A Christmas Gambol

by Joan Smith

  “Has Gresham sent back Georgiana yet?” he asked.

  “He brought it this morning,” she said, frowning.

  Montaigne’s heart leaped with hope. “He didn’t care for it?” This was his chance to make up to Sissie for his poor behavior. Though Gresham’s disapproval didn’t necessarily mean the book was unpublishable.

  “I really can’t tell. He said it showed great promise, but went on with so many niggling com­plaints that I feel I ought to throw it in the grate and start over. He wants me to take out my favorite parts. He says good writing doesn’t have to resort to low humor. He meant the pig getting loose in the garden, I expect. He’s offered to help me work on it.” The slump of her shoulders told him Gresham’s complaints had depressed her. “That was very kind of him, was it not?”

  “Monstrously kind!” he said angrily. “He wants to hack at it and make it as dull as his own outpour­ings. Let me show it to Murray before you go changing it.”

  “After talking to Gresham, I’m ashamed to let anyone read it.” A mischievous gleam twinkled in her eyes. “Though Murray did publish Chaos,” she added.

  “You haven’t told anyone?” he asked anxiously.

  “Of course not—yet.”

  “If you would just let me explain, Sissie. I only did it for a lark. I had been reading The Castle of Otranto. I thought it might be a good chance to hone my own writing—for speeches in the House and an occasional political article. I was ill, recuperating from that busted ankle.”

  “And a busted heart. That is why you subjected Eugenie to such horrid tribulations. It was revenge for Debora’s jilting you.”

  “Naturally she was much on my mind at that time. She had just accepted the duke’s offer.”

  “Now I begin to understand you. Under that cool facade you are a dangerous romantic lunatic, Montaigne. Thank God you do not care for me in that way.”

  “I was suffering from melancholia! I wasn’t myself.”

  “No, you were Baron Ravencroft. Never give more than one explanation. Such a plethora of them sounds like excuses.”

  “I expect you think Ravencroft was a jackass.”

  Her teasing expression softened into a fond smile. “Strange, now that you mention it, I didn’t pay much attention to the baron. He was not so bad as Eugenie. In fact, he was rather sweet, in a maudlin sort of way. Did you really press that perfect red rose Eug—Debora gave you and sleep with it under your pillow?”

  “It was only a violet,” he said, blushing. “I put it between the leaves of a book, but when I lent the book to Meg, I took it out. It broke apart. The small gesture has to be enhanced and romanticized for fiction.”

  “Not if you’re writing about Dickie. He asked me to call him Dickie. Imagine me being on a first-name basis with a duke! I feel I shall have to tone down his excesses, or no one would credit them. I’m plan­ning a marvelous fool based on him for my next novel. Of course I won’t be able to call him a duke. Pity, for a prince doesn’t fit my story. I shall have to demote him to a marquess. Do you know what he suggested, Montaigne?”

  Her shocked face gave rise to the worst possible ideas. Montaigne came to rigid attention. Such outré suggestions as a menage à trois occurred to him. Was he to be involved in a duel? “Imagination fails,” he said in a thin voice.

  “He invited me to go to Italy with him and Debora next spring.”

  “What!”

  “With, of course, a whole retinue of chaperons and couriers and his very own doctor and a coiffeur for the ladies and I don’t know what all. Did you ever hear anything so extravagant in your life? It would be a wonderful experience. And he meant it! He was going to pay for everything, too.”

  “I trust you did not encourage this folly!”

  “Unfortunately, I couldn’t. I can just imagine Papa’s howls if I suggested such a thing. To say nothing of Debora’s. Really he is the outside of enough. But pure gold for research purposes. Twenty-four carat. The minute he leaves, I dart to my notebook to jot down what he said.”

  Montaigne felt his annoyance melting when he discovered the nature of her interest in Morland. A lady wasn’t likely to go tumbling into love with someone she considered a buffoon.

  “I expect you’ll sneak a small notebook into Anne’s muff when you visit the theater this eve­ning,” he said.

  “But of course. I shall let on I’m making notes on the play. Since I wrote the pantomime, Morland has taken the notion I never stop scribbling. He asked me if I had published any books this week.” A sil­very tinkle of laughter erupted.

  “You say you have spoken to Moore about your pantomime?”

  “Yes, and he liked it. He doesn’t foresee many changes. I shall go to one rehearsal to smooth out any lines that give the characters trouble. Palin paid me a hundred pounds for the copyright! I’ve squandered half of it already. You have no notion how expensive it is for a lady to keep in fashion.”

  “Do I not? And by the by, you should never sell the copyright, but as it’s only a short sketch, it is no matter.”

  “As you are familiar with the price of ladies’ fash­ion, then I assume you do have a bit o’ muslin? I asked Meg, but she—”

  “I did not say how I knew. You forget I have a sister.” His dark eyes dared her to continue this discussion.

  “So you have, and don’t think I mean to pester you about your light-o’-love, for I know it is not at all the thing. I can find out from any of Meg’s friends, as Meg doesn’t know if you ever replaced the opera dancer . ..”

  “That was some years ago.”

  “Well, never mind. I have got quite enough re­search about how the gentlemen carry on from Meg. It was nice having this chat, Montaigne. I hope you aren’t angry about my going to Hastings, but really, you know, I could not pass up such an opportunity. I never met a duke and duchess before and probably never shall again. I just couldn’t refuse. Of course I shan’t tell anyone you wrote Chaos. I was just teas­ing you.”

  “I should have told you the truth from the begin­ning,” he said. His mind lingered on her casual dismissal of his love life. She obviously had no per­sonal interest in it.

  “Yes. If I had known, I wouldn’t have ragged you so about Eugenie. I know, after Sir Giles’s note, how much criticism hurts. It is as if he had taken a scalpel to my child. If I had really despised your book, I wouldn’t have read it all the way through—in one sitting,” she added, laughing at herself. “I ex­pect it was half jealousy at its popularity that goaded me.”

  “I never considered it great literature. Speaking of which—shall I take Georgiana to Murray this afternoon?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  She bounced up and took a parcel from a side table. “Here she is. Guard her with your life. It is the only fair copy I have.” She was suddenly sober, almost frightened. She took a deep breath to steady her voice and said, “And Monty, I want you to tell me the truth, whatever Murray says. If it’s awful, tell me where I went wrong.”

  He read the tension in Cicely’s voice and realized how important this was to her. He determined on the spot that if Murray hated it, he wouldn’t tell her but make some excuse about a crowded publishing schedule and publish it himself.

  “I shall ask him to have a quick look at it immedi­ately and give you his first impression at Drury Lane this evening.”

  A bright smile beamed. “Oh, are you coming?” she asked.

  “I’m not invited to join the Morlands’ party, but I shall drop in and visit you at intermission.”

  “Murray won’t have time to read my book before the play. That only gives him a few hours. It’s three hundred pages.”

  “He can get an idea of the style, at least.”

  “Let him read it at his leisure. There is no need for you to make a special trip to Drury Lane. If he hates it, it will spoil the play.”

  “I have another reason for going. I have to eat some humble pie. You don’t think I plan to let you have all of Morland’s excesses to yourself? One nev
er knows, I might bust another ankle, and have to write away my pain.”

  “Do you mean—”

  “Yes, I plan to rescind my refusal to the party at Hastings, even though the rooms are all taken. It’s close to Christmas, after all. He won’t refuse me a couple of chairs and a bolster by the fireplace in the festive season.”

  “Oh, I am glad you’re coming,” she said and reached out to seize his hands in hers. When she realized what she had done, she pulled her hands back with a self-conscious start. “Half the fun of all my research is having someone to talk to about it. Until I get home to tell Anne, there’s no one. Meg and Fairly don’t find the duke very amusing. It has all been so exciting and lovely. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, but in a way, I’m glad it’s nearly over. London has changed Meg. I wouldn’t want it to do that to me. When I look at myself in the mirror, I hardly recognize me.”

  “Meg was always a widgeon,” he said frankly. “It wouldn’t change a stronger character like you. It hasn’t changed me, I hope.” He paused, lifting an eyebrow in thought, remembering Cicely’s anger at learning he had lied about Chaos. “I thought there was one person in wicked London I could always trust,” she had said. “Do I sound as conceited as I think I do?”

  “Yes,” she said, “though I suspect there might be a grain of truth in it. You don’t seem to have changed much in any case, but I am nearly as ex­cited as Meg about the gown I’m having made up for Morland’s ball. It has silver spangles. I never had a gown with spangles before.”

  “I look forward to seeing it.”

  “The only disappointment in the visit is that I shan’t see my Christmas pantomime performed. I shall be home by then.”

  A quick frown seized Montaigne’s brow. “That’s a pity. Could you not stay?”

  “I’ve already stayed longer than I intended. I am expected at Elmdale by the eighteenth at the latest. Will you be in London for Christmas, Montaigne?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “If you are, will you go to see the pantomime and perhaps, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, send me any little squibs that might be in the journals?”

  “Of course. And now I shall rush Georgiana off to Murray.”

  As Montaigne took his leave of Cicely and the Fairlys, his heart felt pounds lighter than when he had arrived, though he was unhappy to think of Sissie’s having to miss the debut of her pantomime at Covent Garden. As for the rest of it, he could hardly expect her to sit waiting for him to call when she had come here to see the sights. He was glad she was having such an exciting visit. Even the house party at Hastings offered some prospect of amusement.

  He left Cicely on pins and needles. What if Mur­ray hated her book? Sir Giles’s critique had cast her into utter gloom. The novel suddenly seemed too trite and silly and provincial to show to a London publisher. But after this visit, she had some inkling of how real Society went on. The next one would be better.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  The play at Drury Lane that evening was a supe­rior performance of The Way to Keep Him, by Mur­phy. Everyone agreed the actress playing Mrs. Lovemore did an excellent job. Mr. Witherspoon, Ci­cely’s escort, was handsome and amusing. The duke, up to his usual height of foolishness, had sent the ladies corsages of orchids and given each a crys­tal bottle of perfume with a gold stopper as a me­mento of the evening. Champagne was served at the intermission, and during the performance treats were passed—bonbons, nuts, dried cherries. And through it all, Cicely sat in an agony of suspense, waiting for Montaigne to come.

  When Montaigne didn’t appear at the first inter­mission, Cicely was certain Murray had disliked the book, and that Montaigne didn’t want to spoil the evening by telling her. When he didn’t show up for the second intermission either, suspense caused such an ache between Cicely’s temples that she felt almost ill. She didn’t hear a single word of the duke’s lavish praise of Mrs. Lovemore, which would have made excellent jotting for her notebook.

  The duchess, who had yawned and complained of nausea throughout the play, wanted to go home afterward. As the duke had spent his afternoon arranging a special dinner at the Clarendon, he wanted to take his guests on there.

  “Ah, here is Montaigne!” he said. “He can take Debora home, and we’ll go on for dinner. You don’t mind, Debbie?”

  At the word “Montaigne,” Cicely’s heart turned to ice. She glanced to the doorway of the box, where Montaigne had just entered. She tried to read by his expression what had transpired at Murray’s, but the shadowy box defeated her. It was too dark to see the excitement glowing in his eyes.

  Morland bustled forward and said, “Just the fel­low we wanted to see, Monty. Would you mind tak­ing Debbie home? She ain’t feeling well. Something she ate, no doubt.”

  Montaigne was so shocked at the request that he hardly knew what to say. To be seen escorting Deb­ora would provide fine fuel for the gossipmongers.

  “Not Monty, Dick,” the duchess said, and whis­pered something in his ear.

  As Dick immediately said, “Witherspoon, then?” Montaigne assumed Debora had alerted him to scandal.

  Witherspoon, hoping to win an invitation to the house party at Hastings, agreed with alacrity.

  “You’ll come along with us then, Monty,” Morland said. “Won’t take no for an answer. Sissie and Witherspoon came in my rig. He’ll take it back to the house. You have your own rig? Excellent. Then you can give Sissie and me a lift. I reserved a large table. A few others will be joining my party.”

  Morland took Cicely’s arm and ushered her out. She cast a questioning look over his shoulder to Montaigne. He didn’t want to give Sissie the news of her book in front of the duke, nor did he have much opportunity. Morland kept up a stream of foolish chatter as they drove to the Clarendon. Sissie showed Montaigne her perfume and orchid. She was so impressed at His Grace’s lavish treatment that the praise came easily.

  “A real orchid! I shall press it and keep it for a memento, along with the lovely perfume bottle.”

  “Just a little something to please the ladies,” he said dismissively. “Debora had the perfume made up from the roses in our garden by a French perfumer. It’s called Debora.”

  He noticed, though, how grateful Cicely was. A fellow liked a little enthusiasm when he went a mile out of his way to please a lady. Debora was never enthusiastic about anything these days. This dinner she was walking away from would bowl Sissie over. Three courses and three removes. Jacquiers was particularly good at l’oie braisée aux racines glacées. And his filets de volatile à l’orléanaise—why, there wasn’t a chef in London could touch him. As for the entremets, a few simple plates of truffes sous la cendre, canards sauvages, and petits pains à la duchesse would do for a start.

  At the hotel, Morland casually informed his guests he had had the French chef Jacquiers make them up a bite. “The only place in London one can get a decent French dinner,” he mentioned. The “decent French dinner” would cost him four pounds per head, and another guinea per bottle, which was of no more concern to him than the tuppence he might pay for a journal.

  His guests were impressed and happy, he was noisy and happy, and the dinner was a great suc­cess. Cicely was possibly the happiest person at the table. She hadn’t much privacy to discover what had happened at Murray’s, but Montaigne found a moment to whisper, “Don’t worry. He likes it,” and that was enough to make her evening.

  At least Murray hadn’t hated it. Cicely would have to do some revising over the winter, take out the scene of the pig in the garden—though it was one of her favorites. She had chuckled to herself as she wrote it, remembering Anne chasing after the old sow, Hildie, with the broom. If she worked hard, she could have the manuscript ready for spring.

  Made expansive by relief, she lavished praise on the food, although she found it tasted rather strange. She also inquired exhaustively into its con­tents and preparation, all in the way of research. Morland was delighted to find a fellow gourmet. Wh
en Cicely asked if he’d mind if she just jotted down a few notes, he was flattered to death.

  Even when dinner was finally over—and it lasted two hours—she still had to wait to hear the whole story from Montaigne. It was arranged that Fairly and Meg would drive Sissie home, while Montaigne was to deliver the slightly inebriated duke home to his duchess.

  “I am dead. I shall go straight to bed,” Meg an­nounced when they arrived at Berkeley Square. They exchanged good nights with Cicely, and Fairly accompanied Meg abovestairs.

  Cicely dallied over the removal of her wrap. She felt it was probably improper to receive Montaigne alone at such an hour, but she knew in her bones he would come. He couldn’t be so cruel as to leave her in suspense until the morrow.

  The fire in the grate had been banked for the night. It neither flamed nor flared. A sluggish warmth that took the bitter edge off the cold issued from beneath the blanket of coals. Cicely huddled into her shawl. It was ten minutes before she heard the quiet clopping of Montaigne’s team in the street. He had his driver set a slow pace to diminish the noise.

  He planned to drive by, and if the lights down­stairs were extinguished, he would leave and return in the morning. When he saw the light in the sa­loon, he knew Sissie was waiting for him. A warm glow engulfed him, to be the bearer of good news.

  Cicely rose as one in a trance to meet Montaigne as he entered the saloon. “What did he say? Tell me everything,” she said, and held her breath until she heard the answer.

  Montaigne read the hope and fear in her dark eyes, and his heart swelled with joy at the chore awaiting him.

  “He loved it. Sorry I was late at the theater, but once he got his nose into the book, he wouldn’t stop reading. I darted home to change while he finished it, then went back for his verdict. Of course he wants to publish it.”

  Cicely felt a giddiness and a soaring joy such as she had never known possible. She stood stunned to silence for a moment. “Really?” is all she said when she recovered her wits. Then she rushed forward and pitched herself toward Montaigne.