretched in a smile, kind eyes, and ringlets tousled by the breeze framing her face.

  “I am perfectly well,” Mr. Blakeburn said. “But the same cannot be said for these shells, nor for Miss”—he looked at Lydia questioningly.

  “Donnely,” she replied. “But I assure you, I am unhurt.”

  He didn’t look away from her, as though he didn’t know if he believed her.

  “Come, Mr. Blakeburn,” said the woman, and she sent a smile at the Donnely sisters while pulling him away.

  “Forgive me.” He bowed then surrendered to the woman’s pull.

  Lydia and her sisters watched the departure of the couple for a moment, until Lydia realized that Diana was watching her, not Mr. Blakeburn.

  “Mr. Blakeburn and Sophia Kirkland,” Diana said. “He is heir to a barony. Rather breathtaking together, aren’t they? I believe they are expected to make an announcement soon.”

  Lydia pulled her eyes away, feeling almost as crushed as the shell in her hands. A ridiculous feeling. “How do you come to know such a thing?” Diana was only seventeen, yet she always knew more about Town gossip than Lydia.

  Diana shrugged. “They were at the lending library yesterday, and after they left, the two old women near us were discussing it.”

  Lydia gathered up the shell remnants, slipping them into her reticule. “I’m sure we can find something to do with these bits and pieces. They are still beautiful.”

  The Present

  Small flakes fluttered to the ground on Christmas morning, and Lydia took Thomas up to the window to show him the marvel of falling snow. He smacked his hand against the window panes as if he might somehow reach through it if he tried hard enough.

  “Do you smell that?” she asked him. “Cook must have already begun baking the pastries.”

  She glanced at the door that connected the bedroom to Miles’s, and her brows drew together. Things had felt more strained between them since the incident in the drawing room with his mother. Upon reflection, though, she realized she had not handled things well. She wasn’t terribly concerned about how her mother-in-law felt, if indeed she had felt anything upon Lydia’s hasty departure. No, it was what she had said to Miles that made her stomach crawl with guilt.

  She had been frustrated and hurt by his mother’s words, and she had taken it out on him. She did want him to stand up to his mother—to tell her not to concern herself with what was not her business. But she wasn’t so selfish that she didn’t see how it would affect Miles’s relationship with his mother if he did.

  And, truly, at the heart of it all, what bothered her more than the unsolicited advice from the dowager baroness was the fear she harbored inside, which reared its ugly head every time the woman came for a visit. The dowager and her husband had heavily discouraged Miles from marrying Lydia—the daughter of a physician, be he ever so well-to-do, was not what they had wanted for him—and while the knowledge had affected her relationship with her father- and mother-in-law, it had since begun to affect her relationship with Miles himself.

  He had disregarded his parents’ counsel, and now he undoubtedly regretted it. How could he not? Had he married Sophia Kirkland, it was a near certainty that he would already have an heir, besides the connections her family had. Miss Kirkland had been an eminently eligible choice, and no matter how hard she tried, Lydia had never been able to find fault with the woman.

  But none of that justified Lydia’s unkindness to Miles. Quite the reverse, rather.

  “Shall we go see if Miles is awake?” With her heart pattering against her chest, she took Thomas over to the door and knocked gently upon it.

  She heard some muted sounds coming from the other side, and it was a moment before the door opened, revealing Miles with his dressing gown askew and eyes clearly still accustoming themselves to the light.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked with concern, rubbing at one of his eyes with a finger.

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Lydia said, taking a step back. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. It must be earlier than I had thought.”

  Was this what it had come to? A visit from his wife signified something ominous?

  He smiled a bit blearily. “Don’t apologize.” He chucked Thomas gently under the chin. “You are a wonderful sight to wake to. I think I must have overslept. I didn’t sleep terribly well last night.”

  “Nor did I,” she said, searching his face. Had he stayed awake for the same reason she had? “Thomas and I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.” She gathered her courage. “And I wished to apologize for my behavior yesterday.”

  He blinked twice then shook his head. “No, it is I who owe y
ou an apology.”

  She smiled, and he followed suit.

  “And what of you, Thomas?” Miles asked. “Have you no apology? For all your attempts to ingest our decorations yesterday? Hmm?”

  Lydia laughed. Thomas had not only surprised them by turning over and beginning to attempt a crawl, they had also been obliged to pull a handful of greenery from his mouth. “It appears no apology is forthcoming. He seems quite remorseless.”

  Miles squinted at Thomas. “Ingrate! Shall we go down to breakfast?”

  Lydia nodded.

  Miles stepped back and hesitated, hand on the door. He held her gaze then dropped his to his dressing gown, still untied.

  Lydia’s eyes followed, taking in the view of his unbuttoned shirtsleeves which revealed a great deal of his chest. Had he always been so athletic? Yes, she rather thought he had. She could almost remember how it felt to lay her hand there.

  “I just need to change…”

  “Oh,” Lydia said, blinking away her thoughts. “Of course. I do as well. And Thomas needs to be changed.” She kept her eyes safely fixed on his face, but even the line of his jaw led to his neck, which led down—

  “Was there something else?” he asked.

  “No,” she laughed away her thoughts. “Perhaps we can meet in the corridor in a few minutes?”

  “Gladly,” he said, and she stepped out of the doorway before her eyes could wander again.

  She focused on pulling the bell and deciding what she would wear for the day, paying no attention to the quicker-than-usual beating of her heart. It had been a very long time since she had felt the inklings of desire. Intimacy had come to feel like a burden—one that Miles had never seemed to mind in the least. She had forgotten what it was like to hold her husband and be held by him without an eye toward whether things might result in what they had been hoping for for so long.

  Ten minutes later, they joined one another in the corridor and made their way downstairs.

  The dining room had been chosen after the drawing room and staircase for decoration, and it presented a very cozy picture indeed: fire crackling in the grate, juniper branches draped atop the mantel, and a collection of holly set in the middle of the table.