Christmas Joy

by Wilma Counts

  “Oh, no! You are whistling into the wind if you seek to practice your craft on me again!” It had come out more vehemently than Meghan intended.

  Irene’s eyes were full of concern. “Was it so very bad for you, then? I am so sorry, Meghan.”

  Meghan shrugged. “It was no better or worse than many another pairing in our circles.” She paused. “But I will not go through it again.”

  And, she thought, certainly not with another rake. Justin Wingate and Burton Kenwick were, after all, birds of a feather.

  And with that thought, Meghan’s little tête-à-tête with Irene was interrupted as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies and tables were set for card games. Meghan found herself partnered by her host. She had always liked Robert, whose quiet solidity contrasted with his wife’s energetic gaiety. Georgiana, of course, was partnered by Justin, though Meghan did not observe whether that was by his machination or hers. Perhaps Irene had arranged it, or the girl’s mother. Anyway, why should it matter?

  Altogether, it had been a pleasant evening, she thought later as she blew a kiss toward the miniature of her son and turned down her lamp. So what if she felt herself more an observer than a participant? Observers paid no dues in pain.

  In his own chamber, Justin leaned on pillows pushed against the headboard of his bed and reviewed this third day of the visit. So far, so good. Joy seemed relaxed with the other children, though she remained on the sidelines of their noisy games. She had readily allowed Irene to hug her, though that bit of progress had come only this morning.

  When Miss Hamlin had offered her own arms, however, Joy had turned shy, hiding herself behind her papa.

  “Come, darling,” Miss Hamlin had coaxed, “I would dearly love to hold you.”

  But Joy had demurred, clutching her blanket and snuggling even closer to her father, who patted her head and said, “Perhaps later, Miss Hamlin.”

  Miss Hamlin had shrugged and murmured, “Of course.”

  He had supposed—from her eagerness to accompany them to the nursery—that Miss Hamlin was well acquainted with the other Wingate children. This did not seem to be the case, for the younger ones had to be reminded of who she was, and all of them greeted her in only the most formal manner. She had made little effort to secure the affection of the others once Joy had rejected her overtures.

  He smiled to himself. Irene was clearly up to her old tricks. Everleigh’s marchioness was so happy in her own union that she felt it some sort of divine duty to help others to such marital felicity. Well, give Irene credit. She had promoted his marriage to Belinda, urging the relationship from a vague understanding between families to getting the principals to the altar. And it had turned out well enough. He was not averse to being married again—sometime.

  To Miss Hamlin? Hmm. A possibility. She was a trifle young for his usual tastes though she had been “out” for a year or more. He remembered her as an angular stick of a thing when he had first met her—what, six? no, seven years ago. Now here she was—a decided beauty and clearly encouraging.

  And if that did not take, his dear sister-in-law had invited other “eligibles” in Lady Helen Bly and Miss Dierdre Thompson, both of whom were unexceptional females of passing good looks. And Mrs. Kenwick?

  No. Even Irene would not promote quite such an impossible pairing. His inclinations had never leaned toward women of intellect. His urges were far more primal. And the delectable and willing Miss Hamlin, who had made such pretty overtures to his daughter, might suit very well after all.

  Meghan knew both friendship and courtesy dictated that she look in on the Everleigh nursery. She also knew Irene was not one of those ton mothers who left the rearing of her children to nursemaid, governess, and tutor. The marchioness took an active role in her children’s upbringing, and she was rightfully proud of the results. So it was that after breakfast the next morning, Meghan asked to visit the nursery.

  “Are you sure?” Irene asked doubtfully. “You need not feel obliged to admire my progeny. You will probably have your fill of them before the holiday is over.”

  “Of course I am sure,” Meghan lied, for she was not at all sure, but it was something she needed to do.

  The Everleigh nursery was actually a suite of rooms that included a dressing room, a schoolroom, and a large playroom, as well as various bedchambers. They found ten-year-old Jason and his sister of eight years, Sarah, in the well-furnished schoolroom. Meghan noted a large slate-board and a freestanding globe, as well as numerous books. Jason greeted his mother’s friend with a very grown-up bow, and Sarah executed a practiced curtsy. They had been working intently on a model of Lord Nelson’s ship, the Victory, and were clearly anxious to get back to it.

  Irene and Meghan moved on to the playroom, which, despite its bright colors and a profusion of toys for both genders, seemed unusually quiet. The only sound was a single adult—male—voice. The marquis was reading a story. No, it was not the marquis seated on a thick carpet in the middle of the floor, his back to the entrance. It was Justin Wingate! Before him sat two little boys of eight and six, and on his crossed legs sat two little girls who were of an age—between four and five. Meghan knew the little boys were Wally and Matthew, the latter being Sarah’s twin. The little girls might have been twins as well, but she knew one to be Irene’s youngest, Rebecca, and the other must have been Justin’s own daughter.

  Wally and Matthew looked up as their mother and her friend entered the room. This drew Lord Justin’s attention, cutting into his imitation of a fierce wild bear. He started to rise on seeing the women, but Irene put a hand on his shoulder.

  “No, stay put, Justin. We merely came to say hello to the children. Matthew, you remember Stephen’s mama, your Auntie Meg, do you not?” Irene beamed proudly as both boys stood to bow graciously. Meghan’s heart wrenched as she recalled teaching Stephen such courtesies.

  Irene then touched one little girl’s curls. “This is Rebecca—we call her Becky. And this”—Irene touched the other child in Justin’s lap—“is Justin’s Joy.”

  “In every way,” he murmured, giving the child a quick little squeeze.

  “Girls,” Irene said gently, but firmly, “how does one greet a guest?”

  Both little girls clambered off his lap and executed charming if clumsy curtsies.

  Meghan smiled and knelt to put herself on their level. “Becky, you have grown into quite a young lady since I last saw you.” Becky giggled and ducked her head. “And Miss Wingate,” Meghan said, offering her hand to the child as she would to a grown-up, “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Joy gazed at her silently for a moment, then took the offered hand, but she did not smile. Nor did she say anything. She merely looked at Meghan out of sky-blue eyes exactly like her father’s. Meghan felt a jolt as she recognized profound loneliness in the child. Yet Joy was clearly much loved.

  “Finish the story, Uncle Justin,” Wally demanded, thus shifting the mood of the moment.

  “You must not be rude, Wally,” Irene admonished.

  “I’m sorry,” the boy said. “But ’tis such a good story, Mama.”

  His mother glanced at the book in Justin’s hand and laughed. “And I daresay one you have heard only a dozen times.”

  Justin chuckled. “He does correct me if I get something wrong.”

  “Well, we shall leave you to it, then,” Irene said.

  As the two women left the room, Meghan let out a long breath she had not been aware of holding.

  “There. That was not so very bad, was it?” Irene asked.

  “No. Of course not. They are lovely children.”

  “Your Stephen would have fit right in.” Irene’s tone was at once matter-of-fact and sympathetic.

  “I am sure he would have.” Meghan had always been grateful to Irene, who never tiptoed around Stephen’s death as so many others did. Irene had always encouraged her to share her thoughts and memories and seemed to understand precisely what sort of response was needed.

 
; “You were a wonderful mother, Meghan. I doubt not you will be again one day.”

  “Perhaps one day,” Meghan said vaguely, but she was merely placating her friend. She knew very well there would be no more children for her. Losing them hurt far too much to take that risk again. Besides, to have another child she would have to remarry—and that was out of the question.

  That afternoon yet more guests arrived. Justin was especially glad to hear the names of Viscount Winston Travers and Mr. Melvin Layton as the butler announced new arrivals.

  “I see Kenwick’s widow is here,” Travers said later that evening when the three of them at last had some time alone. They were in the billiards room, where they sat in comfortable armchairs after a game.

  “Yes,” Justin replied. “She and Irene have been close friends for years.”

  “Does she still harbor resentment toward the three of us about that accident?” Layton asked. “I confess I have not seen her since Travers and I called on her immediately afterward.”

  “Frankly, I do not know how she feels now,” Justin said. “She has been polite, of course—exactly what one would expect of a lady.”

  “Perhaps we should have told the truth at the time.” Layton shifted to refill his wineglass.

  “I believe we did, did we not?” Justin looked at Travers for confirmation.

  “I meant the whole truth,” Layton insisted.

  “It would serve little purpose to have a widow know her dead husband contributed to the accident that claimed him and her son,” Justin said. “Dredging that up now—a year-and-a-half later—would merely cause undue suffering.”

  “I suppose you are right,” Layton conceded.

  “What is done is done,” Justin added.

  “Ah, but unlike Lady Macbeth’s little problem, this one can be undone, if necessary,” Layton responded.

  Travers groaned. “I do hope the two of you are not going to spend the holiday challenging each other with obscure quotes from Shakespeare.”

  Layton winked at Justin and said to Travers, “Of course not, dear boy, for we both ‘want that glib and oily art, To speak and purpose not.’ ”

  Justin gave an exaggerated sigh. “ ‘Rude am I in my speech, And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace.’ ”

  Travers rose. “I can see I shall have little peace with the two of you spouting on. I believe I shall go and find some fair maiden on whom to work my wiles.”

  “You will let us know us know if they do indeed work, will you not?” Layton joked.

  With the influx of additional guests, the evening meal became a more elaborate affair and the evening entertainments more varied. With careful attention to what she knew of personal preferences and to social protocol, their hostess managed to change her seating arrangements from day to day. Thus it was that Meghan found Lord Justin to be her dinner partner one evening. Irene had made her designations just prior to the butler’s announcing the meal.

  “La! It is like musical chairs,” Dierdre Thompson observed with delight, taking the arm of Lord Travers.

  “Only a marchioness could get away with bending the rules so,” grumbled one gray-haired dowager, but Meghan noted this was not expressed in a tone to reach the ears of their hostess.

  “Mrs. Kenwick, I hope this arrangement garners your approval?” Lord Justin said, offering her his arm.

  In the confusion of the large company sorting itself out, they were afforded a moment of privacy. Did she approve? She was not sure. In any event, a guest accepted the dictates of her hostess. And she had been hoping for a chance to speak with him.

  “As a matter of fact, my lord—”

  “Justin.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Call me ‘Justin.’ That is how my friends address me.”

  His friends? He wished her to consider him a friend? “As you wish, Justin. And I do prefer ‘Meghan’ to the more formal means of address.”

  “Good.” He patted her hand on his arm. “We are past that hurdle.”

  “As I started to say, sir”—she caught a raised eyebrow and added—“Justin—I have wished for an opportunity to extend my apology to you.”

  “Apology? Whatever for?” He looked down into her eyes with genuine surprise.

  “F-for my rather ungracious reception when you called at the time of Kenwick’s death. I am sorry for that.”

  “Think no more upon it. We were all overset by the accident. However, I must confess that I am glad you no longer seem to hold us responsible.”

  “At such times there seems always to be sufficient blame—real or imaginary—to be shared. I found it difficult—and I still do—to forgive myself for not objecting to my son’s going on such a grown-up expedition.” Her voice was soft and tinged with regret directed wholly at herself.

  “One is always tempted to consider ‘what ifs?’ in such a case,” he said. “I have often asked myself, ‘What if I had supervised my wife’s medications more closely?’ But—you know—‘that way madness lies. . . .’ ”

  She looked up and held his gaze, warmed by the empathy she found there as the rest of his quotation popped into her mind. “And ‘let me shun that.’ Thank you. I think I needed to hear this.”

  “You are welcome.” He smiled. “I hope you are skilled at charades.”

  “Charades?” she asked, surprised at the abrupt change of topic.

  He leaned closer and said in a stage whisper, “I happen to know Irene has charades on the evening’s agenda.”

  She laughed. “Well, pity he who ends with me on his team!”

  Three

  As was customary at large house parties, breakfast was a casual affair with guests coming to the dining room at their leisure. Meghan found several of the company there before her the next morning. Robert and Justin were breaking the fast with Lady Helen, the elder Hamlins, and two other gentlemen. One of these was a young dandy named David Islington, whom Meghan knew to be a Wingate connection of some sort. She waved the men back to their places as she filled a plate from the generously laden sideboard and took a seat just as Irene breezed in.

  “I declare, Robert, you must do something about that heir of yours.” Laughter in Irene’s voice and a twinkle in her eyes belied the reproof she aimed at her husband.

  Robert looked up, but calmly continued to spread jam on a muffin. “My wife is disowning our eldest—again,” he announced in a mild voice. “What is it this time, my dear? Not another frog in Nurse’s washbasin?”

  “No. This time he has the entire nursery in an uproar over kittens.”

  “Kittens? In the nursery?” the marquis asked.

  “No. No. In the stable, of course.” She gestured impatiently. “I know Connors mentioned them to you.”

  “Hmm. The stable seems a reasonable place for kittens. How can that be a problem?”

  “Under ordinary circumstances, my dear, it would not be.” Hers was the tone one might use with a person of limited mental powers. “But your son visited the stables earlier this morning, and now he has the other children pestering to see the kittens.”

  The marquis gave an exaggerated sigh. “He is always my son when a problem arises. Otherwise, of course, he is his mama’s ‘darling boy.’ ”

  The men at the table chuckled and the women nodded knowingly.

  Robert turned to his wife. “I beg your pardon, my dear, but I still fail to see a problem.”

  “Oh,” she said sweetly, “it is not a major crisis, but in the next hour or so we—that is you, my love, and Justin, and I—will be trekking out to the stables to visit the youngest additions to Everleigh.”

  Justin groaned. “Kittens? And you are sure I must accompany this adventurous expedition?”

  Irene gave him a sympathetic smile. “It will not take long. You need only look, you know. But all the children are going, and,” she added, “any of our guests is welcome to join us.”

  David Islington delicately wiped his lips and replaced his serviette. “What novel entertai
nments you offer, Cousin Irene.”

  Irene gave a gurgle of laughter. “Can you not just see it now? The Morning Post will report that the Everleighs have lost all sense of what is due their guests.”

  “Au contraire, my friend,” Lady Helen said, joining in the joke with an exaggerated tone of hauteur. “The Post will write something to the effect that ‘The elegant Marchioness of Everleigh once again charmed her guests with an innovative diversion designed to capture the essence of bucolic life. The marchioness is accounted one of the most clever hostesses in the realm.’ However, I trust you will forgive me if I decline your kind invitation?”

  There was general laughter as some agreed to the expedition and others declined. Meghan, having always found babies of any species charming, chose to join the parents.

  Quite an entourage accompanied the Wingate children on their expedition. The sky was overcast; the air was crisp and cold. A wide graveled path, with now bare trees alongside, led from the rear of the mansion to the stables some distance away. The crunch of the gravel blended with the high-pitched voices of excited children. The group of younger people had grown by four with the arrival of additional guests. Three youths in their teens were apparently torn between disparaging an infantile activity and fearing they might miss something if they chose not to go. Remembering that awkward in-between stage of life, Meghan smiled.

  She also smiled—somewhat less indulgently—as she observed Georgiana Hamlin appropriate Justin Wingate’s arm for the trek to the stables. It was mid-morning and thus early for Miss Hamlin, who had not previously appeared before noon. Meghan surmised that Miss Hamlin’s mother had carried word of this adventure to her daughter.

  Meghan thoroughly enjoyed the crisp morning air as she trailed behind the group. She could observe and listen without actually taking part—yet—in the others’ conversations. Nor was Meghan the only one who seemed to seek the sidelines. Justin’s daughter, Joy, walked slightly apart from the rest of the young children. She clutched what appeared to be a blue scrap of blanket. Meghan remembered seeing her with it in the nursery, too.