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

by Cecilia Grant

  He could console this version, if he chose. She’d told him how in plain terms.

  He closed his eyes and took a breath. “Do you still wish I would put off my errand to Downham Market?” It would cost him more than a little in conscience and self-respect. But maybe, in this moment, there were other duties, other claims, more important than conscience and self-respect.

  “I do.” She let her hand fall from her face to his shoulder. “It’s not sensible, I know. It’s selfish and silly and it goes against all your plans. But I do wish you would stay.”

  Another breath, since the first hadn’t gone quite deep enough. “And tonight?”

  “I’m not afraid.” Her voice dropped low: he fancied he could feel its vibrations where his palm cradled the back of her head. “I would kick you if there were any need, this time. I wouldn’t be taken so by surprise, as I was last night. I would drive an elbow into your ribs.”

  “Well. What man could resist such an invitation as that?”

  She laughed without sound, a single exhalation that coasted across his cheek and warmed his ear. It felt nearly as good as kissing her had, and for a second or two he ransacked his brain for another witticism, to feel her laugh again and to show her he wasn’t entirely the humorless prig she’d despaired of.

  No second witticism obliged, though, and just as well. If nothing was to come of this—since nothing was to come of this; there was no place for ifs in the matter when she’d made her position on marrying him so clear—since nothing would come of this perverse, misguided attraction, each to an idealized variant of the other, then he oughtn’t to seek these small intimacies, or exert himself to gain her better opinion.

  He brought his cheek away from hers, taking a half-step back. “We should think of rejoining the company. We’ve been absent for rather a long while.”

  “Oh, Lord, the company.” She winced, and didn’t meet his eyes. “I can’t begin to imagine what they must be thinking of us now.” So maybe she’d learned a little after all, on this journey, about the value of society’s good opinion and—

  No. Enough. It wasn’t his place to harbor hopes of what she might or might not be learning. It never had been. Henceforward, for the remaining hours of their acquaintance, he could at least do her the courtesy of meeting her as she was.

  “I doubt they’re thinking of us at all, and if they are, what do we care for their judgment? You know yourself to be innocent of any wrongdoing.” It felt a bit like speaking round a mouthful of rocks, but he persevered, releasing the hold he still had on her and clapping her lightly on the upper arms, like a boxing-master with a prizefighter. “Hold your head high, as befits a baron’s daughter, and if anyone dares to look askance at you, answer with your haughtiest stare.”

  “Yes. So I shall.” She mustered a smile, but he’d seen enough of her real smiles now to know a false one when it came.

  “It’s not at all difficult. I’ll stay by you, that you may observe my style of haughty stare in case you need an example.” He sounded like a stranger, a trifling would-be wit working rather too hard to amuse. Never mind. He’d gladly play the fool, if doing so could coax a genuine smile from her. “I’m sure you’ll agree you couldn’t pick a better teacher from whom to study haughtiness and all manner of stern disapprobation.”

  Her smile etched deeper into her cheeks, though without any warm spontaneity, and he realized she was humoring him, tamping down her own distress to fabricate the response she hoped would put him most at ease.

  Weren’t they a pair after all, each one playing false in order to secure the other’s comfort.

  He put out his elbow. “Let’s go now.” They’d come to the end of this room’s little drama, and as he shut the door behind them, he couldn’t help feeling he was shutting it on more than just the Longs’ breakfast parlor.

  But that must be an illusion of his pride. She’d been the one to shut the door. All he could do was respect her decision, and trust that one day he’d be nothing but grateful for the prudent good sense she’d shown when his own good sense had gone wandering.

  * * *

  The worst of it, if she was to be perfectly honest, was the suspicion that she might have given a different answer if he’d only asked her in some way more gratifying to her sentiments and her vanity. Now that I have you in my arms, Lucy, I realize I can never let you go. Now that I’ve danced with you, I know I’ll never want to dance with anyone else. Now that we’ve shared this Christmas, I find I can’t bear the prospect of future Christmases without you. Won’t you accept my hand, and make me the happiest of men?

  Between kisses he might have got the words out, a few at a time. And in that dizzy, swooning state she might have sagged against him and breathed out a tremulous yes.

  And then there she’d have been, betrothed to a man she’d met two days before.

  And there he’d have been, bound for life to a lady so flighty and frivolous that her willingness to enter into that solemn partnership depended entirely on whether the gentleman asked her in the right way.

  “Do you mind if we stop at the card room?” He laid his hand atop the hand she rested on his forearm. His fingertips fit so well between her knuckles. “I should speak to the man whose cart I was to borrow.”

  This was a kindness. He could have gone to talk to the cart man on his own, and come to find her after that business was done. But he’d taken her mortification to heart, and wouldn’t leave her to face the company without him.

  Why do you care whether I stay, he’d said, when you’ve given every evidence of wishing I were some man other than the man I am? Even now she couldn’t begin to frame a satisfactory reply. And wasn’t that proof enough that she had no business marrying him?

  At the card room they had a surprise: the man with the cart introduced another man, a Mr. Wilkins, neighbor to the absent wheelwright. And Mr. Wilkins had it on best authority that the wheelwright would return tomorrow. “I have reason to know, for I’m the one to feed and milk his cow while he’s away,” Mr. Wilkins informed them, straightening the edges of his waistcoat into such order as befit a man of his consequence. “Indeed there’s no one in all of Thornton Cross can have more knowledge on the subject than me.”

  “Then I’m more than ever satisfied with my decision to defer the errand.” Mr. Blackshear twisted to smile over his shoulder at her. It was another kindness. It was a performance, in fact, an effort to assure her he wasn’t regretting having capitulated to her fickle demands.

  It hurt her heart. She could only return his smile—and this, for but a second or two before she had to look away—and murmur something about being glad he needn’t make that long journey in cold weather after all.

  She was glad of that. No one should spend even part of Christmas on a lonely trip in a doubtless uncomfortable cart on a mission whose success was not at all assured, when he might be in a warm and welcoming house instead, surrounded on all sides by holiday cheer.

  Still, a reasonable person might say she ought to have let him make that choice for himself. He was a grown man, the reasonable person might point out, and if he liked to put duty first, and make himself uncomfortable in the process, that was nobody’s business but his.

  Certainly it wasn’t the business of a lady who’d known him all of two days and would be parting from him tomorrow. But she’d run roughshod nevertheless over his reasons for wanting to go, just as she’d run roughshod over his principled reluctance to remain in the room with her last night, and roughshod over his objections to leaving Perkins behind in Downham Market, and roughshod over his unwillingness to take her to Hatfield Hall in the first place. All told, she’d behaved rather badly, the reasonable person would say.

  Well, she’d at least done him the kindness of declining to marry him. Now he’d be free to find a lady who would properly prize his upright qualities and match them with her own.

  Or not now, precisely. Now, and for the rest of the day and the night as well, he was here, and she was all the wife h
e had. And now, if she was worth anything, she would climb out of this morass of self-discontent and apply herself to showing him how she appreciated his staying, and indeed how she appreciated him.

  She could begin by trying the smile again, with a bit more of conviction this time. “What good luck that you should have happened to be here, Mr. Wilkins, and how kind of you to bring us this assurance.” She stepped nearer to Mr. Blackshear, pressing his arm with a proprietary affection that was enormously easy to feign. “It improves my Christmas beyond measure to know I needn’t be separated from my husband for such a length of time.”

  No, not for that length of time. Only for the rest of her life.

  But she could ponder that prospect later. She nodded to Mr. Wilkins and the cart man, and turned her smile again on Mr. Blackshear. “Shall we go outside and see whether they’re still throwing snowballs, or would you rather visit with people in the drawing room?”

  His eyes flicked back and forth between hers, reading her. Lord only knew what he saw. “You choose,” he said at last, his gaze steadying. “My best pleasure is to see you pleased.”

  So this was how they would go on. In a sly sort of jousting match, each striving to outdo the other in kindness and self-disregard.

  Surely it was as good a way as any other. “The drawing room, then.” In truth, she wasn’t dressed for snowballs. “We can find the Porters and tell them they’ll have to bear with us until tomorrow.”

  The rest of the party passed in something of a haze. Almost as though he stood outside, watching through one of the frost-furred windows while some man who bore a curious resemblance to him sat conversing with neighbors beside a tall vibrant lady in a white-and-yellow gown.

  He kept finding reasons to touch her. Not good reasons. He ought to be more circumspect in company. But there she sat, in that dress like butter and cream, or like sweet lemon cake on bone china, or a candle flame with its pale halo, and there he sat beside her, his hands all alive with memories.

  So, fingertips on her sleeve to catch her attention, when mere speech would have served. A digression on falconry that no one wanted to hear, just so he could grasp and handle her arm in the course of showing where the bird would sit. An occasional pivot to his left that resulted in glancing contact between his knee and hers.

  He’d tasted her breath this same afternoon. He’d had his hands on her hips. Tonight they would share a bed. That all this could be true, when there was no betrothal or even prospect of betrothal, rather made him want to snatch the nearest wineglass and hurl it against the opposite wall. How had he let things come to this pass?

  But it was for the best that they not marry. Besides every strong argument against it, he could comfort himself with the fact that now he wouldn’t have to live in fear of losing her in childbed, and knowing himself to have been the cause of that loss.

  The thought didn’t bring as much comfort as he might have liked. In fact it struck him as a puerile, self-centered way of viewing matters. What did he intend to do; choose a bride toward whom he felt maximum indifference, in hopes of minimizing the sting of grief if she should come to some early end? For that matter, did he imagine the loss of a beloved wife would somehow be more bearable if there were no element of culpability? If he had married Lucy, and if she’d succumbed to an influenza or something of the sort, did he really think he’d find any consolation in knowing that at least it hadn’t been his fault?

  “What a nuisance that must have been! How long did it take to herd them back into the pigpen?” Her merriment chimed like silver Christmas bells: you’d think she’d never in her life heard anything so droll as this neighbor’s tale of a mishap that had enlivened last year’s party at the Longs’.

  He didn’t mind so much anymore seeing her rapt attention focused on others. He was growing accustomed to it, or as accustomed as one could grow to anything over the course of two days. Accustomed enough, at all events, to reflect on how well her earnest interest became her, and what an asset she would be to a husband who had tenants and laborers to keep happy as well as members of Parliament and society matrons to impress.

  She took to people, and they to her. He’d sat down beside her poised to shield her with his haughty stare, and hadn’t had cause to use it even once.

  “Have you ever heard of such a thing, Mr. Blackshear? Pigs on the loose at a Christmas party!” Her hand settled on his wrist, as though his creased coat had the same magnetic properties her pretty gown possessed, and she fixed him with a smile that made his heart turn over.

  What if this was enough?

  The question dropped in like a fat ripe plum from an overhead branch. The scraped-together odds and ends of two days’ acquaintance didn’t amount to much—bodily attraction and a shared chapter of misadventure made no fit foundation for the serious bonds of marriage—yet what if they could fill in their foundation as they went, through force of will, and… what was it the baron had said? What had he named as insufficient to overcome a poor choice in marriage or falcon-keeping?

  “Never seen or heard the like, I assure you.” He could keep his place in the conversation while groping after that memory. “I can only conclude our Cambridgeshire swine altogether lag behind their Norfolk brethren in both initiative and holiday spirit.”

  Effort, that was it. Effort and good intentions: those were the things you couldn’t rely on to offset a wrong-headed choice, according to Lord Sharp. When in fact they were the very things, in combination with the joined forces of two strong wills, that would surely make it possible to—

  But this was nothing to the purpose. She didn’t want to marry him. He could ruminate and contemplate until he came all the way round to believing they were one another’s best chance at happiness, and none of it would mean anything in the face of her disinclination.

  Perhaps if he were to open the topic again, omitting all reference to duty this time, and touching instead upon affection and esteem… well, he’d be no better in that case than those men who viewed a woman’s refusal as but the opening stance in a dogged negotiation. He’d be a polite-mannered version of the sort of lout he’d always despised, consulting only his own wishes and calculating how to sway her into accepting those wishes as her guide.

  He wouldn’t do it. He was better, and he owed better to her.

  “Really, Mrs. Blackshear, I begin to believe we chose the wrong year to be stranded in Thornton Cross, now that I know what excitement was afoot last Christmas,” he said, and with similar remarks he kept himself engaged in the conversation, letting slip no sign of where his thoughts had gone, until the shadows lengthened and it came time to bid everyone goodbye and climb into the Porters’ wagon for the journey home, or rather to the Porters’ home.

  He took the rugs, warm from a stay by the Longs’ kitchen fire, and he spread one across his and Lucy’s laps, tucking the end under their feet. The other he wrapped round them like a great shared cloak with one edge pulled up into a makeshift hood.

  They huddled together, his arm round her waist, just as a real husband and wife might sit when riding in the back of a wagon on a December day. The cold, and the necessity of keeping up their charade before the Porters, had overridden the claims of propriety. Rather remarkable that propriety could go on making claims, when they were even now en route to another night in that shared bedroom, but that did seem to be the way of it.

  They sat unspeaking for a time, swaying with the cart’s movement, listening to the rumble and creak of the wheels, watching the Longs’ house recede until you could only make it out as an indefinite shape on the horizon. With the hand that didn’t rest on her waist he clutched the rug together under their chins, which conveniently sat at about the same height. Every now and then a jostle brought her bonnet against his temple or his ear. He’d set his own hat on the board beside him since it spoiled the fit of the makeshift hood.

  “You’ll be glad to see your family.” She spoke, finally, her breath misting in the frigid air, her voice low enough to avoid ov
erhearing by the Porters, who sat up on the driver’s seat.

  “I will.” Guilt pinched his innards. He’d scarcely thought of them all day, Kitty and Nick and Will and Martha, and they must be so worried. Father as well. “We’ve never spent Christmas apart before. Here I was preparing for next Christmastide to be different, with my sister married and gone, and instead it’s this one that finds us not all together, and I myself turn out to be the absent party.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her bonnet tipped forward as she apparently cast her gaze to the wagon bed. “I was selfish indeed to ask you to stay. If I’d thought beyond my own wishes, I might have thought of your siblings and how they’d miss you.”

  “They’ll survive it.” It was true. He was sorry to put them through so much worry, but as to his absence, they would have had to contend with that sooner or later. He would marry, and some years spend Christmas with his wife’s family, or just with his wife. He couldn’t have gone on managing everything for the Blackshears forever. Really, perhaps it was time to begin letting go that role. “I’m glad I stayed.” That was true, too. “It was a different way to spend Christmas, but an enjoyable one. And there are eleven days of the holiday remaining. My brothers and sisters will have ample time to enjoy my company and then grow weary of it before I go back to Town.”

  “You do live in London, then.”

  “Yes. In Mount Street, as I said. I come into the country for Christmastide and part of the summer. But most of the year I’m in London.”

  “I see.” It was easy to imagine hearing a sort of wistfulness in her subdued tone, and from there, easy to attribute that sentiment to the wish that he wouldn’t live so far away. Though that didn’t make much sense. It wasn’t as if they’d be any likelier to encounter each other by chance if he lived in Cambridgeshire all the year round.

  Well, he might have found some pretext to call, if he’d stayed in the country. Some question about the falcon, or perhaps a chivalrous, impersonal wish to see that Miss Sharp had journeyed safely back from her party.