A Sprinkling of Christmas Magic

by Elizabeth Rolls

  ‘We aren’t supposed to know...’ Meredith laughed ‘...but it’s hard not to. Finn’s got a cut, just there.’ Meredith tapped a finger along the lower part of her cheek. ‘Come on, Catherine. The boys will die when they see you!’

  Or she would when she saw them, Catherine thought, very aware her pulse had speeded up at the prospect. More specifically at the prospect of seeing him, Channing Deverill, the younger brother and bane of her childhood—the secret subject of her adolescent longings. She wasn’t certain exactly when her feelings for him had changed. But one summer day he’d smiled at her from across the picnic blanket and she’d been lost. Then the fantasy had taken hold. She was going to marry him and for ever be a part of the Deverill household in the most legal and permanent way possible. She had it all planned, right down to the dress—she’d wear her grandmother’s wedding gown and he’d wear a blue morning coat that showed off his eyes. There would be flowers, lots of flowers.

  As for Finn, she supposed he was still his dark, dour self. It was no surprise his mistress had thrown a necklace at him. She’d probably done it to get his attention. From what Catherine remembered, Finn was more interested in his botany than anything else. Whenever the five of them had gone on summer picnics, it had been Channing who entertained them with wild stories. Finn would wander off and come back with pockets full of samples, spouting Latin phrases as he laid his treasures out on the blanket. Then again, Finn had been five years older than she at a time when a few years’ difference in age had seemed to be a chasm.

  The girls drew her into the formal receiving room, their arms twined through hers. The room was full of neighbours and friends and holiday cheer, the mantel hung with an impressive pine swag, a huge fire sending out a welcome warmth from the hearth. ‘Look who we found in the foyer!’ Meredith called out.

  All eyes swivelled Catherine’s way, many of which she recognised, but only one pair held her interest. Catherine searched the room until she found Channing’s blue eyes. His face split into a wide grin at the sight of her. Her breath caught as he advanced through the crowd, gently shouldering a path past groups of visitors and guests gathered in conversation about the room. Her memories of him had not done him justice. He was all lean, golden grace. His body moved with a loose-limbed confidence and he was far more handsome than she recalled. Five years had allowed his features to mature; the planes of his face bore a sharp elegance that erased the last traces of boyishness just as she hoped the last five years had erased the last of her gawky adolescence.

  She’d imagined this moment for ages: Channing seeing her, truly seeing her for the first time as a woman. It was the stuff of fairy tales, the one thing that made her five years away worthwhile, knowing when he looked upon her next she’d be as poised, as well dressed as the women he associated with when he was up in London. She wasn’t supposed to know, but he had quite a reputation in town for being a lady’s man. Seeing him like this, she had no trouble believing it. Who wouldn’t want to dance with such a fine man or be seen on his arm at the opera?

  Catherine favoured him with a warm smile and held out her hands as he neared. She would show him she could be a credit to him. She’d seen the great operas in Paris. She could carry on intelligent conversation in French and English about their storylines and composers.

  ‘Good Lord, Cat, is that you?’ Channing took both her hands and kissed her cheek, appreciation evident in his eyes. He was indeed impressed by the transformation. But she would not be too easy to catch. Men liked a challenge up to a point. Her friend, Vivienne, in Paris, had taught her that. Catherine did not hesitate to offer a gentle reprimand.

  ‘Catherine. You know I prefer Catherine,’ she corrected. Growing up, she hadn’t cared for any of the derivatives that went with her name. But Channing had never divined that.

  ‘You look beautiful.’ His eyes twinkled at her, making her feel like she was the only woman in the room. ‘Welcome home. Come and meet everyone. I’ll introduce you.’ He gave her his arm and just like that he was forgiven. The fairy tale was beginning. She was on his arm, touring the room, meeting old friends. Catherine’s hopes rose. Maybe there would be a third engagement to announce before the holidays were over.

  * * *

  Finn Deverill returned to gazing out of the long window overlooking the snow covered garden. The excitement of Catherine Emerson’s entrance was ebbing as people fell back into their conversations. She hadn’t noticed him. He was used to it. Most people didn’t when Channing was nearby. While he was the serious, older brother, Channing was the younger, extroverted brother, full of charm and wit. ‘Never mind,’ one of his great-aunts had told him when he was growing up. ‘He’s not the heir. He needs all the charm he can get. You have the earldom to speak for you.’ Then she’d patted him on the knee in consolation.

  The problem was he’d like to speak for himself. There’d been several young ladies over the years who’d been vastly interested in his title, but none who’d been interested in him. Finn rubbed his cheek absently. If his mistress had understood that, things might have ended differently, better. They still would have ended, though.

  It galled a bit that Catherine hadn’t noticed him. She’d been part of his boyhood. He would have thought she at least would have noticed him. He’d certainly noticed her and in ways he’d not anticipated.

  She’d swept into the room between his sisters like a Christmas flame. The years had tamed her carroty riot of hair into a smooth cascade of deep auburn, twisted elegantly into a knot at her neck beneath that jaunty hat on her head. Time had brought feminine curves to the stick-straight slimness of her once-boyish form. A man’s hand would fit comfortably, perfectly, at the notch at her waist, to say nothing of how a man’s mouth might fit over those kissable, pink lips or how his other hand might cup the swell of a breast presented so enticingly in that form-fitted jacket of forest-green merino.

  Christmas flame, indeed! Catherine Emerson had become a temptress. The idea shamed him as soon as he thought it. These were not thoughts worthy of one whom he’d viewed as a sister most of his life.

  Still, it was a difficult claim to dispute and one that went beyond her looks. She’d acquired a certain grace. She exuded energy and good will as she moved through the room on Channing’s arm, chatting briefly with each neighbour and relative by turn. Some she knew, some she did not, but her warmth didn’t distinguish. It was genuine and thorough for each person she met.

  Finn remembered that about her. She’d been devoted to wounded and stray animals, always bringing home a bird to be mended. Once she’d brought home a stray dog from the village and begged him to set the pup’s leg. It had been silly, but he’d done it after she’d followed him around all afternoon and nagged him with a tenacity that would have done any little sister proud.

  The pair of them were making their way towards him now, a stunning combination of flame and gold. Channing bent to her ear and whispered something that made her laugh, her face turning up to his. Finn’s gut clenched. The look on her face was unmistakable. She wanted Channing. ‘Wanted’ might be too intense a word, but he’d been accused of being too intense a man in the past. Intense things were common to him.

  ‘There you are, dear brother. What are you doing over here by the window? Surely there aren’t any flowers to see at this time of year, not outdoors at least. Inside, there is one, however.’ Channing smiled at Catherine. ‘Our Cat has blossomed. Have you greeted her yet?’

  Finn stifled a grimace. Channing knew very well he hadn’t. ‘Welcome home, Catherine.’ He kissed her cheek, breathing in the scent of her: fresh peaches and a hint of vanilla, to subdue the potential heaviness of the scent. ‘Ah, Apocynaceae, plumeria in winter, what a wondrous perfume.’ Finn murmured. ‘You always liked Mother’s plumeria.’ The beautiful blooms never left the hothouse, but Catherine had liked their vivid colours and tropical smells.

  ‘You remembered!’ Catherine
beamed and he felt uncommonly proud of himself for his simple answer. ‘People always guess peaches, but no one guesses what flower is used. I’ve heard plumeria also smells like coconut.’ She nudged Channing. ‘You thought it smelled like roses.’

  Finn laughed. ‘He thinks everything smells like roses.’

  Channing took the ribbing in his stride. ‘As you can see, he’s the same old Finn, still has his nose in the flowers.’

  A stir across the room at the door caught their attention, as another guest entered, a lovely blonde dressed in royal blue with a white fox fur thrown around her shoulders. Channing tossed him a quick meaningful glance and excused himself. ‘I’ll leave you two to catch up while I greet our latest arrival.’

  If Catherine thought Channing’s departure abrupt, she was still gracious about relinquishing him, but not before Finn noted the fleeting disappointment in her eyes. ‘Who is she?’ Catherine asked brightly, moving to stand by him at the window. It was a good vantage point, really, from which to take in the room or the outdoors depending on one’s mood.

  ‘That is Lady Alina Marliss. She is Channing’s special friend for the holidays.’ Finn didn’t say more. He owed Channing his privacy. If Channing wanted to share his latest venture in London, he would. It wasn’t Finn’s job to do it for him.

  ‘Is there an understanding between them?’ The cool look on Catherine’s face confirmed his information had been construed in a certain way, certain assumptions made. He knew what she was thinking. Well, if that wasn’t quite accurate, that was Channing’s problem too. There were merits to being forthcoming about one’s activities. Channing would learn that soon enough.

  ‘I’m not aware of the details.’ Finn replied obliquely. He turned his attention out the window, away from the room, hoping she’d do the same. ‘Tell me about Paris. Did you find it to your liking?’

  ‘It was wonderful.’ She smiled out into the gardens, keeping her response neutral and vague. ‘But it wasn’t here. It wasn’t home.’

  He understood that feeling all too well. There was something magical, something comforting about being home even while there was a stifling, restless side to all that comfort, too. Lately, he’d been feeling the latter.

  ‘And you? I heard you spent some time in the Caribbean with an expedition?’

  Finn looked down at her, caught in the warmth of her smile as she looked up at him, aware that she was spending an awful lot of her time studying the little cut on his cheek. He echoed her words even if he didn’t mean them in exactly the same way. ‘It was wonderful, but it wasn’t home.’

  He found himself telling her about the highlights of his trip: the new flower he’d found, the amazing colours of the rainforest, the plethora of bugs that had occupied his campsites. He’d not meant to get carried away; he knew what most people thought of his scholarly pursuit. It was time to change for supper before he realised how much he’d told her, the drawing room starting to empty as ladies drifted off to exchange carriage ensembles for evening gowns. The whole time, her eyes had been fixed on his in rapt attention, not the usual polite attention he was used to, and he’d simply kept talking, saying anything that came to mind to keep that gaze on him.

  His mother moved towards them, a young man and woman in tow, clearly a brother and a sister from the genetic similarities stamped on their features. ‘Finley, this is Lady Eliza Dewhurst and her brother, Lord Richard. They’ve only just arrived. They were delayed a little by snow on the roads. I am hoping you will be so kind as to take Eliza in to dinner later.’

  Finn would have groaned if he could. His mother had made no secret of her high hopes for Lady Eliza, the daughter of a marquess. Certainly she was pretty enough in a blonde, pink-cheeked way common to many pretty English girls. But beyond that, he could tell already she simply wasn’t his sort.

  Lord Richard bowed to Catherine. ‘Miss Emerson? If you would do me the honour this evening?’

  Catherine gave him a small curtsy, the sort due to a marquess’s younger son. ‘It would be my pleasure.’ She said the words as if it really would be. And maybe it would, Finn thought. At least the young man wouldn’t spend the evening talking about bugs and plants. Finn focused his attention on Lady Eliza, but he was only partially successful in his efforts. His critical mind wasn’t ready to leave the topic of his reaction to Catherine Emerson’s return. His response was most unexpected and surprising. It was three days until Christmas. It made him wonder what else the festivity had in store.

  Chapter Two

  It was always the same. Whatever the festivity had in store for him, change didn’t seem to be a part of it, Finn concluded after dinner. Counting this year, he had twelve years of adult memories as evidentiary proof to support the claim. He surveyed the post-dinner scene from his place at the drawing-room mantel beside his father; all the usual company were assembled in all their usual spaces on sofas and chairs around the room. Mrs Moffat, the vicar’s wife, had sat on the cream sofa for at least a decade that he knew of, and probably longer. Old Mrs Anderson always sat next to Mrs. Moffat and old Mrs Anderson had always been old. Finn couldn’t recall her ever having been young.

  There would be cards and the young ladies would take turns at the pianoforte, playing quiet carols as background music to the evening. Then there would be his mother’s special spiced cider and gingerbread to go to bed on. There was comfort in the knowledge that it would always be this way, but there was dissatisfaction too. Nothing changed and it made him restless.

  Oh, certainly there were some variations on the theme. This year it was Lady Eliza his mother was foisting on him. Every year, a different girl, but it was still the same ‘foisting ritual’, as he’d come to think of it. It would be that way until he settled for one of them.

  ‘What did you think of Lady Eliza?’ his father asked quietly, correctly guessing the direction of his thoughts, if not their timbre. ‘I think she was quite taken with you at dinner.’

  ‘Or my consequence,’ Finn replied drily.

  His father shrugged. ‘She’s the daughter of a marquess, Finn. I doubt she thought twice about it. Consequence is her due. If anything...’ he chuckled ‘...we’re a come down for her, being only lowly earls.’ But it was a jest only. Everyone knew what a fine catch the Deverills were; the title was old and the coffers were deep.

  His father sobered a bit, his voice low. ‘I know you’re restless, Finn. You’re at that age. Every man in this room over thirty-five has been through it. You’re twenty-eight now; you’ve reached a point in life where you have to work out if you’re restless for something, or someone.’ His father’s eyes strayed to where his mother stood chatting with guests. ‘For me it was someone.’

  Finn knew his father spoke the truth. After thirty years of marriage, four children and the chaos of a full home, his father had not once looked at another woman. Growing up, love and fidelity had never been in doubt in their household. Finn did not think he could find that devotion with Lady Eliza.

  Finn took out his pocket watch and checked the time. He showed the watch face to his father. ‘The games should begin in five, four, three, two and one.’ They chuckled together because, as if on cue, Finn’s mother began organising people around the card tables into equally matched groups. ‘Just like clockwork.’ Finn snapped his watch shut and put it back in his waistcoat pocket.

  His father gave a little laugh. ‘I must go and do my duty. Your mother is saving a chair for me. Mrs Anderson and I will try to take it easy on the novices.’

  Finn looked about the room, making sure everyone was engaged in cards or conversation if they preferred not to play. All but one seemed happily occupied. For the first time that evening, Catherine sat alone in a quiet corner. The little group that had originally been drawn about her had moved off bit by bit. She’d been dazzling at dinner. The young marquess’s son had been quite taken with her and yet, whilst Lord Ric
hard might be of an age, he appeared far too young for her against the Parisian polish of her time abroad.

  For the evening, Catherine had changed into a gown of deep turquoise, more green than blue, that showed off her hair and eyes to their best, the deep vee of her neckline showing off more than that. Next to her, Lord Richard’s glossy blond locks had looked positively adolescent.

  ‘No cards?’ Finn approached the sofa.

  Catherine shook her head. ‘I wanted to sit back and watch everyone.’ She sighed, her eyes dreamy and far away, nostalgic perhaps. ‘So much has changed, I wasn’t ready for that.’

  Finn squeezed into the space next to her on the two-seat sofa. Whoever had designed these cosy numbers mustn’t have been a very large man. ‘We’re at odds then. I was just thinking how nothing had changed. Every year it’s the same people, a little greyer in some cases, a little older in all cases. All of us here in the same place, eating the same foods, playing the same games.’

  Catherine gave a light laugh, a hand coming down gently on his arm, the most natural of gestures. ‘Oh, Finn, I think that’s what is called a tradition.’ She lowered her voice slightly. ‘And I missed it, every last minute of it while I was gone. Don’t misunderstand, Paris is a fabulous city full of culture and art and intelligent people. My great-aunt showed me everything, we met everyone. I lacked for nothing, not in friends or any creature comforts. But no matter how elegant or refined Christmas was in Paris, it wasn’t Christmas here. I came back for those Christmases only to find that they are gone.’

  Catherine looked down at her hands encased in pristine white gloves that travelled to her elbows. She fiddled with the sparkly bangle about her wrist. Finn could tell by the fidgety motions the disclosure had meant something to her.