A Christmas Gone Perfectly Wrong: A Blackshear Family novella (B 0.5)

by Cecilia Grant

  A speck of cold touched his ear. He glanced up. Snow. A very few flakes meandering down, though their numbers might grow.

  He mustn’t dawdle. “John.” He strode briskly—but not anxiously, one hoped for the horse’s sake—back to the carriage. “Would you be so good as to walk to the farmhouse there and see whether anyone will come out to help us free Miss Sharp and advise us as to where we may get our wheel repaired? Miss Sharp!” He knocked on the right-side window, once he’d handed off his horse and found his hat in the ditch. She still sat curled in the carriage’s lowest spot, hands linked behind her head. “I’m sending my driver to get help. Can you open this window, that we won’t have to shout?” She’d have to stand upright—or as upright as one could in a tilted carriage—to reach the window, and that, truly, was what he wanted. Seeing her small and scared put an unpleasant sensation in his chest.

  Gingerly she rose, bracing herself on the seat-fronts. Her lips pressed thin with concentration.

  “The wheels are snug against the side of the ditch. The carriage can’t slide out from underneath you.” Had she huddled here all this time, not daring to move for fear of that very event? Curse his negligence for not having assured her at once that she was safe.

  She nodded, fumbling with the window for a moment before she got it lowered. When she poked her head out into daylight, he could see the paleness that ringed her mouth.

  “You’re shivering, Miss Sharp.” His hand, of its own accord, went to cover hers where she’d hooked her fingers over the sill.

  “Ah. So I am.” She brought her other hand alongside the first, studying the shaking fingers as though they were someone else’s. “I suppose I must have been afraid.” Abruptly she laughed. “Yes, looking back upon it, I’m sure I was afraid. Only I don’t seem to have been quite aware of it at the time.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright and a little wild. “It’s very odd, isn’t it?”

  “Odd, perhaps, but providential as well.” He laid his second hand over hers, stepping nearer and resting his arms on the carriage’s upturned side. It made his innards twist to think of how long he’d spent working to reassure that horse, while she’d been on the carriage floor, all alone and shaking. “You managed beautifully. You did everything right, to prevent yourself being hurt. Not everyone can think so quick in a crisis.” It was and wasn’t like praising the horse; like congratulating his brothers for a charitable deed or a good term at school. The feel of trembling fingers under his palms, to choose an obvious point, rendered it very unlike any speech of encouragement he’d delivered before.

  “Oh, there was very little thinking involved, as it happens. Papa had me practice so often what to do that I did it without thought.” She blinked, looking past him. “Is it snowing?”

  “It is, a bit. It just began.” He spoke lightly. No need to start her worrying over what the snow might mean to their travels. “That was very prudent and foresighted of your father, to prepare you so. I know I spoke critically earlier of how he’d brought you up, but I hope I have justice enough to commend him as he deserves.”

  “I confess I sometimes wished he’d be less diligent. It was prodigiously unsettling to go anywhere in the carriage, knowing that at any moment he might cry out, ‘Overturn!’ and then I must curl up on the floor and cover my head.” She glanced down at her hands, his hands. “But my mother died in a carriage accident, you know, and he was loath to lose me the same way.”

  “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.” For a moment he could say nothing more. What must have gone through her head, in those endless seconds when the floor canted higher and higher beneath her? And how could he ever have got through bringing the news to Lord Sharp, if she’d followed her mother’s sad end?

  “I was so young at the time. Only a baby. I was at home with my nurse when it happened, so I haven’t any memories of the event, or really any memories of my mother.” Her fingers twitched: without realizing it, he’d been pressing her hands too hard. He released her—she’d stopped trembling, anyway—and settled one hand on the carriage’s side, one on the nearest upturned wheel. “But you’re right: he was wise to have me practice, particularly without any warning. Because that’s the way accidents arrive.” She laughed at her own words. “I knew that already, of course. But I know it in a different way now.”

  “That’s true of many things, I expect. We think we know them, and then experience comes and shows us just how little we know.” He, for instance, had been so sure of the value of principle as a guide for all his actions. Lofty principle had led him to hold fast to the carriage seat instead of jumping to safety, and only prosaic chance and the more-prosaic roadside hedge had spared him from disaster. It was an uncomfortable sort of new knowledge to own.

  More snowflakes were falling, beginning to dot the carriage where it faced the sky. He touched one with a fingertip. In the distance he could see John Coachman drawing near to the farmhouse.

  “Mr. Blackshear.” Her voice floated low and half-hesitant through the air between them, and for a moment he couldn’t help suspecting that she’d read his thoughts and would have something to say, either reassuring or dismissive, about the efficacy of principle as a guide for one’s behavior. “I have a concern about the party,” she said instead.

  No, of course she hadn’t been preparing some remarks about principle. And that was for the best. Two such dissimilar minds wouldn’t have been able to carry on any fruitful discussion of the topic. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you to your party.” He simply wouldn’t allow any other outcome. “I’ll see to repairing the wheel as soon as I’ve seen to freeing you from the carriage.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t any doubt of that.” She frowned at her hands, laying one over the other and interlacing all the fingers where they gripped the window’s sill. She looked up. “Do you think it likely anyone will ask me to dance?”

  They could hardly get further from a discussion of principle if they’d been expressly tasked to do so. “Certainly, if there’s dancing, and I expect there will be.” Really, how was he supposed to answer this? Kitty had never come to him with such a question, and he strongly doubted Martha ever would. “Did you never learn how?”

  “No, I learned. My aunt saw to it I had a dancing master. Only I got the impression, from him, that gentlemen prefer partners of a daintier size. Partners who don’t tower over them. Men don’t like to have to look up, when making conversation.”

  “Any man so shallow as to choose his partners on that criteria doesn’t deserve the pleasure of dancing or the pleasure of conversation.” He felt fiercely, unexpectedly protective of her, and contemptuous of any man who could look at such magnificent proportions—not to mention that mouth, and that river of midnight hair—and see only the inconvenience of having to raise his chin when speaking. “I assure you I would dance with you, if we ever found ourselves at the same party.”

  “Yes, well, you’re taller than I am.” She was blushing. He’d spoken too strongly. “So you don’t disprove my point.”

  “Then you must hope there are tall men at your party, or hope that your dancing master was wrong, both of which prospects I would say are well within the realm of possibility.” And I’m not very much taller, he nearly added, but this was really beside the point, and unnecessarily personal as well. He took a half-step back, shifting his weight away from the carriage. He needed to extricate himself from this conversation. “I’ll go see how the horses do, if you’re feeling quite recovered.”

  “I am. Thank you. Mr. Blackshear.” He’d already turned and was past the front wheel when her words summoned his attention back. Snowflakes were sticking to her hat, her cloak, the gloved hands that had shivered under his own. “I would dance with you, too, if we were at the same party.”

  He bowed wordlessly, an uneasy simmer starting up in his blood. How could he tell her she mustn’t say such things to men? She’d point out, with truth on her side, that she was only making an equivalent answer to what he had already said to her. Still, he must
find some way, before he left her at Hatfield Hall, to slip in a word or two of admonition, if only to spare himself from worry once she was out of his charge. And in the meanwhile he must redouble his own efforts to keep their intercourse strictly formal and correct. That they’d indulged in a bit of familiarity after such a crisis as the carriage accident was probably excusable, but the familiarity mustn’t be prolonged.

  He occupied himself with the horses until John Coachman appeared in the distance with a rescue party, and then he hopped over the hedge to go meet them. Two men, along with John and himself, would be plenty to right the carriage. The woman they brought with them must be one’s wife, conscripted or volunteering to care for the shaken Miss Sharp.

  “Mr. Blackshear.” John led the way and was speaking even before they’d got within conversation distance, his brow lowered with meaning. “How does Mrs. Blackshear do? It was my impression she took a fright.”

  Only for an instant was he set off balance. Of course. Good thinking on the coachman’s part. They mustn’t risk these people’s refusing to help what they might perceive to be an eloping couple or worse.

  So much for distance and formal intercourse, but there was nothing for it. Andrew stepped forward and took off his hat. “Mrs. Blackshear has recovered well from the fright, but I know she’s eager to be out of that carriage. Whom do I have the pleasure of thanking for coming to our rescue?”

  * * *

  She’d hoped this holiday might lead eventually to the acquisition of a husband, but she hadn’t expected to acquire one quite so soon, or in such circumstances, or on counterfeit terms.

  Mr. Blackshear stood by the carriage, one sizable hand resting on its corner and the other out of sight in a pocket as he conferred with the other men over what could be done for the wheel. He’d laid those hands atop hers, when he’d seen her fingers to be trembling. And just a moment ago he’d used them to lift her down from the carriage and over the hedge while the other three men held the vehicle upright. She could still feel a phantom warmth on her waist where he’d gripped her.

  “I suppose all the neighborhood children must be delighted to see the snow.” She, in fact, was delighted to see the snow. As well as the trees. And the sky. And a lone cow in the field on the other side of the road. Everything, not just one’s sturdy-handed temporary husband, looked a bit more wonderful when your carriage had gone over and you’d come out unscathed. “Do you have any children, Mrs. Porter?” Mr. and Mrs. Porter it was who’d come to their aid, along with their stableman Ned.

  “None small enough for snow.” The woman had a pleasant, plump-cheeked face, with creases at the corners of her light blue eyes. “We only had our Julia, and she’s nineteen and a married woman now.”

  “Does she still live nearby? Will you see her over Christmastide?”

  Mrs. Porter shook her head, mouth twisting. “We’d hoped we might, but they’ll be visiting her husband’s parents for the holidays. I suppose it’s difficult for a young husband and wife when both sets of parents are living, and not living near to each other.”

  “Oh, I assure you it is.” How much ought she to say here? Would she contradict some detail Mr. Blackshear had already told the men? “Mr. Blackshear and I are returning now from a visit to my father. We have still to stop near Welney, to see my aunt and uncle, before we go on to his family’s house in Cambridgeshire. All that running about, and you see what’s happened.” She waved at the fallen carriage. She felt slightly dizzy. Why couldn’t she seem to stop talking? “Your Julia is much better off making but one visit. And perhaps she can come to see you in the spring.”

  “I surely hope she will. And I hope you’re able to do all the Christmas visiting you’d planned.” Mrs. Porter tilted her face and frowned at the sky, where snowflakes were whirling down rather formidably now.

  Depending on how long it took to repair the wheel, there might be inches on the ground by the time they were ready to travel again. And it might be quite late by the time they reached Welney. Maybe Mr. Blackshear had better spend the night at Hatfield Hall, rather than driving through the dark to Cambridgeshire. She could perhaps pass him off as a hired driver, that her aunt and uncle wouldn’t think to blame him for her unchaperoned state.

  He would hate that. Anyone could see what it meant to him to spend the holiday with his family. She could scarcely imagine how little he’d like to wake up in the wrong house on Christmas morning, and possibly in servants’ quarters at that. He would probably prefer to take his chances on the night-time road.

  As if hearing her thoughts, her counterfeit husband detached himself from the group of men and came to her, stepping Colossus-like over the ditch and then the hedge. That he wasn’t happy was evident from the merest glance at his face.

  “The nearest wheelwright’s gone to spend the holidays with his brother.” He took off his hat and pushed weary fingers through his hair. “Mr. Porter doesn’t know where to find the next-nearest. It might be all the way back to Downham Market.”

  “That’s… a long way.” Nearly an hour, she would guess. An hour there and an hour back; time to borrow a cart or saddle-horse for the journey; time to persuade the wheelwright, who might not want to spend his Christmas Eve repairing a wheel; and then, if all those other things went well, the time it would take to make the repair. With snow falling steadily all the while.

  His eyes told her he’d made all these same calculations. “Don’t despair, Miss…us Blackshear.” Barely in time he stopped himself from using her real name. “There might be a nearer wheelwright with whom Mr. Porter simply isn’t acquainted. We’re going to take the horses and carriage to Mr. Porter’s barn.” Her heart slouched lower. That would take more time. “Then I’ll go into the village and see whether anyone knows of a nearer man.” He turned to Mrs. Porter. “Would you be so good as to give my wife shelter while she waits? I’d be grateful to know she was somewhere warm and dry.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Porter dipped her head, a sort of vestigial curtsey. “I’ll put the kettle on and have hot tea for all of you when you come in.”

  “Mr. Blackshear.” She needed to talk to him before they parted. At the very least, she needed to know whether they’d told conflicting stories. “I’d like to bring the bird, if I may. If we’re to be here for a while. I’ll find a place for it in the barn, if Mrs. Porter doesn’t object.”

  Mrs. Porter didn’t voice any objection, so she went with Mr. Blackshear to the carriage, where he took down the crate and the bag that held the falcon’s things. They were far enough away from the others that they could speak in low voices and be unheard.

  “I told Mrs. Porter that we’ve come from visiting my father, we’re on our way to see my aunt and uncle, and then we’re bound for your family’s house in Cambridgeshire.” She crouched by the crate, tugging the falconer’s glove on as she spoke.

  “Good. It’s best we stay as close to the truth as we can.” He knelt at the crate’s other side, that she wouldn’t have to raise her voice. “Did you say how long we’ve been married?”

  She shook her head. “I think we ought to say under a year. Any longer and they might wonder why we haven’t any children.” She drew out the tether. “Will you tie this to the loop on my wrist, please?” What other details must they account for and agree upon? “How do we explain your not having a trunk?”

  “It went ahead in a second carriage with your maid and my valet.” He tied an excellent knot without her even telling him how. “You and I live in London most of the year. Our house is in Mount Street. May I ask your age?”

  “One and twenty. May I ask your name?” She concentrated all her attention on reaching into the open crate and tying the loose end of the tether to the jess hanging from the falcon’s ankle, to avoid looking at his face. Many respectable wives and husbands never called each other by given name at all. He might be offended, and tell her that she need only address him as Mr. Blackshear.

  But he knew her name. He’d heard Papa say it a score of times
. It was only fair she know his. And she wanted—oh, there was no good reason for it, when they’d stumbled back and forth from awkwardness to antagonism since their first meeting, and when each was in a hurry to get to the place where their paths would permanently diverge—but she wanted to know what name he went by among the people who loved him best.

  “Andrew is my Christian name.” His words loosed an exquisite snowfall within her, a hundred times prettier than the one outside. “Andrew James Blackshear. I’m five and twenty years old. And I’ve heard your name, but not from you. I won’t presume to use it without your permission.” He kept his eyes lowered to the crate, and his words were everything proper, but his voice bore faint traces of that mulled-wine essence. This was an intimacy and he knew it.

  “Of course you may use it. Lucy. Lucy Anne Sharp. The Honorable Lucy Sharp, if you’re addressing a letter to me.” She spoke quickly, getting the falcon out of the crate and situated on her wrist.

  “The Honorable Mrs. Blackshear, rather. Even if you don’t tower over me, you’ve managed to marry beneath you.” His dimple flashed when she looked up at him—he was so near—just as if he really were a husband teasing his wife.

  She rose from her crouch, not entirely steady, and his hand came across to support her by the elbow. When she’d gained her feet he let go and stepped back, his eyes roving about to capture the whole picture of her.

  She felt the way she had when he’d first looked at her in the lane: like she was something richer and rarer than a mortal woman. Like she might be a warrior princess, with the falcon on her arm, or a witch equipped with her familiar. Snow swirled down between them and she didn’t know what to say.