Noel's Wish

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Ann felt the flush rise to her cheeks. She stroked the kitten’s soft fur and glanced down at it, suddenly shy.

  “Right, then,” said Ruston after an awkward moment. “I shall take myself off and see if my poor valet can make me respectable again.”

  And he was gone. She heard voices in the hall, and a moment later Mossy danced into her room.

  “There he is,” she squealed. “The maids have all been looking for him,” she explained, reaching up and taking the kitten from Ann.

  Ann gave the soft head one last pat. “He had crawled into my embroidery bag,” she said, retrieving the brocade bag from the floor and putting back the folded piece of work that had spilled out of it.

  Mossy stared at the bag and then looked up at Ann with hopeful eyes. “You do ’broidery?” she whispered, her hazel eyes huge and round.

  “I am an indifferent embroiderer, but I still do it.”

  “May I see?”

  Ann motioned to the chairs near the window. “Come and sit.”

  Mossy put her now-sleepy kitten down on the bed and knelt on the seat of the chair across from hers. Ann pulled out the piece she was working on, a tropical forest alive with macaws and parrots and a leopard that prowled on the jungle floor, its green eyes picked out in glittering spangles. No doubt an ornithologist or explorer would resent the wild profusion of animals that likely didn’t even belong on the same continent, but she loved the color of her invention. It was almost done. She glanced up and was surprised by the expression of utter awe on the little girl’s face.

  Mossy reached out and reverently touched the piece with one tiny hand. “It’s bee-yooo-tiful,” she said, drawing out the second syllable on a sigh.

  Touched, Ann was speechless.

  “Would you . . .” Mossy hesitated.

  “Would I what?”

  “I . . . I’m making a present for Daddy, but it isn’t . . . I don’t know what to do.” Her thin voice quavered. “I want him to like it so bad! Sarah has been trying to teach me ’broidery, but she’s only good at straight sewing.”

  Impulsively, Ann said, “You bring it here and we’ll see what can be done.”

  Mossy leaped from her chair and raced away, returning in minutes. She stood before Ann, her hands behind her back. “It’s not very good,” she said.

  “Let me be the judge of that!”

  They spread the stitched sampler out on the table and Ann’s first instinct was to chuckle but she stifled that. The piece was haphazard at best, the alphabet scrawled on an angle over the cloth. It was wrinkled and grubby, with a sticky smear that looked suspiciously like a jam handprint.

  Ann gazed steadily at it, lost for a moment in her own past. She remembered so clearly the birthday party the family had held for her father when she was about Mossy’s age. Father had been a tall, stately man. Ann saw little of him, and what she did see frightened her, but she desperately wanted his approval. She was plain, not like Fanny, her oldest sister, who was blonde and pretty. And she wasn’t clever like Judith, who was only a year and a half older than her but already could speak French. And she wasn’t a boy, like Bert.

  To honor their father on his birthday, Judith was reciting a French poem, Fanny was going to play a piece on the piano, and Bert was going to recite an epic story by heart. There was nothing that little Annie could do. And so she had painstakingly embroidered her father a set of pen wipes, emblazoned with her approximation of the family crest.

  She had presented it to him just before the special birthday luncheon. Heart pounding with nervousness, she had watched while he unwrapped her crudely tied package. He had looked at the pen wipes for a moment, then asked what they were.

  She told him, her voice quavering. He had pointed to the crest and asked her what in blazes that was supposed to be. In the silence of the parlor, she had explained. Coal black eyebrows lifted, he had examined them and then tossed them onto the table.

  “Nonsense,” he had boomed. “Doesn’t look anything like the family crest.”

  He had turned then and led the way into luncheon, which Ann was judged too young to join. Later a maid threw the wipes away, mistaking them for trash. She had been crushed.

  She glanced over at the little girl opposite her, whose hazel eyes held all the suspense and fear she remembered from her own childhood. Ann glanced down at the sampler again.

  “It’s not very good, is it?” the child asked in a small voice.

  “Of course it is!” Ann said stoutly. She beckoned for Mossy to join her and the little girl climbed on her lap. “Look,” Ann said, pointing to the last line. “You can see that you’re getting better and better. This part,” she said, and placed her finger on the line that said Wrought by Mignon Montrose, Decemeber 1816 - for Daddy. “Look at the lovely flourishes you’ve put on the Ms! Very good.” She would not point out the misspelling . . . what was the point of that, when it could not be corrected at this late date?

  “Is it good enough for Daddy? I want to give him something special for Christmas.”

  “This is special, sweetheart,” Ann said, conviction ringing in her words. “If I had a little girl and she gave me something like this, I would treasure it my whole life.”

  And to her own surprise, Ann found that not a word of that was false.

  • • •

  Ruston had bathed and changed in a bemused state, thinking of the subtle changes in Lady Ann’s demeanor when she had been surprised by the kitten. Laughter had turned the straight slash of her mouth into a soft bow, and her firm chin had not been raised in defiant anger. Lovely in any circumstances, she was enchanting when she smiled.

  He had invited her to join him for lunch and wondered if she would remember. He was about to walk past her room when he heard laughter. He peeked in, curiosity overcoming his scruples, to find Mossy sitting on Ann’s lap, the woman’s arms snugly around his child. Mossy was gazing up at her with such a smile of delight on her face it tightened a band of pain around Ruston’s heart. He backed away from the door.

  It was like a scene of mother and daughter, a scene he had never witnessed, since Celia had died just hours after giving birth to Mossy. Alone he had placed his babe in the cradle in the nursery his wife had decorated so lavishly. Alone he had drunk himself into a stupor that same night, crushed by the unexpected pain of losing Celia.

  She had been more friend than wife. He had been just twenty-three when his father had died, leaving him a young and unprepared viscount. Overwhelmed by the burden of his new role, he had decided that he must marry and ensure the succession.

  He turned to his childhood friend. Celia had been affianced at seventeen to a devil-may-care younger son of an earl, but the young man had died when he overturned in a curricle race. Celia went into a decline, lost her blooming looks, and years later at twenty-four, just a little older than Ruston, had seemed destined for the shelf.

  He proposed, she accepted, gratefully, and they had married, even though his year of mourning was not even half over. They had set up housekeeping at Russetshire Manor. Theirs was a marriage of comfort, not blazing passion, and he had tried to keep from being too demanding of her in the marriage bed, as she clearly did not enjoy that aspect of marriage. It had taken her three years to conceive, but she had been glowingly happy about the coming child.

  They had hoped for a male for the succession, but in the seventh month Celia had become ill, the birth had been unexpectedly early and hard on her, and she had died within hours. Ruston’s grief had surprised even himself, but then he had gotten over it, accepted his child, and moved on, finding solace in travel.

  He peeked back into the room. Mossy was leaning back against Ann as she pointed to something they had spread out in front of them on the table. Gazing up at her, Mossy had an expression of adoration on her face.

  Ruston felt a spurt of unaccustomed anger. What did my lady Ann Beecham-Brooke think she was doing? Mossy would be crushed when she rushed off the minute the road was better. He had to break up this
cozy little scene. He strode into the room.

  “Mossy, nurse will be looking for you. You should have had your luncheon an hour ago.”

  Ann glanced over at him, her brow furrowed.

  Mossy slid off Lady Ann’s lap and gazed at her father. “Can’t I have lunch with you and Lady Ann?”

  “No!” He realized how harsh that sounded. His daughter’s tiny face was pinched and sad. “No, you’re going to have dinner with me, remember?” He had gentled his voice. “Go to Sarah and wash your face and hands for lunch. And don’t forget Noël.”

  Obediently she picked up her sleeping kitten from the bed and left the room. He watched her go and then turned back to Lady Ann. She was back to her poker-stiff posture again, her expression grim. Well, that was fine. Better she should show her true colors than deceive everybody by pretending she was no Lady Ice. The softer side she pretended was beguiling in the extreme, and dangerous for that reason.

  “Did you have to yell at the child?” she demanded.

  He strode over to the table, and she hastily hid something under a piece of embroidery. “How did my methods of raising Mossy become your concern, my lady?” Guilt tugged at him. He had been unduly harsh, but the picture they made, the idyllic “mother and daughter” tableau, had been too much. He didn’t need to explain that to a woman who was anxious to be out of his house.

  “It is none of my business, as you point out,” she said icily. She stood and busied herself with putting away her embroidery. “You could have the decency of being courteous, though.”

  “So speaks the woman who owes me appreciation for my generosity, my courtesy, in offering her a place to stay in the worst rainstorm this part of England has seen in twenty years. I haven’t seen you weary yourself with any notion of gratitude toward me.”

  Two spots of high color flagged her cheeks. She glared at him, her movements arrested by her obvious anger. “You . . . you are utterly unchivalrous, sir! That was rude and . . . and . . .”

  He stalked toward her. Unfortunately it seemed that the angry spitfire enchanted him as much as the smiling, laughing beauty. “Unchivalrous? Perhaps. I’m sure Lady Ice must think so.”

  She slapped him, leaving a stinging imprint on his cheek.

  “A little dramatic, don’t you think?” he said. “I would save such desperate reactions for despicable acts that truly deserve them, like this.”

  He stepped forward and grasped her in his arms, lowered his face and kissed her. He had intended it to be a rebuke, punishment for her willful spite, but in a single second he felt his anger slip away and the velvet softness of her lips seduced him wholly. She had gone still and he lingered, feeling the sweet curve of her mouth an enchanting place to tarry.

  He moved away, his hands still on her shoulders, shaken by the swiftness with which anger can turn to something warmer and sweeter. “You enchant me, my l . . .”

  He trailed off as he gazed at her. She was absolutely rigid, her eyes starting out from their sockets.

  “Get your hands off of me,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

  He dropped his hands. “My deepest apologies, my lady, but I was overcome.”

  She shook herself and took in a deep trembling breath. An expression of deepest distaste marred her lovely face, and she said, “Overcome! Men are not overcome. They like to keep control of a situation, and if they cannot do that with brutality they will do it with sexual conquest. Please close the door on your way out.”

  Her voice was frigid and her lip curled in disgust, as though she had smelled something bad. Again he was shaken, but this time by the loathing on her face as she viewed him. “I will assume that cook should send something up for your luncheon, my lady.” He bowed and left the room quickly.

  Ann, alone, started to tremble. Memories had flooded her of the way Reggie always ended an argument with her. It had taken that to trigger his lust, and it made her afraid. Were all men like that? Or was it just the way she affected them? She sat down on the bed. She had to leave, and leave soon. What had scared her most was that after the jolt of the first second, the feel of Ruston’s lips on hers had been pleasant . . . no, more than pleasant. She had liked it, and that shocked her more deeply than anything else.

  She had to leave.

  Chapter Five

  “Sorry I be, milady, but I can no’ see any way around it. The road is washed out, and we can no’ go for’ard.” Jacob Lesley stood in the rose parlor, twisting his cap around in his hands.

  Ann paced, her wan face showing her agitation clearly. “Then can we go back to London?”

  Jacob considered that. “Well, the trouble, ma’am, is that we ha’ no report o’ the road back to London. But if the road ahead be washed out, mayhap the road back is bad, too. Why can we no’ sit tight an’ enjoy his lordship’s generosity?” He squinted at her in the dull light from the fire.

  Ignoring his suggestion, she said, “Find out what the road back to London is like. I would rather go back and face that pack of society hounds than stay here another night.”

  “Aye, milady.” Jacob bowed and started out of the room.

  “Jacob!”

  He stopped.

  “What . . . how are they treating you? I will not have my servants abused or shuffled aside.” She stood straight and tall, her nose in the air.

  Allowing himself a smile, Jacob said, “A decent household this is, milady. You’ve no need for concern. My stable loft room is a sight more comfortable than the one in London, beg parding, milady, and the cook here is a rare treat! A right plump beauty wi’ a hand as light as a feather wi’ bread! And all belowstairs worship yon gentleman, Viscount Ruston. Say he is the best of masters.” With that he bowed and edged out of the room.

  When her driver was gone, Ann grimaced. She had heard the same song of gratitude from Ellen, who had been cared for like a part of the extended family of manor servants, she said. Well, she was not one to seek faults where there apparently were none, and so she must admit that Ruston was accounted a good master by one and all.

  Perhaps he was a better master than father.

  Feeling peevish and out of sorts, Ann climbed the stairs. All of this emotional turmoil was precisely why she had left London. She was used to going her own serene, unruffled way in life, but after the Madison fiasco she had felt the need to play least-in-sight for a while. Verity’s annual invitation, which she normally turned down in favor of a staid, lonely Christmas in London, had come as a godsend.

  She entered her lovely green bower room with unseeing eyes. Most of London was busy this time of year, going off to family and friends, planning parties and balls and extended country visits, but Lady Ann invariably stayed in London. Her sister had invited her this year as she always did, but the invitation held no allure for Ann. Fanny was on her perpetual sickbed in Wales, peevishly forecasting her own death or that of one of her three children. Her letters were infrequent and complaining, envying Ann her freedom from children and husband.

  Judith, the sister closest to her in age, lived alone in London. One would think they would spend Christmas together but the older sister had, in her discriminating snobbery, gathered about her a group of “artistic” types who dressed in a great deal of black and put their noses up at anyone who had not read the Iliad in the original Greek, or who did not write pretentious little poems, obscurely insulting those who did not understand them. Ann and Judith occasionally crossed paths in London and were polite to each other, but not even Christmas could bring them together for dinner.

  And Bert! Ann shuddered as she sat down on the bed and smoothed the lovely counterpane. Bert had grown into the very image of their father, only worse. He invited her to their ancestral home every year and had always done so since the death, by cholera, of their parents within months of each other, nine years ago now. She had never accepted and never would.

  What a sad family tale. Agitated for some unfathomable reason, Ann stood and paced over to the table by the window. Was Mossy destined to s
pend her childhood desperately trying to please her father, only to be sold to some aging roué with a need for a family when she turned seventeen? She shuddered. Taking a seat at the table, she leaned her cheek on her hand and stared at the rain-covered window, watching the droplets gather and run in rivulets down the glass.

  Ann had been full of hope when she married Sir Reginald Beecham-Brooke. Perhaps he was not the stuff of her childhood fantasies, a strong, handsome gentleman come to rescue her from her hateful life in the Pelham family, but he evidently wanted her. Ann had been given to understand that he had seen her in church one Sunday and decided there and then to take her to wife.

  It seemed so romantic! Love at first sight, and a man desperate to wed her!

  When she met him, her agreement to the marriage already secured—though as she knew, her agreement was just a formality to her father—she had been disappointed. Reginald was tall, thin and grim, and twice her age or more. But she had beaten down her unsuitable chagrin, preferring to go into marriage with an optimistic outlook.

  What a fool she had been!

  Her wedding day was a dream. For the first time in her life she felt pretty. She had never been allowed to wear her hair up, and the heavy dark locks had always seemed to overshadow her narrow face, but that day, with her black hair up in glossy ringlets and dressed in lavender silk with violets and diamonds in her hair, she had been beautiful. Even Bates, her mother’s dresser, had said so, and she was not given to praise.

  After the wedding breakfast, she and her new husband had started off immediately for Reginald’s family estate, a three-day journey. Indiscreet whispering among the maids had led her to a basic understanding of what would be expected of her on her wedding night, and though scared, she was prepared to be brave. The first night in her small but comfortable room at an inn, she had awaited her husband in frightened anticipation, her stomach doing a nervous little dance. Finally, around two in the morning she fell asleep.