by Regina Scott
A tingle of excitement shot through her. She could not let Chimes see it. No one could see it. “We are in agreement there as well,” she replied calmly enough, but she couldn't help adding, “has he changed much since we left, Chimes?"
His sharp black eyes lit up, and she struggled not to look too interested in the answer, afraid she'd given away the game. “Since you and Miss Allison and Mr. Geoffrey went to the curate's school together? Not all that much, I suppose. Still interested in the Squire, are we, Miss Gen?"
She wandered closer to him, letting him see how casually she gazed at her reflection in the gilded mirror beside him. She tucked a stray curl back into the golden coil at the nape of her neck. The woman who gazed back was cool and confident, the champion of many a London fete. Satisfied, she turned from the reflection to face him with a gracious smile.
Somehow, she knew she wasn't fooling him for a second.
"I remember how you used to look up at him when you was just a little gel, and he'd come to take Mr. Geoffrey home on his horse,” Chimes continued as she resumed her pacing. “Right fine figure of a man is the Squire. I heared tell he was interested in courting Mary Delacourte."
"Did her eyes ever uncross?” Gen asked.
"Now, they were never really crossed. That right eye of hers just tends to wander since she was kicked in the head by that cow all those years ago. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were still sweet on him."
She snorted and heard the unladylike sound echo against the polished wood walls. “I was never sweet on him, Chimes. It was an infantile adoration. I was only fourteen when we left; he must have been, oh ... “.
"Twenty-two. Which would make him just a year or two shy of thirty these days.” He scratched the bare spot on top of his graying head. “Good age for a man to marry and settle down."
She scowled at him, determined to put that idea from his mind. “I hope you remember how to keep that mouth of yours shut when Mother arrives."
"Takes more than a pretty frown to scare me, gel.” He winked at her, tapping the crook of his long nose. “And don't you worry about your mother. She never did think I was good enough to be the butler, but she can't live without my Annie's cooking.” His merry smile faded. “Especially now. Carstairs says you haven't told them yet."
That pulled her up short. Twice now she'd underestimated Chimes ability to see to the heart of matters. What a pity her father hadn't taken him with them to London. She'd have given much to have him point out the shallowness of her beaus before she could even think of engaging her heart. And a word from Chimes might have kept her father from allowing a drunken friend to take the reins.
She blinked away the unhappy thought. She couldn't let her appreciation of the man's abilities deter her now. “I do not wish to talk about it further,” she informed him, hands on hips. “I warn you, Chimes, I will brook no arguments on this. They deserve one last happy Christmas."
He held up his gnarled hands in surrender. “Very well, Miss. You can count on me to stay mum.” He lowered his voice. “Are we still hunting tomorrow morning?"
She relaxed, the two topics she feared most now past. Lowering her voice as well, she nodded. “Yes. I've convinced Mother that letting me plan the Christmas dinner is excellent practice for when I'll manage my own home some day. Do you think we can still find some good birds for Annie to cook?"
"Good birds, bad birds, my Annie will make them sing in your mouth. Hark, there's the carriage now."
She was surprised at the flutter of excitement in her stomach, even more surprised at the lowering disappointment when Chimes shrugged himself into his coat and found only their Vicar, Thaddeus York, and his curate, William Wellfordhouse, at the door. She chided herself for her lack of enthusiasm. William had been her father's protégé; she had known him for years. He deserved better than her disappointment. She pasted on a smile of welcome as the grooms led the horses away and Chimes showed them in.
"Good evening, Miss Genevieve,” Wellfordhouse said with a smile as he took her hands. “I must say you're looking quite well."
She grinned up at him, noting that his sandy hair was as immaculately combed as ever and that his gray eyes sparkled. Before she could return his greeting, the vicar broke in.
"Quite well indeed, under the circumstances, quite well.” York ran a hand over his balding pate as Chimes hurried off with their coats and hats. “There are many who question the proper time for mourning. Three months? Six months? A year? Respect for the dearly departed is the key, I find. Your father has been gone a mere six months, has he not?"
She bit back a smile at his faux pas. Her father had ever delighted in baiting the poor Vicar into just such a statement. “Yes, Vicar,” she said aloud. “How kind of you to remember.” She focused on the young man who had become like a brother to her. “William, you look thinner than when we saw you in London. I hope the Vicar isn't working you too hard."
Wellfordhouse opened his mouth to respond, but the Vicar coughed into his meaty hands. “Hard work, Miss Munroe, is the best road toward heaven, the very best."
"Then dear William must be nearly there,” she replied, allowing the smile to show. She noted that Chimes had returned and signaled him forward. “Chimes, please make these kind gentlemen comfortable in the drawing room and inform Mother that they have arrived. I will wait here for our other guests."
Wellfordhouse, who had been looking rather uncomfortable, brightened. “Oh, are we to have other company as well?"
She winked at him. “Yes. The Pentercasts."
"Oh, bravo, Miss Gen!” he exclaimed.
The Vicar grunted. “It is the true penitent who knows the worth of peace, the true penitent indeed."
Gen's smile was threatening to become a laugh. “Chimes,” she prompted. She was relieved when their man led them away.
She really should try to remember Vicar York's position, she scolded herself as she resumed her anxious pacing. He had been the head of the church at Wenwood since before she was born. Of course, she never felt as comfortable in his company as she did in William's. William was always pleasant, always kind. He seemed to have taken every lesson in humility and duty to heart. Her father had said he was born to be a clergyman.
Somehow she didn't think the same applied to Vicar York, who seemed far more interested in good food and fine wine. The very thought made her feel guilty. She would simply have to try harder to appreciate the man if they were to live here in Wenwood. If only he didn't insist on repeating every other phrase. She remembered when Allison had pointed it out to their father.
"Don't let it annoy you,” her father had replied with that tell-tale twinkle in his eyes that meant he was never less serious. “He only repeats himself to show how very little he has to say, how very little indeed.” She could hear Allison's answering giggle. Yes, she'd have to work very hard if she were to be suitably serious with Reverend York.
She had crossed the wide entry twice more when her mother and Allison appeared from the corridor that led to the family wing. She nearly groaned out loud. While she had gone out of her way to pick a simple gown of watered green silk with a modest neck, she saw that her mother had decided to show the Pentercasts who they were dealing with. Her lilac satin gown, with its full skirt, lace overdress, and silver embroidery at the lowered neck and high waist, was more suited to a royal ball than a country dinner. The puffed sleeves required her to wear her long gloves, but Gen knew it wasn't modesty that had caused her to include the two amethyst rings or the matching stone that glinted from the folds of her silver turban.
Allison, not yet out, should have been more simply dressed. The white gown she wore was as plainly cut as Gen's, but it too boasted a silver lace overdress sprinkled with beads that reflected the candlelight. With a pang, Gen noted the Munroe diamonds, one of the few pieces of jewelry she had refused to sell or have paste copies made, sparkling at her throat and wrist. The tiara, usually reserved for the eldest daughter or daughter-in-law, nestled in her flaxen curls
. Her mother was obviously making a statement. Standing next to them, she felt like a poor relation.
They had no time to talk as the sound of a carriage came again, and Chimes bustled forward to receive their guests. Her mother uttered a short sigh at his rumpled coat, but he opened the arched double doors with proper ceremony. Trying to ignore the fluttering in her stomach, Gen put up her head and pasted another smile on her face.
Mrs. Pentercast entered first. She was shorter than Gen remembered, reaching only to Gen's shoulder, and much rounder. Gen could only hope her face didn't show her shock as Chimes took her black velvet evening cloak to reveal that she was wearing a lilac satin gown with a lace overdress and silver embroidery. It was obviously a copy of the London gown, done somewhat less grandly and looking much less impressive on the short, squat figure than on her mother's tall, spare frame. Even the silver headband with its purple ostrich feather she had elected to wear instead of a turban failed to give it the proper polish. Nevertheless, her mother's forced smile of welcome froze on her face.
"Clear the way, Mother,” an annoyed voice demanded, and Mrs. Pentercast scurried forward so fast that Gen's mother was forced to step back to keep the purple feather from lodging in her nose. Geoffrey Pentercast, looking much as Gen remembered in his many caped brown-tweed greatcoat that called attention to his broad shoulders, clumped into the entry, trailing mud, decayed leaves, and a six-foot log in his wake.
"Thought you wouldn't have a proper Yule Log,” he announced, dragging the massive stump by a chain into the center of the entry. Gen tried not to think about what it would cost to repair the scratches he was making in the parquet floor.
She could feel her mother's disapproval. “Why, of course, Mr. Pentercast,” Gen answered quickly for her. “How very thoughtful of you to bring it along. We haven't had a Yule Log in years, have we, Allison?"
"Yule Logs are such quaint customs,” Allison said with a sniff, “for children."
"I like to think there's still some of the child in all of us, Miss Munroe,” a deeper voice said from the doorway. The flutter in Gen's stomach intensified, and she swallowed, looking up to find Alan Pentercast regarding her from the door. Her first thought was that he was very different from what she remembered, but she wasn't sure what had changed.
Like his brother, he still had the shaggy thatch of brown hair that defied combing and the dark brown eyes that seemed to sparkle with some secret. Unlike his brother, who was shorter and more powerfully built, he stood a good head taller than anyone in the room. His face seemed leaner, his features more sharply planed. He moved with a negligent grace she'd only seen on London dance floors. As Chimes took his many caped blue-tweed greatcoat, she saw that he wore the black trousers, white satin waistcoat, and black cutaway coat of a London Corinthian. Unlike the dress his mother wore, the outfit was obviously no copy. She would have said it had been cut by Weston, although she'd have also wagered there was no padding in the shoulders or calves. The sensitive, brave young man she remembered had been replaced by a confident, authoritative gentleman. She wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or awed.
"As my daughter Genevieve noted, Mr. Pentercast,” her mother was murmuring, “we appreciate the thought. Chimes, please see to the ... er ... log."
"Mind you,” Geoffrey put in as Chimes stepped forward to take up the chain. “I expect to be the first to sit on it, since I brought it."
"I'm sure that won't be a problem,” her mother quipped. “I believe we all know each other. You are all most welcome to our home."
Gen cast a sidelong look at Alan, who stood towering over his mother. She caught herself standing a little straighter and recognized the ridiculous desire to have him notice her. Good heavens, you'd think I was being introduced to the Prince Regent, she thought in disgust. Nevertheless, she kept her head high as his family stepped forward.
Little Mrs. Pentercast was peering up at Gen's mother, squinting as if to focus on the narrow, aristocratic face a foot above hers. “My word, Trudy, I hope you're not going to stay on this high horse of yours all night. I told Alan I thought that invitation was a mistake."
Mrs. Munroe glowered down at her, and for a moment Gen thought her mother's reserve would crack. She wracked her brain for a way out of the growing hostility.
"Mother,” Alan put in, “I'm sure the Munroes wouldn't have asked us here if they hadn't have wished for the company.” He made a bow over her mother's hand. Some of the lines around her mother's mouth eased. “And on such an important occasion. We are honored."
His mother sniffed, and Geoffrey rolled his eyes, but her mother offered him the closest thing to a smile Gen had seen since her father died, and Gen began to relax. “Perhaps it is time to put our differences behind us, sir."
He smiled a genuine smile in return as he straightened and Gen found herself wishing he'd smile at her that way. “Nothing would please my family more, I assure you."
"Except, perhaps, for something to eat,” Geoffrey interrupted, causing her mother's eyes to narrow once again. “This was an invitation to dinner, was it not?"
"Chimes?” her mother snapped, and their man scurried forward from the back of the house, dusting off his hands. “Please escort our guests to the withdrawing room."
Chimes motioned them down the corridor that opened to the left of the wide entry. Alan offered his mother his arm, and Geoffrey fell in behind, muttering something about wanting to withdraw himself. Her own mother followed with stately steps. Allison walked beside her at the end of the procession.
"I don't know why you wanted these people in our home,” she whispered to Gen. “They are every bit the rudesbys we have been warned about for years."
"Shh,” Gen warned. “I haven't been overly impressed with your own manners, Miss."
Allison tossed her head.
Gen had hoped things might go better when the company was all gathered in the withdrawing room. Reverends York and Wellfordhouse rose as the procession entered, their voices raised in greeting, and her hopes rose anew. Then Mrs. Pentercast obviously disappointed them, especially Vicar York, by giving the reverends the briefest of nods before turning to try various chairs in the room. After several were proclaimed unsuitable, she deigned to sit in the Sheraton chair nearest the fire. With a shrug that seemed to indicate he'd been through this before, Alan went to stand beside her, leaning against the fireplace mantle. As the chair she had taken was Gen's mother's favorite, her mother had no choice but to take the matching chair in the corner nearest the door, making it look as if she wanted nothing more than to escape.
Allison threw herself down in the chair next to it. Geoffrey glanced around the room with a shake of his head, grumbling about the tastes of females in general, then clumped to slump down in the chair nearest his mother. The Reverends resumed their places on the sofa across the back of the room. Gen forced down a sigh as she sank onto the chaise lounge on the other side of the door. She knew she wasn't the only one to notice that the Pentercasts and the Munroes were now effectively lined up on opposite sides of the room.
Silence stretched. A log settled in the fireplace. She could hear the clink of silver next door as Chimes and their footmen put the finishing touches on the table. This was maddening! What had she been thinking to arrange this? Despite her father's admiration of Alan, no Munroe had been seen in the company of a Pentercast for a hundred years. What had made her believe she could get them to change their behavior now? So what if it was Christmas, time of peace on earth and good will toward all? The all must not have included the Pentercasts and Munroes.
If only she could help her mother and Allison realize how important it was that they get along with their neighbors. But she was the only one who knew why it was so important, and she had promised herself to remain silent. She felt like a prisoner in her own handmade cell. Looking up, she caught Alan's gaze, and, to her surprise, he grinned at her. She blushed, looking away, afraid what he might think should he see the frustration in her eyes.
; "You are looking exceptionally lovely tonight, if I may say so, Mrs. Pentercast,” York rumbled, breaking the silence. “That color is the perfect shade on a lady of your influence in the community."
Her mother's eyes snapped fire. Mrs. Pentercast blushed prettily, patting down her skirts. “How very kind of you to say so, Vicar."
"All the ladies look lovely if you ask me,” William put in with a nod to the corners of the room. “We gentlemen are most fortunate to be in their company."
"Well said, Wellfordhouse,” Alan agreed heartily. “And if I may compliment our hostess, this room is particularly festive. It's been a long time since Wenwood had a proper Christmas with the Abbey open. Your neighbors have missed you.” He said the last with a pointed look at Gen, and she felt the fluttering begin in her stomach again.
"Hear, hear,” William nodded agreeably.
Her mother inclined her head in acknowledgment. “It is good to have Christmas in the country again."
"Will you be coming with us to see the Thorn tonight?” Alan queried.
Her mother looked thoughtful. “I haven't done that since I was a child. Is it still alive?"
"Oh, very much alive,” William assured her. “Tom Harvey spotted the bud this morning, I'm told. I expect the entire village will be there tonight to see if it blooms."
"Course it will bloom,” Geoffrey grumbled. “That's what the damn thing's for, isn't it?"
Her mother stiffened, and Allison widened her eyes, looking shocked at his language. His own mother glared at him.
"Well, if you ask me, we must be very careful how we treat these trappings of Christmas,” York grumbled. “There is entirely too much reverence paid to this Wenwood Thorn, entirely too much. And these boughs and that ivy over the door are pagan customs that once had no place in a good Christian home, no place at all."
