Ms. Davenport's Christmas

by M C Beaton

  “But you will?”

  He smiled down at her in a way that made her feel weak at the knees. “Yes, I will.”

  He tucked her arm in his and walked on. The bad moment had passed.

  Jilly was never to forget that splendid Christmas dinner: the table groaning with food, Sir John at the end, benevolently carving the steaming turkey, Lady Harrington, now in her best gown and jewels, looking very grand as if she would not even know where her own kitchens were let alone go into them, and her own sharp awareness of Lord Ranger next to her.

  The scholarly vicar, Mr. Crimmond, was telling the company—which included the curate, the schoolmaster, the squire and his family, and Mrs. Tibbs, the dressmaker, the Harringtons keeping a democratic table—the stories of Christmas, how the month of December coincided nicely with other, older festivals.

  “Besides the Roman festivals already in existence,” said Mr. Crimmond, “there was the Jewish Feast of Lights, Hanuca or Hanukkah, which went on for eight days in late December. This was a celebration of the strength of the Jewish faith, symbolized by the lighting of candles; one for the first night, two the next, and so on for eight days. This festival continues to this day,” explained the vicar, “and games are played and presents exchanged. The idea of Christ as the light of the world was probably adapted by the church from this Jewish feast.”

  Then after the dinner, they all went through to the drawing room and opened their presents. The Harringtons had presents for everyone, even Lord Paul and Lord Ranger. They gave a great many presents during the year and received a great many, and so kept a box of them handy to give out to unexpected guests.

  Jilly received a pearl necklace, and Mandy a coral one, Lady Harrington saying they were such plain little ornaments that their parents could not possibly take exception to the gifts.

  Jimmy burst in, crying that Father Christmas was coming, and all the candles on the Christmas tree were lit when Father Christmas, swinging his cudgel, walked ahead of the mummers into the room. He had a crown of holly on his head, his great red face was beaming with happiness and all he had already drunk, and his hooded red robe was opened to the waist. He was played by one of the local farmers. He walked round the room, reciting,

  “Here comes I, old Father Christmas

  Christmas comes but once a year

  And when it comes it brings good cheer

  Roast beef and plum pudding

  And plenty of good old English beer.

  Last Christmas time I turned the spit

  I burnt my finger and can’t find of it;

  Then a spark fled over the table,

  Saucepan got up and beat the ladle.”

  The nonsense rhyme went on, and then “King George” came in, played by the curate, transformed by cotton wool beard and paper crown, saying:

  “I am King George, this notable knight,

  I shed my blood for England’s right.

  England’s right and England’s glory all maintain.”

  He was followed by Bullslasher, the soldier, a character called Jack Finney, and the doctor, the doctor shouting, in reply to Father Christmas asking, “When doest thou come from?”

  “Oh! All diseases!

  Just what my box pleases.

  Hard corns, soft corns,

  Hipips, the phipps and palsy,

  The gout and pains within

  And pains all around about.”

  The nonsense went merrily on and finished with the arrival of Helseybub, a black-looking devil covered in soot, who leered most dreadfully and pretended to attack the ladies, who fled from him, shrieking with laughter.

  As the mummers and Father Christmas were helped to tankards from the wassail bowl, a carriage arrived and Mr. Travers, Mr. Jensen, Belinda Charteris, and Margaret Andrews came in to join them, Mr. Travers complaining loudly that all the berries were gone from the mistletoe.

  And no sooner had the mummers left than Lady Harrington started to organize games. Christmas games were a great tradition, the idea being to make them as energetic as possible so that all the food from the Christmas dinner would be shaken down before the next banquet. They played Hunt the Slipper, Forfeits, Blindman’s Buff, Hide-and-Seek, Port and Pair, Puss-in-the-Corner, and Rowland Ho.

  The Regency was a time of very strict formal manners and conventions, but all those went to the wall on Christmas day in homes other than the Harringtons’.

  There was a break while they all tucked into the enormous mince pie. “What did you wish?” asked Lord Ranger, watching Jilly take her first bite.

  “I think I am not supposed to tell you,” said Jilly, but her wish had been loud and clear in her heart and in her head: If only you would marry me.

  After the mince pie was demolished along with many other pies and sweets, they returned to the drawing room to play Snapdragon. Raisins, currants, and other dried fruit were heaped onto a shallow dish, brandy was poured on top of them, the lights were extinguished, and the brandy set on fire.

  The idea was to snatch the fruit out of the flames, blow the flames out, and eat the fruit. While they all crowded around the flaming bowl, the squire sang the traditional song in a loud baritone:

  “Here he comes with the flaming bowl,

  Don’t be mean to take his toll,

  Snip! Snap! Dragon!

  Take care you don’t take too much,

  Be not greedy in your clutch,

  Snip! Snap! Dragon!”

  With his blue and lapping tongue

  Many of you will be stung,

  Snip! Snap! Dragon!”

  Lord Ranger drew Jilly back from the bowl and into the darkness. He only knew he wanted to kiss her again and so he did, folding her tightly against him in the warm, brandy-scented, evergreen-scented room. He wanted to go on holding her and kissing her forever.

  “Lights!” shouted Sir John, and they drew apart, staring up at each other in a dazed way as the lamps were lit again, and the candles on the tree.

  “Did you bake dumb cakes?” Margaret asked. Mandy nodded.

  “And who came through the door at midnight?” asked Margaret.

  “Lord Ranger and Lord Paul,” said Mandy.

  “Aha!” cried Belinda. “And did my lords put their initials next to those of our Davenport ladies?”

  “Yes,” said Lord Paul, “but no one seems to know the significance of that.”

  “I can tell you that,” said Belinda with a gurgle of laughter and ignoring distressed and embarrassed looks from Jilly and Mandy. “Any lady who bakes a dumb cake and puts her initials on it knows that the gentleman who walks through the door at midnight and puts his initials next to her own is her future husband.”

  Jilly hung her head.

  “You knew that, you wicked thing,” said Lord Ranger, but his voice was full of affectionate laughter.

  “Now charades,” called Sir John.

  Two maids carried in the hamper of costumes. They were all picking out cardboard crowns, tin swords, fake royal robes, and the door of the drawing room was propped open by the Yule log, when Lord Ranger suddenly saw Jilly’s face turn paper white. She was staring at the doorway.

  Everyone gradually followed her stricken gaze, saw the way she went to her sister and took her hand in her own.

  The laughter died away. The room was silent except for the crackling of the fire.

  Standing in the doorway, their faces masks of horror and with Abigail Biggs behind them, were Mr. and Mrs. Davenport.

  Chapter Eight

  “What is the meaning of this idolatry?” demanded Mrs. Davenport, striding into the room. “And where did you get those disgraceful gowns?”

  Jilly and Mandy were wearing two very pretty muslin dresses.

  Lady Harrington stood between the girls and their parents. “Merry Christmas,” she said. “We were just enjoying Christmas day.”

  Mr. Davenport found his voice. “Paganism,” he said awfully. “Paganism corrupting and soiling our daughters’ virgin minds. I found them ex
posing themselves in disgraceful gowns and playing with men.”

  “No one’s mind has been soiled,” said Lady Harrington wrathfully, “unless it is your own. You have made your daughters’ lives miserable with cruel treatment. Go away and leave them with me. I will care for them.”

  Mrs. Davenport walked round her and stood looking at Jilly and Mandy. “Take Abigail up to your rooms and get packed and be ready to leave. If you do not, you will force us to bring the magistrate to Lady Harrington. You are our daughters, and what we say, you must do. Go!”

  Had Lord Ranger or Lord Paul said one word, just one word, Jilly and Mandy might have tried to stand their ground. But what broke both their hearts was that both men were standing together, their faces an identical well-bred blank.

  “We will wait in the carriage, Abigail,” said Mrs. Davenport.

  When Mr. and Mrs. Davenport had left the room and Jilly and Mandy had gone upstairs with Abigail, Margaret said, “What dreadful people. Can you not stop them, Lady Harrington?”

  “I would if I could,” she said sadly. “There is nothing to be done. I have no rights.”

  “What can we do?” asked Lord Ranger. “They cannot just leave like this.”

  Lady Harrington opened her mouth to snap at them that they could try proposing marriage but immediately realized that in the state of mind they were in, the Davenports would simply refuse to listen.

  “Nothing, nothing,” she said wearily. “Gather up their Christmas presents. They must not go without them.”

  She collected the presents and went upstairs with Sir John. The girls were in Jilly’s bedroom, and there were discarded gowns lying on a pile on the bed.

  “We shall not be taking these unsuitable garments with us, my lady,” said Abigail with satisfaction.

  “Don’t be impertinent, you thing you, you creature, and know your place,” said Lady Harrington, very stiffly on her stiffs. She called to her maids and ordered them to pack everything, including the presents.

  Soon they were ready and the corded trunks were carried downstairs.

  Lady Harrington held out her arms and hugged both girls. She whispered, “Try to stay unmarried until your majority, until you are both twenty-one, and then come to me. Your home is here.”

  Jilly and Mandy hugged her fiercely back.

  Downstairs Lord Ranger took Jimmy aside and pressed a crown into his hand. “Be a good lad,” he said, “and follow the Davenport coach. They may only go as far as Moreton and then rack up for the night. Return as fast as you can and tell me where they are. Don’t tell anyone, mind.”

  Jimmy nodded, his eyes sparkling.

  Lord Ranger, Lord Paul, and everyone crowded into the hall as the Davenport girls came downstairs. There were hugs and kisses all round and promises to write, and then Lord Ranger and Lord Paul, ignoring Abigail’s baleful look, each kissed the girls on the cheek.

  Jilly took one sad look through the open door of the drawing room, at the tree with its flickering candles, at the Yule log burning in the hearth, and at the decorations. Then taking Mandy’s hand, she went out into the night.

  The carriage bowled off. Mandy and Jilly sat like little statues as the crowd of people outside Greenbanks waved and cried out defiantly, “Happy Christmas. Godspeed!”

  And then they were gone.

  Somehow Christmas died with their going. Lady Harrington could do nothing but sob. Margaret and Belinda were crying as well. Sir John took Lady Harrington upstairs, and Mr. Travers and Mr. Jensen took Margaret and Belinda back to the Tenbys’. Everyone else left until there was only Lord Ranger and Lord Paul, seated on either side of the fire.

  “So, my silent friend,” said Lord Paul, “does it not irk you to sit here inactive? We let them go, you know, without a word of protest, without giving those terrible Davenports a piece of our mind.”

  “All is not yet lost,” said Lord Ranger. “I am waiting for something.”

  “What?” said Lord Paul sourly. “A miracle?”

  “Listen!” He held up his hand and put his head on one side.

  “For what? We have been here this age and I feel like bursting into tears like the ladies.”

  The door opened and Jimmy came in.

  “Well?” demanded Lord Ranger.

  “I followed them like you said, my lord. They are stopping at the White Hart in Moreton. I talked to the coachman, hired coach it is. They are going to Banbury on the morrow and on to Oxford if the weather holds good. From there they will catch the mail coach to the North.”

  “Good lad.” Lord Ranger tossed him another crown, which Jimmy caught nimbly.

  “So they’re at the White Hart,” said Lord Paul, after the boy had left. “So what are we supposed to do about it?”

  “I am determined to have the little Jilly Davenport as my bride,” said Lord Ranger. “Do you feel the same about t’other one?”

  Lord Paul nodded. “But our suit will be refused, and out of sheer spite, too.”

  “So I think we should go adventuring again, my friend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We will ride to the Tenbys’ and collect our baggage and carriage. We will follow the Davenport coach when it leaves tomorrow, and as soon as we all find ourselves on a quiet stretch of the road, which should not be too difficult in midwinter, we will put on masks, hold up their coach, make off with the girls, and head for Gretna.”

  Lord Paul’s black eyes lit up. “Capital. And that way we get our brides without having to put up with our in-laws.”

  Jilly and Mandy were in the same bedroom at the White Hart, the Davenports being unable to find them separate rooms during the busy Christmas season.

  Despite the late hour, they sat in their private parlor at the inn and lectured their daughters on the sin and folly of their ways.

  Both girls sat before them, heads hanging, lost in misery.

  At last Mr. and Mrs. Davenport rose to their feet. “We will leave Abigail to put you both to bed, where you may reflect on the folly of your ways. And you will be chastised.”

  They both left the room and shut the door.

  Abigail picked up a thin cane from behind one of the chairs where she had placed it and flexed it in her hands. “Now let’s see if we can beat some sense into you,” she said. “You first, Miss Mandy.”

  And then somehow all the memories of the glittering Christmas flew into Jilly’s mind. She stood up and went to Abigail and wrenched the cane out of her hand.

  “Get to your bed, woman,” she said, “and leave us be. You weary us.”

  Abigail tried to seize the cane, but Jilly threw it contemptuously into a corner of the room.

  The maid swung her hand to slap Jilly, but Jilly dodged and then gave the horrified Abigail a cracking slap across her beefy face.

  Shocked out of her wits, Abigail began to scream and yell for help.

  “Come, Mandy,” said Jilly. She led her frightened sister out and along to their bedchamber, where she drew her inside and locked the door.

  “That reign of terror is over,” said Jilly calmly. “They will need to find another bully.”

  “Which they will,” said Mandy through white lips.

  The doorknob rattled and Mrs. Davenport’s angry voice could be heard shouting, “Open this door,” and then a chorus of voices came from the other rooms, telling her to keep quiet.

  Jilly went up to the door and said, “We will see you in the morning, Ma. We are not going to open the door this night. You may do what you will with us when we reach home, but we will not be flogged by a servant in a public inn.”

  “Quite right,” shouted a boozy voice from next door, and then Mrs. Davenport could be heard retreating.

  “How can you be so brave?” marveled Mandy. “All hope went when he did not even react to their coming.”

  “Nor Lord Ranger either,” said Jilly sadly, correctly interpreting the “he” to mean Lord Paul. “But in truth, what could either of them do?”

  “Look sad. Look
concerned. Show some emotion,” said Mandy. “Not just stand there blankly as if witnessing some terrible social gaffe. I thought… I hoped… Oh, the feeling of loss is so hard to bear.”

  “We will need all our courage to deal with our parents,” said Jilly. “We have had one marvelous holiday, which we will never forget, and two broken hearts, which will mend. And we have something to live for and fight for. Lady Harrington says we are to try to remain unmarried until our majority—you heard her, too. When that day arrives, when you, too, are twenty-one, then we will run away.”

  They undressed and washed and climbed into bed. “I am not brave at all,” Mandy said, and began to cry. Jilly held her close. “We have each other. We must just hope and pray for courage.”

  Lucinda and Harriet listened and squirmed the next day as Mr. Travers told of how the Davenport girls had been ruthlessly taken away in the middle of the festivities. Adding to the misery was the news that both Lord Paul and Lord Ranger had left early in the morning without saying good-bye, only leaving Mrs. Tenby a rather curt note, thanking her for her hospitality. Instead of blaming themselves for the situation, they blamed Mrs. Tenby. It was all her fault for not having a more cheerful household and not being able to compete with the Harringtons. Christmas had been a rigidly formal if well-run affair.

  Both had written to their parents to send for them as soon as possible. The fact that they had brought the contempt of the house party down on their well-coiffed heads themselves, they could not allow. Life was unfair and people were contrary and unkind. It served those Davenport girls right. They were better off in the wilds of Yorkshire. More their style. Anyone could see that.

  Jilly and Mandy were finding themselves hard put to keep a brave face on it, facing their parents and Abigail over a breakfast in the private parlor. Abigail stood behind Mrs. Davenport’s chair and her eyes held a sullen, foreboding look.