A Christmas delight

by Anthea Malcolm

  Once the kindling was lit beneath the log, there was a great cheer and everyone took their places. Alice, Roland, and Lord Raneleigh sat at the high table, but the two central seats there were left vacant for the king and queen of the feast. Alice saw Ivanridge take a place down one side. She had arranged for him to be out of her direct line of sight and between Mrs. Digby-Rowles and Lady Jerrold. Extremely safe.

  As soon as everyone was seated, the earl rose, magnificent in a full-length tunic of plum velvet trimmed with fur. "Our first duty this night," he explained, "is to choose our rulers. Here in these chairs we will enthrone a king and queen for our festivities, and within this hall their word shall be law for twelve full days. Behold, here come buxom wenches and bonny lads bearing gifts—gifts for everyone! But one gentleman and one lady will find a bean along with their trinket. They will be our monarchs of mischief!"

  To the accompaniment of foot-stamping music, laughing maids and footmen in period costumes entered and passed around the tables, handing out beautifully wrapped boxes, and kisses for those who asked. Most did.

  Though the family did not receive these gifts, Alice had had her eye for some time on a particularly fine specimen among the staff, and as he crossed the hall in front of the high table, she called out, "Ho, sirrah! I may not receive a gift, but should I be deprived of a Christmas kiss?"

  The handsome fellow grinned cockily. Alice had no doubt he was a devil among the maids. "T'wouldn't be fair, would it?" he replied. Instead of leaning across the table, he came round and swept her up for a hearty kiss. The hall erupted in cheers, though some of the ladies looked a little shocked.

  Alice laughed. "And a merry Christmas to you too, Peter." As she resumed her seat, however, she told herself she should have learned she was no hand at managing men.

  Then she realized that the king and queen had been discovered, and Rebecca and Tyr Norman were approaching the table.

  Her father leapt to his feet as trumpeters blew a fanfare. "Behold our monarchs! Welcome, Your Majesties!"

  Roland was already on his feet, waiting to drape the rich crimson cloak edged with ermine around Rebecca's shoulders. Alice forced herself to her feet to perform the same task for her nemesis. She couldn't believe it. Why was this happening to her?

  He was tall and had to bend slightly to allow her to put the cloak on his broad shoulders. As he sat she saw how poorly the mustard color of his outfit went with the cloak, and she took spiteful satisfaction from that. As she'd said earlier, he seemed to be driving her to a mean pettiness of thought and deed.

  He examined the enameled card case which had been his gift. "Your family gives handsome gifts, Lady Alice," he said pleasantly. "What a shame you receive none yourselves."

  "We exchange gifts privately," she said, thinking that at least in this seating arrangement she didn't have to look at him.

  "And perhaps gifts find their way to you later? Let me

  see. Last time I was here I believe I received a jade pin."

  He'd given it to her at some point during the night. She'd thrown it in the lake.

  Alice ignored his taunting, determined to be a perfect lady. "Do you have any commands, sire?"

  The silence from her right stretched so that in the end she had to look at him. "Come to my room later," he said.

  Alice met his cold eyes. "Your commands only hold in the hall, sire . . ."

  He smiled. "Intriguing."

  ". . . and you share a room."

  "Beginning to regret that, are you? I'm sure you'll find a way around the problem."

  Alice turned to the front and fixed a polite smile on her face. "If you think," she said between her teeth, "I have the slightest intention or desire to visit your room, Lord Ivanridge, you are sorely mistaken."

  "Have other game in your sights this year, do you?"

  Alice found she had the sharp eating knife tight in her hand and that she was full of desire; the desire to plunge it into him. "Talk to your queen," she said tightly. "Invent some mischief. I am sure you are very good at that."

  He proved to be. As the platters of food—fowl, suckling pig, boar's head, peacock, and all the sundry accompaniments came around, he and Rebecca conferred and commanded.

  Various guests were ordered to join the musicians and play or sing. Others were ordered to perform a trick or offer a puzzle. Alice noted, however, that no one was asked to do something they could not, and the shy were left in peace. Rebecca's doing, she was sure.

  Then Ivanridge turned to her. "Lady Alice, we would have you do Salome's dance for us."

  Alice had no cause for complaint. This, like the somersaults Roland had just performed, was part of the tradition. She had been doing her version of the dance since she was fifteen, but for the first time she felt uncomfortable about it.

  She went out of the hall briefly and put on her veils—one around her head to cover the lower part of her face and one over her hair. She settled her jeweled girdle lower on her hips. At her signal, the professional musicians began an Eastern melody, and she swayed into the hall.

  When she'd first had this idea at fifteen, her version of the dance had been more like a solo country dance, but since then she had researched it and even taken advice of the Persian Ambassador's wife. She knew the moves, though a mild version of the real thing, were suggestive, but that had never bothered her before.

  As she swayed her hips and played with her veil she tried to remember dancing like this six years ago. But on Christmas night six years ago Tyv Norman had just been a handsome young Hussar and Charlie had been more on her mind than he. Alice couldn't remember feeling embarrassed to be doing the dance before Charlie.

  She tried her hardest not to look at Ivanridge, but it was impossible if for no other reason than that she was supposed to be persuading him to give her the head of St. John. Once she looked, she was captured by those dark eyes. Forbidden passions began to fuel her dance. She danced closer to him, moving her shoulders and swaying her hips, wanting to break through his hard coldness and see desire in his eyes.

  So she could laugh in his face.

  Though she watched like a hawk, ho flicker of emotion showed to reward her. Was he made of stone?

  The music stopped and she sank into a curtsy as thunderous applause broke out.

  "We will grant you anything in our power," said ivanridge huskily.

  Alice rose. "I would have a rogue's head, sire." With her eyes she told him whose she wished it could be.

  A brow twitched, but he said, "Point out the rogue, you luscious wench, and I will call the headsman."

  Alice looked around, drawing out the suspense. She'd fully intended to get petty revenge by picking Ivanridge.

  Now she thought of choosing Charlie, but people would read all kinds of things into that. In the end she pointed to Major Ewing.

  Four footmen leapt on the startled major, and a fearsome giant— a local laborer who enjoyed his part in the festivities—stalked in bearing a huge, authentic-looking ax. It was, in fact, authentic, and Alice was always a little nervous the man would handle it carelessly and lop off something or other. Ewing was dragged forward and guests new to Conyngham began to look ill at ease. The rest chanted, "The head! The head!"

  At the last moment Rebecca leapt to her feet. "Stop! I am queen as much as this man is king and I will not let an honest man die at a strumpet's whim!"

  Alice covered her face in exaggerated shame.

  "Release him!" commanded Rebecca. "Good man," she said to Ewing, "resume your seat and enjoy the feast without fear. And you," she said to Alice sternly, "go strip off your veils and act the proper maid."

  Shrieking with mock tears, Alice fled the hall. She heard Ivanridge say, "Isn't that just like a woman to spoil a little harmless fun?"

  She took a moment to compose herself and to let the hall settle. The scene had gone better than ever. Of course, both Rebecca and Ivanridge had seen it before; sometimes a newcomer was chosen monarch and had to be prompted by her father and
brother. Both Rebecca and Ivanridge had showed real dramatic talent.

  But then, she knew him to be a facile deceiver.

  She slipped back into the hall and to her place.

  "Your dancing's improved," he-said casually.

  "Your acting's as good as ever," she said in the same manner.

  "I believe the queen commanded you to act the proper maid, Lady Alice."

  It sounded like a calculated insult.

  There was the dancing to get through. Roland and she demonstrated some simple steps, which were not so very

  different from the familiar country dances, then they were joined by three couples well used to the business for a more complicated demonstration.

  Soon all were on the floor stamping and clapping to the merry, earthy dances.

  Alice was glad to lose herself in the dancing. It was true that she had to partner Ivanridge now and then—everyone partnered everyone else at some point—but these were not dances to encourage intimacy but to express the joy of living and moving.

  There was an endless supply of wine, punch, and more benign thirst quenchers. There was a buffet of food, and nonstop dancing.

  Some of the older people began to drift off to bed, but most of the company stayed on. Chess and backgammon games started up, and some people took breaks for conversation. The kissing bows were stripped of their berries; tomorrow men wanting to steal a kiss would have to seek out the more cunningly hidden ones, which were also the ones well situated for more lingering embraces.

  Alice would be sure to avoid them.

  Tiredness was beginning to fog Alice's mind when she realized she was waltzing with Lord Standon. "This dance is very anachronistic, Charlie."

  "But a lot less exhausting. If the king and queen don't object, what are we poor lesser folk to do?"

  Alice saw Rebecca waltzing with Roland, while Ivanridge partnered Bella. There were a dozen or so other couples drifting in lazy circles, and Alice supposed the hard-worked musicians were also relieved to be playing more familiar fare. Charlie's voice startled her out of a pleasant vacuum.

  "I'm going to embarrass us both, Alice," he said, "but I need to know. Will you reconsider the decision you made six years ago?"

  Alice sighed. She'd feared it would come to this. "Charlie, I refuse to believe you've been nursing a broken heart. You've kept a very handsome mistress these last few years."

  "True," he said without embarrassment. "Are you hold-

  ing that against me?"

  "Of course not." In desperation, Alice returned to the argument she'd used six years ago. "I just don't love you, Charlie."

  "I don't think I love you either," he said, which startled her considerably. "Not as the poets describe it, anyway. But I like you. I admire you. You were a charming girl, and you've grown into a beautiful woman. I need to marry, Alice, and I'd rather marry you than anyone else I know."

  Alice looked up at him. "I'm not sure whether to be amused or insulted."

  His smile was friendly but held some steel. "As you pointed out; it would be absurd for me to be protesting an undying passion. When you ended our engagement, I naturally assumed there was someone else. That appears not to be so. Since neither of us seems likely to be hit by Cupid's arrow, it would be sensible for us to marry. You can't really want to grow old as a spinster, and I still think we'd suit very well. Perhaps love would grow."

  Put that way it did seem suitable. Alice was aware that in some secret part of her heart she'd been waiting all these years for Tyr Norman to return with an explanation and protestations of love, but now he was back and clearly no answer to her problems. "I don't know, Charlie," she said^ at last. "May I think about it?"

  "Of course. But not for another six years."

  As the dance ended Alice was again aware of that steel beneath his courteous surface, and she liked him better for it.

  When the music struck up again, she was swung into the dance by Ivanridge.

  She resisted. "Let me go!"

  His arms were like iron. "We are in the hall, and I am king. Dance with me."

  Alice glared up at him and decided the time had come for attack. She would not be his toy in this cat and mouse game. She relaxed and allowed him to twirl her in the dance. "What exactly are you up to?" she asked.

  "Dancing?"

  "I mean," she said, "why did you come here, why have you stayed, and why do you keep forcing yourself on me?"

  His eyes smiled down at her, full of hard-edged admiration. "The bold approach. But then that was always your strategy, wasn't it?"

  Alice couldn't bear his look and turned her head away. "As a strategy," she remarked, "it leaves something to be desired. It hasn't gained me an answer."

  "Left you dissatisfied, you mean? We can't have that, can we?" There was a weight of meaning to the words which she could not fathom. "Let me see," he continued pleasantly, "I came here because I was invited. I stayed because I found unfinished business. I keep forcing myself upon you because you seem to dislike it. If you can convince me you like it, Miranda, I'll avoid you like the plague."

  Alice looked at him in shock. "It's as if you hate me," she whispered. "What have I ever done to you?"

  "Very pretty," he approved. "It's all the theatricals, I suppose. Cuidad Rodrigo," he said as he twirled them around. "Badajoz. Albuera."

  Alice's head was spinning and with more than the twirling. "Are you saying I drove you to war? You already had your marching orders when we met."

  "Was that part of my appeal?"

  She hit back. "I suppose we're all fools for a uniform."

  "You must be grieving the war is over."

  Alice fought him and stopped the crazy spinning. "You still haven't answered my question, Lord Ivanridge. If you found you didn't like war, you can hardly lay that at my door."

  "There's war and war, Lady Alice," he said, and at that moment the music meshed with their action and stopped. "If you don't know that, your uncle certainly does."

  He was gone and Lord Garstang was asking for a dance. Alice made an excuse and escaped into an empty corridor. What had all that been about? The uncle he referred to

  must be her mother's brother, Gen. George Travis-Blount. As one of the senior men at the Horse Guards, he certainly knew all about war. Was Ivanridge suggesting that she ask him about it? Was he using the horrors of war as his excuse for the cruel way he was tormenting her?

  There was no need for Alice to seek out her uncle. She had heard enough frank talk to have lost any romantic illusion about warfare. It was a bloody business usually prosecuted desperately in large amounts of mud. The most surprising thing was that the survivors often seemed to enjoy the memory.

  Ivanridge, she suddenly remembered, had nightmares. She shuddered and hugged herself, though the corridor was not particularly cold.

  But he could not possibly be accusing her of sending him to war. That decision had been made before they ever met. And whatever horrors he had seen and experienced did not excuse what he had done before he saw fighting at all.

  Perhaps, she thought for the first time, he was mad. She had heard of men whose minds broke under the stress of war.

  Major Ewing came strolling down the corridor, humming a song, clearly a little on the go. "Ah, the lovely Salome! Damn fine dance, that."

  "Thank you, Major." Alice linked arms with him. "I suppose you and Ivanridge know one another well."

  He looked at her glassily and shook his head. "Different regiments. Anyway, Tyr Norman was a hero. I kept my head down."

  Alice felt there was a mystery here that she had to solve. She steered the major to a widow seat and he seemed happy enough to collapse there.

  Alice sat beside him. "What do you mean, a hero?"

  Ewing made a generous gesture. "Derring-do. Single-handed exploits . . . Sort of fellow who seeks out the most hellish spots." He shook his head. "Madmen, usually. Don't last long. But then they seem to have a death wish."

  Death wish? Alice began to examine th
e notion that Tyr

  Norman had been so guilt ridden over his treatment of her that he'd tried to get himself killed. No matter how she looked at it, it didn't fit. If he'd felt guilty, he could have tried to make amends. He certainly would have no reason for assaulting her now as if she were the enemy.

  Ewing was humming again and she guessed that he was soon going to drift off to sleep. "Major Ewing," Alice said to catch his attention. "How do you think Ivanridge survived?"

  "Luck," he said simply. "There's a devil of a lot of luck in war. And he came to his senses. Last few years, I never heard of him acting crazy." He gazed, without focus, at the tapestry on the opposite wall. "Could have just been a way to make it up the ranks, if he was desperate enough. Hear there wasn't much money there . . . Made it to colonel with his craziness, so . . . crazy or not?"

  His lids began to droop, and Alice left him there. So much for her melodramatic imaginings. He hadn't been awash with guilt. He'd just been ambitious.

  So, what had he meant when he'd mentioned her uncle? Did he know that Uncle George would be coming after New Year's Day to enjoy the last few of the TWelve Days?

  Alice looked into the hall. Couples were still dancing. She saw Roland flirting with Bella and Charlie dancing with Rebecca but no sign of Ivanridge.

  She couldn't make herself enter the half-lit chamber, where he might be waiting in the shadows to pounce on her. She went quickly to her bedroom, a fugitive in her own home.

  By employing tactics worthy of her uncle the general, Alice found it possible to avoid Lord Ivanridge.

  It was no longer necessary for her to sit by his side at the high table, for after Christmas night the king and queen were expected to command whom they willed to sit there, and it was custom that the honor be spread around.

  Alice complained to Rebecca of the waltzing so that she

  not be in danger of that intimacy again, and she ensured her safety by escaping from the hall revelries as often as she could. When Roland questioned her, she told him tartly that it was his fault for inviting Lord Standon. Then she felt terribly guilty about maligning Charlie's behavior.