by Mary Balogh
Rupert had dried his tears and they had shaken hands on their gentlemen’s agreement. One thing was clear, Lord Morsey had thought as he went to the girls’ room. He was not going to be able to abandon the children on one of his estates with only a competent nurse for company. Had he really ever intended any such thing?
“In tears,” he had muttered to Lady Carlyle, motioning with his head in the direction of Rupert’s room. “Uncertainty about how he is to provide for his sisters. Treat him like a man.”
“In tears,” she had murmured in reply, her eyes indicating Patricia in bed behind her. “Realizing that Marjorie is never coming back.” She had hurried from the room.
The little one had been gazing up at him with her huge eyes. Patricia had been lying with closed eyes and composed face.
“Good night, Caroline,” he had said softly, leaning over her and touching the back of one finger to her soft, plump cheek. Who knew what went on in the mind of a shy, imaginative infant? “You are going to be safe forever and ever. Uncle Timothy and Aunt Ursula are going to see that you are always safe.”
She had not smiled or answered. She had yawned hugely.
Patricia had not moved or opened her eyes when he turned to her. He guessed that Lady Carlyle must have said something to comfort her.
“Your mama was the prettiest little thing when she was your age,” he had said. “She had Caroline’s hair and your face. She was my sister just as you and Caroline are Rupert’s. I loved her dearly.”
Her eyelids fluttered and lifted. “Aunt Ursula said that Papa took one look at her and fell in love with her,” she had said.
Or with her dowry. But who was he to know what had motivated Adrian Parr’s determined courtship of a giddy seventeen-year-old?
He had smiled. “I remember a time . . .” He had told her childhood memories he had forgotten himself until he started to talk.
And now they were sitting in the drawing room, he and Lady Carlyle, sipping tea and making conversation again like two civilized strangers. Except that the silences between topics were lengthening. Yet from the look on her face, he guessed that she was unaware of any awkwardness.
“What is it?” he asked when she looked up at him with vacant eyes after one such silence.
Her eyes focused on him. “Nothing,” she said.
He should have left it at that. He did not want any part of her life. Not now. Not when it had taken so many years to purge her from his own.
“It seems to be a night for sadness,” he said. “My guess is that we gave the children a happy day and released them from the deadness within that has been instilled in them over years of instruction on propriety. Tears at the end of what was to be a day of enjoyment. Did we do the wrong thing, do you suppose?”
He thought she was not going to answer. She stared away from him, across the room. “No,” she said at last. “No. They had parents, however little they saw of them. They were an anchor, a source of security. If the loss of those things is left dormant inside them, it might do them irreparable harm. I think the tears were necessary. And perhaps healing. We can only hope so.”
“I will take them,” he said abruptly, surprising himself. “You need not worry about having your way of life upset or about unwelcome demands being made on your time or your resources. I will have them to live with me, wherever I am.”
“Oh, no, you will not.” Her eyes flashed at him and her hair glowed. He would swear it glowed brighter. “They are my nephew and nieces as well as yours, I would remind you, my lord. I will have them to live with me. You may visit them occasionally. And my resources are quite adequate to the raising of three children. I am a wealthy woman now, if you did not know it.”
“Hm.” He leaned back in his chair and regarded her angry face. “Perhaps we will have to allow our lawyers to handle this matter, Ursula. But we will not wrangle over the children. They are people, not property.”
“Precisely,” she said, but the anger died from her eyes and she visibly relaxed. Her eyes became vacant once more.
“What is it?” he asked again softly.
Her eyes came to his and lingered there. “I have been so judgmental,” she said. “I have allowed myself to stifle love in order to do what was right and proper.”
His heart jumped uncomfortably until she continued. “He gambled away my childhood home,” she said. “I felt as if part of my identity had gone, my roots. I could not forgive him. And then he would come asking for things, begging loans. Always loans. And he ruined my life.” She bit her lip and closed her eyes, perhaps realizing what she had admitted. “He was always weak and wayward and careless and selfish. But I used to love him. He was my only brother. And maybe I was wrong about one thing at least. Maybe he loved her. Do you think he did?”
“I have pondered the same question,” he said. “When I discovered that the money I had given Marjorie to feed the children—there were only two then—had been squandered across a gaming table, I told her never to come back. I told her my doors would be closed to her forever after and that any letters she sent would be returned unread. It was no idle threat. And they deserved such treatment from both of us—perhaps. But she was my only sister. I taught her to ride and to swim and to climb trees. As a very young child she had a giggle like Caroline’s. Did he marry her for her dowry? I thought so at the time, as did you, though you would not admit as much to me. Or did he love her? They were utterly selfish and they neglected their children. But perhaps they loved each other. They were always together, even at the end.”
“I wish,” she said, “that I could go back and tell him that there would be no more money but that my door would always be open to both of them for friendship and comfort and love. I wish I had known their children from the start.”
“We cannot go back,” he said.
“No.”
He was aware that she was crying only when she got sharply to her feet and turned in the direction of the door. But taking that direction would have brought her past his chair. She turned jerkily instead to stand facing the fire.
“Oh,” She laughed shakily. “I must have got something in my eye.” She dabbed at it—and the other one—with her handkerchief.
He got to his feet and took the few steps that separated them. He set his hands on her shoulders from behind. “I think you were right, Ursula,” he said. “I think the sadness of the evening has come from the happiness of the day. By deliberately stopping ourselves from mourning them in the conventional way today, we have realized their absence. And we have remembered that they were persons and that they touched our lives and that they gave life to those three children upstairs. Selfish and irresponsible as they were, it is right that they should be mourned fully at last. You need not be ashamed of your tears.”
He expected that she would turn into his arms. And if she had done so, he would have held her there and comforted both her and himself. But he was glad when she did not. He did not want her in his arms. He did not want them to share grief that closely, that intimately. He felt her bringing herself gradually under control.
“You are right,” she said at last. “Thank you.”
But he could not quite leave it at that. His emotions had been rubbed raw. And she had once meant a great deal to him. All the world.
“Why did you not wait for me to come back to you, Ursula?” he asked. “You knew I would have come. Why did you not come back to me?”
She spun around, her eyes wide and watery and rather red. “Wait?” Her voice was incredulous. “You would have come back? You expected me . . . ? I would have spat in your face.”
“It was a love match with Carlyle, then?” he asked. It had seemed incredible, but he had always wondered. Not that he had ever really wanted to know the answer. Not until recently. It could no longer hurt now.
“Of course it was a love match,” she said, but her eyes slipped slightly lower than his. “Of course. What did you think?”
“And it was a good marriage?” he asked. Carl
yle had moved in different circles from his own. He had never liked the man—perhaps because he was Ursula’s husband. He could not put a finger to any other reason for the antipathy he had felt for a man who had appeared to be perfectly amiable.
“Yes, it was a good marriage,” she said. “It was very good. The best. It was wonderful. It was the best thing I ever did.”
Her eyes were haunted. Because Carlyle had died and the wonderful marriage was at an end? Or because she was lying? If it had been so wonderful, would she not have told him to mind his own business?
“Not that my marriage is any of your concern,” she added.
“No,” he said. “Since it is not also my marriage, it is none of my concern. I must be thankful for that at least. Two more days and then, weather permitting, we can think of leaving here. I will take the children and you can return to the life you enjoy so well. Can we remain civil for two days, do you suppose? I think we have done rather well today.”
“I have never found civility difficult,” she said stiffly. “And they will be returning with me. You may arrange for your lawyer to call upon mine in London, my lord. But I warn you of a stiff battle ahead.”
“On which amiable note I shall offer you my arm, my lady, and escort you to your room,” he said. “I would hate for us to prolong the evening only to find that we spoil the day by quarreling.”
“An admirable idea,” she said, taking his arm almost vengefully and fairly marching in the direction of the door.
The trouble with Ursula, he thought ruefully, was that she was always temptingly desirable when she was angry. Yet somehow he was going to have to get himself a good night’s sleep in a bed that must be only a few feet from her own. It was a good thing, at least, that there was a thick wall between those two beds.
A very good thing.
They left the baby sleeping in his cot in the nursery. Nurse was going to look after him, in case he woke up and cried while they were gone. They would not be gone long. It was important that they be back soon so that he would see that he had a mama and a papa and a brother and two sisters and so that he could know that they would never be gone from him for long. Especially Mama and Papa. They would always be there for him when he went to sleep and when he woke up. They would always make snow dragons with him and laugh with him and keep him warm inside their greatcoats and tell him they would keep him safe forever and ever.
And she would tell him the same things. She was his elder sister and she would look after him. He would never have to wake up, as she had sometimes done, to wonder where Mama and Papa were. They would be there, in the house. The baby had red hair, like Patricia’s, and blue eyes, like Rupert’s. His hair curled like her own. And he sucked his thumb. That was not a bad thing to do. She knew it brought him comfort. When he was older, she would explain to him that only babies sucked their thumbs and he would stop. But now he was a baby.
His name was Jesus.
They were going to get a surprise party ready for him. That was what they were doing now. That was why they had had to leave him sleeping in the nursery. It was to be tomorrow, a birthday party, though he was a very tiny little baby.
Christmas Day was his birthday.
She was riding up on top of the world, far above Rupert and Patricia and even Aunt Ursula. She was riding on Uncle Timothy’s shoulder, her arm firmly about his head. She was pushing his hat so far forward that he laughed and told the others to lead him by the hand because he was a blind man.
And then they came to the holly bushes, and she was set down with the others while Uncle Timothy cut some bunches of it for them to take back to the house for the party. Only the holly leaves were sharp—she should have warned him but did not think of it until it was too late—and he yelled out that he had pricked his finger and might well bleed to death. He put his finger in his mouth and sucked on it after pulling off his glove. Aunt Ursula told him not to be so foolish, that he was frightening Caroline. But she was wrong. Caroline knew that he was only pretending.
And then they trudged over to the evergreens and Uncle Timothy cut down some of the smaller boughs that they could carry back with them.
“Not too many,” he said, “or we will destroy the trees—or else make them look so lopsided that someone will take pity on them and chop them down.”
Rupert, with spread arms and bent back and crossed eyes and lolling tongue, became a lopsided tree and staggered about as someone tried to chop him down. Nurse would have told him sharply to mind his behavior and to act his age. But Uncle Timothy chuckled and Patricia became another lopsided tree. Caroline tried it too. It was fun. It was even more fun when Uncle Timothy joined in and actually toppled over into the snow as he was felled.
“Really,” Aunt Ursula said, her hands on her hips, “I have never witnessed such undignified behavior in my life.”
But there was something in her face that Uncle Timothy must have seen too. “You cannot scold and laugh at the same time, my lady,” he said. “The effect of the scolding is immediately nullified.”
And so Aunt Ursula laughed and said she had some strange, strange relatives and they must get it from his side of the family. Uncle Timothy said that it was fortunate, then, that everything had not come from her side, and for a moment Caroline was puzzled. There was something behind the words and the laughter that she did not quite understand. But it passed almost before she could think it. Aunt Ursula threw a snowball that knocked his hat sideways, and the fight was on again. Only this time they did not throw snowballs at Uncle Timothy but jumped on him while he was still on the ground—all except Aunt Ursula—and tried to roll him in the snow.
They all got rolled in the snow instead. Caroline giggled so hard that she thought she was not going to be able to catch her breath.
“Enough,” Aunt Ursula said at last. “You are the unruliest child of the lot, Timothy.”
Uncle Timothy turned his back on her as he slapped snow off himself and pulled a face at them so that they giggled all the harder.
And then he thought of mistletoe. Christmas would just not be Christmas without mistletoe, he declared, and so they went tramping off to find some, leaving the holly and the fir boughs on the ground to be picked up later. But mistletoe was not easy to find. It did not grow by itself, like holly and fir trees. Caroline grew anxious and took Aunt Ursula’s hand when it was offered. They must find some if it was so essential for Christmas. The party tomorrow must be perfect.
But all was well. Aunt Ursula herself spotted some on two old oak trees that grew side by side, and Uncle Timothy and Rupert climbed up—Caroline had to hide her face against Aunt Ursula’s cloak for fear they would fall—in order to gather some. It was a relief when they were down again, but they had the precious mistletoe with them, so the baby’s birthday party would not be ruined after all.
Uncle Timothy looked at her and grinned. “The trouble is,” he said, “that not all mistletoe is Christmas mistletoe. I will have to try it out to see if it works.”
She felt instant anxiety again. If this was not Christmas mistletoe, where were they to find some that was? Uncle Timothy stooped down on his haunches, raised his arm above her head with some of the mistletoe in it, and kissed her lips. Caroline gazed at him. His nose against her cheek had been cold.
“Yes,” he said. “It works perfectly.”
Caroline breathed a sigh of relief.
“Of course,” he said, turning his smile on Patricia, “it is as well to be quite sure. A man has to be able to kiss ladies beneath the mistletoe, you see. Let me see if it works with Patricia too.”
It did. It really was Christmas mistletoe, then. But perhaps they should be quite, quite sure. She tugged on Uncle Timothy’s greatcoat and tipped her head right back so that she could gaze up at him.
“Try it on Aunt Ursula,” she whispered.
She should have kept quiet. She could see from the expression on his face as he looked back down at her that he did not want to try it on Aunt Ursula, and she could see w
hen she looked across at her aunt that Aunt Ursula was looking quite dismayed. And if it had worked on both her and Patricia, it must be Christmas mistletoe.
“A good idea,” Uncle Timothy said. “One must be thorough about such important matters.”
Aunt Ursula had backed up against one of the trees, her hands behind her on the trunk. Caroline had the impression that she would have liked to press right through the tree, but it could not be done. Uncle Timothy stepped up close to her, raised the mistletoe, and kissed her. He took rather longer doing it than he had done with her and Patricia, and when he had finished he did not immediately move back or say anything. Neither did Aunt Ursula. They stared into each other’s eyes, and Caroline started to worry again. Maybe the mistletoe did not work after all and they would have to keep hunting. But Uncle Timothy turned and grinned when first Rupert and then Patricia snickered and giggled.
“Well,” he said, “that settles that. It certainly does work. There is no doubt about it—this is Christmas mistletoe.”
But his voice was breathless and Aunt Ursula’s lips were trembling and she looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. There was something Caroline did not understand, but it was not a bad thing, she was sure. And the mistletoe had worked.
They started back for the house then, carrying as much of their decorations as they could. Uncle Timothy was going to come back for the rest. They were going to decorate the drawing room. All of them, Caroline too. Aunt Ursula said they would pick her up so that she could help deck the mantel and the pictures with holly. They did not tell her, as Nurse often did, that she was too little and would be in the way and that it would be quicker to do things while she stood back and watched.
