Holly and Hopeful Hearts

by Caroline Warfield

  The coach came to a halt and so did George’s troubled reverie. It was nearly dawn and he had a full day at the office to look forward to, in addition to the thirty-mile return trek to St. Albans. This was why he didn’t particularly care for the social obligations of his position; it was true that he employed clerks to manage the relentless paperwork required in the legal profession, but no matter how reliable they were, his personal oversight was essential to the process.

  “Good night, Fowler,” he called to the coachman as he exited the coach. “Or rather, good morning.”

  “G’night, sir.” The coachman tipped his hat, climbed back onto the driver’s seat, and urged the horses on to the mews behind the building.

  As George neared the entrance of the building where he leased lodgings, he thought he heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cough. Suspecting an attacker, he whirled around in the dimly-lit front yard, his cane raised for defense. Nothing. He stood, breathless and nearly motionless as he surveyed the area for a potential ambush. His gaze caught on the tall hedges guarding either side of the door. Were his eyes deceiving him, or were some of the branches moving slightly in the calm, breezeless night? He waited a handful of seconds and then descended upon the hedge on the right, his walking stick aimed like a sword as he sought to reveal the unknown person concealed behind it.

  The stick clacked loudly as it hit the stone of the building, but a simultaneous scream confirmed his suspicions of a lurker. Moving quickly to head off an escape attempt, George closed in on the small figure huddled in the bushes. A child, by the look of things. The scream, he recalled, had been decidedly feminine, but seeing no skirts, he thought perhaps it was a boy not fully grown. Not the sort of muscled brute he’d first feared, but still a threat to the neighborhood. He slowed his approach, but continued to move closer.

  “Come out, boy, and explain yourself. What are you doing here?”

  The small figure crawled out hesitantly, raising his hands in front of him for protection. “Don’t hurt me, Papa! It’s me, Louise!”

  Louise!

  He lowered the cane and kept approaching. As he drew closer, he could make out his daughter’s familiar oval-shaped face and brown eyes, wet with unshed tears.

  “Louise? What are doing here? You are meant to be in St. Albans, with Mrs. Crewe!”

  Louise ran into his arms. She hadn’t done that for a long time—not since she was a young child. It felt good to hold her there. She was safe. But… how had she got there? What was she doing in the bushes? And why, he asked himself, was his daughter dressed in a shirt and trousers like a stable boy?

  A light was lit in the foyer of the building, and the porter’s footsteps could be heard approaching the door. George pushed his daughter back behind the hedge. It wouldn’t do for word to get around that the daughter of George Durand had been seen in boys’ clothing in the early hours of the morning at a lodging house for gentlemen.

  A key turned in the lock, and the front door opened. “Is anyone there?”

  The porter, a stout, bald man in a worn green dressing gown and brown nightcap, peered out from behind the open door. “Mr. Durand! Is all well with you, sir? I thought heard a scream…”

  George straightened his spine and gave the man a condescending stare. “Certainly not, Hodges. Must have been a dream. All is well here. I-uh- dropped my key into the grass and am having the devil of a time finding it again.”

  The porter relaxed his shoulders. “Is that all? Would you like me to assist you?” He tried to stifle a yawn.

  “Oh no, that is not necessary,” George said quickly. “I’m sure I’ll find it in short order. Best you go to bed and get a bit more shut-eye while you can.”

  “Well,” said the porter reluctantly. “If you are certain…”

  “I am.”

  “I shall leave you the candle, at least. You may leave it on the hall table when you come in.”

  “Indeed.”

  The man left the candle on the top step and padded off to bed, leaving the door slightly ajar, presumably so that George could enter should his search for the key be unsuccessful.

  When his footsteps ceased, George motioned to Louise to come out.

  “Be silent,” he whispered. “We will discuss this later. For now, we must get you up to my rooms without anyone knowing you are here.” These were gentlemen’s lodgings, and women—even daughters—were strictly prohibited.

  Louise nodded.

  He picked up the candle from the step and blew it out. The more darkness, the less likely anyone would see his illicit ‘guest’.

  As they entered the building, Louise removed her shoes at her father’s silent command, and the two of them made their way down the corridor and the two flights of stairs to his residence. When he finally closed the door behind them, he lit a lamp in his sitting room and motioned her to a chair.

  “Now, do tell me, Daughter, what has brought you to London—and in such a state as you are now, as well.”

  Louise swallowed and stepped back. “I-I wanted to come to London, Papa. There’s nothing at all to do in St. Albans, and Mrs. Crewe is a dead bore. She makes me study Fordyce’s Sermons every morning after breakfast, and has taken away all of my novels too! My only friend is—well, I have no friends there at all—people are so provincial there, you know, and all my friends are here in London! Please, Papa, you cannot oblige me to stay there! I’m quite certain I shall die from the tediousness of it!”

  George’s face reddened. Despite his non-violent nature, he had an overwhelming desire to throw something. How did she slip away from the house? Where did she get the masculine attire? And how in blazes had she managed to travel the nearly thirty miles to get here? Thus far, she hadn’t said anything he had not heard before. She’d made her grievances plain to anyone within hearing distance, since he’d categorically refused to allow her to travel to Russia with her aunt’s family and brought her back home again.

  He forced himself to speak normally. “I don’t yet comprehend how you could have traveled here all on your own—you will explain that to me shortly—but your own behavior confirms to me that you haven’t the sense of a gnat. Must I keep you under lock and key, Louise, in order to prevent you from harming yourself with your foolish behavior? I confess to being astonished that the daughter I raised could have embarked on such an ill-advised prank.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Young ladies do not roam the countryside alone, not to mention London, nor do they dress in masculine attire to do it. Your deception could have been detected at any time, and heaven knows, I could have awakened to the news that my only child was assaulted or even murdered!”

  “Do not pretend you would not be relieved, Father dear, to have one less complication in your life! If you had only allowed me to travel to St. Petersburg, you might never have been obliged to concern yourself with me again!” Her jaw was set, but he saw a lonely tear slip down her cheek.

  George sighed heavily, feeling a tightness in his chest. “Surely you do not believe I should have been glad to hear of your death! Such a thing is beyond my understanding. I know you wished to go with your aunt, Louise, but how could I let you go, knowing that by the time I saw you again you would be a grown woman and nothing like the little girl who went fishing with me and learned to bait her own hook despite her fear of worms.”

  “Oh, Papa.” Louise smiled briefly in spite of herself. “Young ladies do not bait hooks.”

  He reached over and took her hands in his. “You did, though, before your mother convinced you such a pastime was not worthy of you.”

  She paled at the mention of her mother, and he wished he could take back the words. Her mother’s absence still had the power to distress her, and he himself could not think about Genny without a twinge of guilt.

  “You are all I have left, Louise. At the time, I thought it best that you have a mother figure to see you through your time of grief, but I should not have left you there so long. It was not my intention to—abandon you there.�
�� He shrugged. “But each time I saw you, it seemed you had become part of the family, and I found it impossible to tear you away, to share what has become a bachelor household.”

  “But that is what you have done, Papa! I could have danced with Russian princes in St. Petersburg, but instead you have obliged me to live in this stupid village where there is nothing to do and no one of interest to meet. And so I sit with nothing to do but listen to that stuffy Mrs. Crewe, while you-you…” angry tears spilled out of her eyes “… appear only for dinner, and not even that much really, with your constant trips to London.”

  Accepting the loan of his handkerchief, she dried her eyes and blew her nose. “I do not believe you really wish to have a daughter at all. Sometimes I wish I had been with Maman and Grand-mère in the carriage that day. For then at least I would be with them, and not left to be a virtual orphan as I am at present!”

  “How can you say that?” George swayed slightly, feeling a sudden heaviness in his core. “You would prefer to be dead than be my daughter, Louise?”

  Louise looked up at him through tears, and he hurried to pull her out of her chair and hug her to his chest. “I may not be the best of fathers, dear child, but I shall do better in future. You may depend upon it.”

  Chapter 2

  White’s Gentlemen’s Club, St. James Street, London

  26th August, 1812

  After a long day of dictating legal documents for the wealthy shipping magnate who was his long-time client, George Durand, Esq. decided to take an early dinner at White’s before making his way to his London lodgings. He preferred the calm, congenial atmosphere of the gentleman’s club to the noisy fuss of restaurants and, as a bonus, he wouldn’t encounter any eligible marriage partners or their matchmaking mamas. A full-flavored English beefsteak followed by good stiff brandy in the company of his cronies seemed like a delightful conclusion to his exceedingly monotonous day.

  He settled into a cozy leather chair in the front parlor and was giving his order to the waiter when a newcomer approached him.

  “Durand! By all that’s holy, I haven’t seen you for an age! How the hell are you doing? And the saucy wee lassie?”

  The newcomer was Lord Nicholas Lacey, his former brother-in-law, whom he had not encountered since the somber dinner at the Lacey estate following the funeral of both their wives, as well as their mother-in-law. At one time, his family and Lord Nicholas’s had been inseparable—their wives Geneviève and Juliette being sisters—but since the day of the tragic carriage accident nearly two years ago, the two men had only seen each other in passing. No doubt this was due to the fact that their wives had been the organizers of the social calendar—and also that neither man had felt much like socializing since then.

  “Good to see you here, Lacey. Will you not join me for dinner? I’ve just ordered mine and would gladly suffer your company whilst I take my meal.”

  The tall, light-haired gentleman took the seat opposite from him and rubbed his hands together. “Be glad to. What’s up for dinner, Hickham?”

  The waiter looked up obligingly. “Beefsteak, roast goose, pork pies, and flounder. Our chef has also prepared an excellent bouillabaisse, if that will appease your appetite.”

  Lord Nicholas ordered the flounder and turned to his former brother-in-law. “A brandy?”

  George shook his head. “I’m having mine after,” he said.

  His friend rolled his eyes. “I’ll have mine before and after,” he told the waiter, with a sidelong glance at George.

  “Dipping rather deep these days?” inquired George when the waiter had disappeared toward the back of the building.

  Lord Nicholas shrugged. “More so than before, I suppose. Never more than half-sprung, though. Haven’t been ape-drunk since my salad days.”

  Hickham brought him his drink. Lord Nicholas took a generous gulp and set it on the side table. “You know, when I recall how vexed I felt when Juliette used to scold me for it, I feel like getting on my knees and promising to never imbibe again if she will only come back to me.” He stared down at his hands. Then he looked up and shook his head sadly. “But she never does, so as long as nobody gives a damn…”

  George wrinkled his brow. “Nonsense! You have family who gives a damn. I do myself, and so do all your other friends. And what about Blanche? Don’t you owe it to Juliette’s memory to conduct yourself with honor?”

  Nicholas scrubbed a hand across his face. “Blanche? She doesn’t need me. She’s with m’brother and Caroline. Haven't seen her for months.”

  George's nostrils flared. “She’s your daughter, man! Your responsibility!”

  Nicholas flinched. “She's better off there. Father and mother figure, cousins more like siblings. A ducal household. What can I offer a fifteen-year-old daughter?”

  “Love,” George responded. “Her own father who shows her attention and doesn't shrink from involvement in her life. That beats all the rest, man.”

  Nicholas pulled at his cravat and stared blankly into the distance. Then he turned back to meet George's eyes. “What about your daughter? Is Louise not residing with Eliza's family? When did you last see her, George?”

  “Not any longer,” George retorted. “Eliza and John and family are en route to St. Petersburg for a post with Lord Cathcart. Louise is with me in St. Albans, and the last time I saw her was yesterday morning before I departed for London.”

  Nicholas pressed his lips into a fine line. “Didn't want to take her along, I suppose. Be truthful, George, you are in the suds with Louise as much as I am with Blanche, are you not? What right have you to ring a peal over me?”

  “Of course not,” George sputtered, then he shrugged. “Apologies, Lacey. Your daughter is naturally your concern and nothing to do with me, other than the fact she is my niece and Louise’s cousin.” He grimaced and rubbed his chin. “And you are not far wrong in your conjecture that my daughter and I are at odds, but not for the reason you think. You see, Eliza and John were more than willing to take Louise with them to Russia, and she, herself, was eager to expand her horizons at the Russian court, but I withheld my consent.”

  Nicholas whistled. “No doubt that set up her bristles,” he commented. “What motivated you to do that, Durand? Guilt? How do you expect to manage a daughter all on your own?”

  “I expect to hire a governess before too much time passes. For now, she is under the vigilance of the vicar's wife, but that good woman finds my daughter very taxing on her nerves.” His mind raced in search of answers for the first question. “Louise's head is easily filled with grand thoughts of titles and associating with royalty.” He shook his head. “I cannot believe it prudent for her to be exposed to that sort of life and then have her hopes dashed upon her return to reality.”

  “Ah, yes, I've heard that phrase in my home often enough,” Nicholas admitted. “‘I’m the granddaughter of a comte, Papa,’ and it is nearly always followed by ‘and my uncle is a duke.’ No doubt after residing in a mansion with a ducal family, Blanche's head is likewise floating around the clouds.”

  “But your brother is a duke,” argued George, “and she will socialize in exalted circles the rest of her life. The d’Aumale title and estates that my daughter—and my wife and mother-in-law before her—pinned their hopes on someday regaining no longer exist, and almost certainly never will. She’s the daughter of a solicitor, not a comtesse, and that is all she will ever be. I see no advantage in encouraging her delusions.”

  “Perhaps, but you are yourself the cousin of a viscount. Do you not associate with his family on occasion?”

  “Once a year, perhaps,” said George, “but my cousin and I are not intimate friends, and he has four sons, so there is little chance the title will ever come to me. No, Louise must learn to accept her place.” His eyes filled with unshed tears. “But I must confess that the real reason I refused my consent was because I miss her. I have decided that I must have my daughter by my side.”

  “Capital!” exclaimed a new arrival,
Lord Hooper, a mutual friend. “I was certain this was where I could find two gentlemen in need of an evening of gaiety. Lacey, Durand, you must join our party at Vauxhall tonight. I have two tickets that will go unused if you do not take them, and this is a special masquerade in honor of the British victories on the Peninsula. A benefit for the troops, in fact.”

  “A masquerade?” Nicholas shook his head. “I haven’t a costume.”

  “And we just ordered dinner,” protested George.

  “Nonsense,” argued their friend, his chin high. “Eat your dinner and meet us later. Old Taplin has a shop across from the carriage entrance. You can get all manner of masks and whatnot there. I don’t wear dominoes myself,” he offered. “Too hot for summer. A mask is quite enough, in my view.”

  “Vauxhall,” said George, exchanging a glance with Nicholas.

  “Why not?” responded Nicholas with a shrug. “I can’t say I have anything better to do.”

  George sighed. “Might as well,” he agreed reluctantly. “A benefit for the fighting men, is it? I should like to think I’m not shirking my duty.”

  Lord Hooper threw his head back and laughed. “You don’t fool me, Durand. It’s the myriad of delicate flowers of femininity you wish to feast your eyes upon at the Gardens.”