Christmas Roses: Love Blooms in Winter

by Putney, Mary Jo

  "Do I?" To put the lie to her words, a twinkle began to gleam in those maligned features. He removed the branch she was butchering and gave a quick twist to the wire tying it to a second branch. "Then perhaps my father will find me so changed he will forgive me for my trespasses. One can always hope. And what about you, Diana? Have you found a suitor who will read poems to you and admire your collection of antiquities?"

  "Oh, they always read poems to me when they find out I like them," she answered crossly, twisting a ribbon around the roping taking shape beneath his capable fingers. Even with one hand Jonathan managed the unwieldy branches better than she. "And they mutter suitable exclamations when I show them my pieces of Roman pottery. And then they go on to talk as if I hadn't half a brain in my head or the wit to know the difference. I really don't think men are all that necessary. I can keep the accounts as well as my father could. He had managers to oversee his various interests. I could do that if they'd let me. But no, they must pat me on the head and tell me what a good little girl I am, and why don't I fetch them a cup of tea? Men! They are a thoroughly useless lot."

  "You go too far, Janey. Would you march to war without us?"

  "There wouldn't be any war without men," she answered blithely.

  "You have a point there. But look at the women you know. How many of them are capable of keeping the government running?"

  "About as many as there are men." Diana looked up from her ribbon-tying to find Jonathan watching her, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He was leading her down the garden path, but she didn't care. She'd never played coy with Jonathan and would not start now. She twitched his self-importance again. "Why should a woman marry when all it ensures is a lifetime of cooking and cleaning while the man carouses? Any sensible female must see that marriage isn't made in heaven but in a much more earthly place."

  "Oh, I'll agree with that. If it weren't for earthly pleasures, no self-respecting male would find himself leg-shackled to a shrewish female who complains night and day and gives him no peace until he is in his grave. I am certain it is only the desire to breed heirs that keeps the custom of marriage alive. I can't remember your feeling that way before. You certainly have changed more than I imagined. It is a relief to learn that now.''

  "You are not what I once thought you to be either," Diana responded tartly. "I can remember once when you enjoyed my company instead of calling me a shrewish female. But of course, that was when you were inclined to wager on whether the first leaf would fall from the oak or birch, and you enjoyed wrestling on the lawns with children and teasing shrewish females. That was back before you lost your sense of humor and became your father, when you knew how to laugh.''

  "Ah yes, I remember that time. And didn't I used to pull hair ribbons and run away and hide them where shrewish females couldn't find them? Like this?" And to Diana's dismay, Jonathan leaned over the table and slipped one of the ribbons from her hair, causing a tumble of thick tresses to cascade over her shoulder. Before she could grab it away, his long legs carried him toward the door, his limp not hampering his swiftness to any great degree.

  "Jonathan Drummond, you give that back! I haven't another to match and your family will be here any minute!" Brushing a shower of evergreen branches from her lap, she jumped up and raced after him.

  "You'll never find it!" he cried out from the top of the stairs as Diana dashed into the hall.

  "Jonathan, upon my word, I will pull every hair from your head if I catch you!" Lifting her skirts, Diana raced up the stairway after him.

  Diana located Jonathan perched on the attic stairs with no sign of the ribbon in sight. She grinned in satisfaction and sat comfortably on the step below him. The high stickler from the drawing room now appeared more like the Jonathan she remembered, with his hair down over his forehead and a smile dancing about his lips.

  "You can't hide up there anymore. Mama keeps the attic locked ever since Freddie fell asleep in one of the trunks and disappeared for hours. So now give me my ribbon."

  Jonathan ignored her outstretched hand and looked contemplatively at the door that kept him from discovering the secrets of the old desk. Perhaps it was better he not know if the ring remained concealed in the hidden drawer. What could he do if it still were? Diana was a grown woman now, not the impressionable little girl he had hoped to persuade to wait for him.

  Besides, he had even less to offer her now than he had had then. His father most likely had disowned him, and if there were any chance his hand would not mend properly, he had few means of making a living. With neither home nor means of support, he could not renew his suit. It would be better to let old wounds heal, but in four years the one in his heart showed no sign of closing.

  "I guess that eliminates a fast game of hide and seek. Shall we bob for apples next?" Jonathan pulled the crumpled ribbon from his pocket and dangled it tauntingly just out of her reach.

  "You may join the twins at the apples, if you wish. Besides, hide and seek isn't any fun. You always knew my favorite hiding place, even if you pretended you didn't."

  In the narrow, walled stairwell, Diana seemed dangerously close to him. They must have been much smaller when they used to hide up here and talk while the others searched for them. Jonathan's leg now rested daringly close to her knees. Yet, boldly, she didn't flinch from the proximity.

  "I wanted to make certain I was the one to find you. I was an amazingly selfish young man, wasn't I?"

  "You most certainly were," Diana said. "I'll not ever forgive you for slipping off to war without thinking to tell me first. That was the height of your selfish career,"

  "You don't know the half of it, my lovely Janey." Wistfully, Jonathan swung the ribbon within her reach and watched as she grabbed it to twist and bind in her straying locks. In an effort to determine just how and where she had found out about his leaving—had it been from his letter or some other source first?—he asked, "Where were you when you heard the news?"

  "Sick in bed." Diana made a face of disgust. "I caught the twins' chicken pox. I was so mad at them, and then I was mad at you and Charles when I heard the news. I couldn't believe it. I must have been delirious. I was going to ride out after you and ring a proper peal over your heads. I suspect my mother gave me laudanum to keep me quiet. When I woke, Elizabeth brought me a rose on my breakfast tray, and I knew you weren't coming back. I never have been able to pry out of her where she found a rose at Christmas, but it was like receiving a funeral wreath, I guess. I just knew you weren't coming to hold my hand and make me laugh anymore."

  "A rose?" The word emerged more as groan than question. A rose. She had thought it a farewell.

  He had assumed Diana would find the signal indicating a message waited for her when he placed it on the old desk. A rose in winter. He had been very proud of that romantic gesture.

  But she had never seen it on the desk and had never known he had sneaked through the window that night to place it there. How could she have known? What a stupid, childish fool he had been. The chances were very good she had never found his letter, and now it lay resting somewhere above, moldering away with his dreams. "It was warm that winter. Sometimes the potted roses continue blooming in the greenhouse."

  Diana glanced sharply at him. "Your greenhouse, you mean. We don't have one."

  He was saved from responding by a loud rap from the front door knocker. They sat in silence as they listened to the doors being thrown open and cries of greeting filling the air.

  "Your family," Diana whispered, throwing him a hesitant glance. Did he know his father had not mentioned his name since he left? From the bleak look on Jonathan's face she surmised he had some inkling of the situation. "I will go down and tell them you are resting. After a few cups of Mama's lambs-wool, your father will be much more amiable."

  Jonathan offered her a crooked grin. "Maybe you haven't changed so much, after all. You always were a wicked liar.''

  "It will at least give you time to straighten your cravat and wash the dust smear
ed across your cheek," she replied tartly. "Do as you wish."

  "You know what I wish, don't you?" He leaned forward and caught her shoulder.

  His warm breath caressed her cheek and his lips lingered tantalizingly near her own. She had a very good suspicion of what he wanted, but she wouldn't let him do that again, not like this, not in secrecy anymore. She stood up hastily and brushed out her lavender skirt.

  "Don't mistake me for someone else, Jonathan. I haven't changed that much." She marched off without another word.

  Damn! Jonathan hit his thigh with his fist as Diana disappeared down the hall. She hadn't guessed.

  After all these years, she hadn't guessed where that rose came from. Or perhaps she didn't want to know.

  Sadly, he glanced over his shoulder at the door behind which the answer lay. If Diana had spent four years thinking he had run away from her, she would not be very likely to welcome his suit now, but he was too miserable not to know.

  Jonathan rose and, brushing the dust from his trousers, started down the back stairs.

  He knew the keys were kept in the kitchen. As a child, he had been allowed full run of the house, and he didn't think the routines had changed greatly. If he could just somehow slip down unnoticed and figure out which was the attic key, it wouldn't be a moment's work to run up the stairs and find the old desk. He had to know whether she had found his letter.

  He chased away all the doubting thoughts about what difference the knowledge could make. He certainly couldn't repeat his offer. In that case, it would be better if the letter were safely in his pocket where it could cause no misunderstanding. If it was there.

  That's what he had to know. At the risk of repeating the same blow he had suffered when she had not replied the first time, he had to know. If she had found it and chosen not to reply, he would at least know where he stood. He could leave now and not submit himself to the torture of sharing this holiday with people who no longer wished to include him in their lives.

  But Diana had not behaved as if she had cast him aside as she had her childhood. True, she was not as outgoing and lavish with her affections as she had once been, but people change. He, of all people, should know that. Once, all he had wanted was the adventure and thrill of seeing the world and fighting to save his home and country. Now, he had seen his fill of war and wanted only the security of home and family. Unfortunately, neither war nor family would have him.

  One of the twins sat munching an apple on a stool near the pantry where the keys were kept, his hair mussed and his best clothes slightly awry from whatever entertainment Charles had provided.

  Jonathan could hear the uproar in the kitchen beyond, but none of the servants were in the back hall to observe him. Just Frankie. Or Freddie.

  The boy grinned at the sight of company, revealing a gap between his front teeth. Freddie, then.

  "You come to snitch an apple, too? All them smells make me hungry."

  Jonathan hesitated. He hadn't counted on anybody seeing him purloin the key. But he needed it now, before confronting his father. If he could just enter the damned attic ...

  "Me, too," Jonathan answered casually, easing around the stool for a glimpse into the pantry. The keys weren't there! "Why aren't you with Charles?" he asked desperately, looking for some way to rid himself of any witness.

  "Mama said we had to come in and clean up but I was hungry. I hate coats." He shrugged at the confining shoulders of his best new suit, and he eyed Jonathan with caution. "Cook said she'd cut off my hand with an ax if I touched anything in there," he informed him helpfully. "Better just take an apple."

  The obstacles only made Jonathan more determined. Giving the boy a level look, he said, "Actually, your mother sent me down for a key. They used to be in there. Do you know where they are kept?"

  The boy brightened. "Mama hung them way up on the back of the door so we couldn't climb the shelves to reach them, but I can still get at them. Which one do you want?"

  "Perhaps I'd better find it myself." With a wry lift of his eyebrows at the boy, he entered the pantry and found the key board. Row after row of polished brass keys hung in neat array, if he could only decipher their order. First row, first floor? Top row, top floor? No, there were too many. Frowning, he tried to think like Mrs. Carrington. How would she arrange the keys?

  He panicked at the sound of voices. A child might believe his story of a guest being sent to the kitchen for a key, but no one else would. He was tempted to grab a handful and run with them.

  The boy solved his dilemma. Slipping around the door, he pointed helpfully to a key dangling in the shadows at the very top of the door. "We can't reach that one. It's the attic key. We wanted to see if there were any ghosts up there, but the stool isn't tall enough."

  Jonathan glanced down to his nemesis and savior. "There weren't any ghosts there last time I looked, but you know that back bedroom with all the boxes and dustcovers? I thought I saw one in there once. Where's Frankie? Fetch him and maybe you can see if it's still there."

  The boy's whole face lit up and he stared at Jonathan with excitement. "Do you really think so? Let's go see. How did you know I was Freddie? Even Elizabeth sometimes mixes us up."

  The voices came closer and Jonathan's desperation increased. "Because you're the one who does the talking. Frankie just waits for you to come up with ideas. Go on now. I hear Goudge, and he'll probably frown about that apple."

  Freddie was off and gone without further argument. Reaching with his one good arm, Jonathan just barely pried the key off its hook. Pocketing it, he picked up Freddie's half-eaten apple and wandered out into the hall. Nodding at a suspicious Goudge, he ambled toward the back stairs, apple in hand, key in pocket. His heart thundered in his ears. Never in all those years of war had he reached such a pitch of nervous excitement.

  The attic stairs were around the landing from the back stairs. All he had to do was keep climbing and no one would be the wiser. Just up one more flight of stairs ...

  The twins sat perched expectantly where he and Diana had just been, blocking access to the attic door. Jonathan groaned inwardly.

  Charles shouted his name from the hall. A servant would hunt him down shortly.

  He'd never really had a chance. It had been foolish to think he could sneak around a friend's house like some damned thief. He would have to place his future in the hands of fate.

  * * *

  Downstairs, Diana surveyed the joyful arrival of the Drummonds. Excited greetings, winter wraps, and the brisk scent of cold air permeated the front hall. Jonathan's family had arrived from London with fashionable hats, fur-lined cloaks and muffs, a carriage full of trunks, and an air of sophistication that the country-bound Carrington household could never hope to attain.

  Marie, the little girl who had once romped the fields on ponies with Elizabeth, was now a young lady with rosy cheeks framed by stylish auburn curls. Mrs. Drummond hadn't changed from her plump, shy self, but she seemed a trifle nervous as she shed her velvet pelisse. Glancing at the formidable frown on Mr. Drummond's brow, Diana had some idea of the tense scene ahead.

  "Diana! Don't you look lovely! Come here and let me see you." Mrs. Drummond held out her arms in greeting as Diana came down the stairs. "We saw Charles out on the drive a few minutes ago. Doesn't he look dashing? Isn't it grand to have him home at last?"

  All the lady's nervousness poured out in this voluble greeting, and Diana understood at once. Charles must already have told them Jonathan was here. She glanced anxiously toward the elder Drummond as she embraced his wife.

  "It is such a relief. I could not have asked for a better Christmas gift," Diana murmured. "Jonathan is upstairs resting," she added with a hint of defiance. "It seems he was wounded and Charles would not come home without him." This she said loudly enough for Jonathan's father to hear.

  He ignored the mention of his son as he allowed the butler to help him with his cloak. Mrs. Carrington sent her daughter an anxious glance at this breach of a forbidden subject, bu
t she helped old Goudge with the gathering of outer garments.

  Mrs. Drummond clutched Diana's elbow eagerly at this mention of her son and led her toward the drawing room. "How is he? He has not been seriously injured, has he? Oh, tell me, Diana, for I am in a frightful state. I did not think ever to see him again."

  "His injuries are not grave, but a serious blow to his pride, I suspect. He will be down shortly, I am certain, and you will see for yourself. Come, let me pour you a cup of hot tea, and you can tell us how marvelously Marie fared in her first Season."

  The two younger girls followed them in to rearrange chairs for a quiet coze.

  "We should have come out together." Elizabeth pouted at hearing Diana's topic. "We had it all planned. I was to be the Snow Queen and Marie was to be the Rose. Now it is all spoiled."

  "Oh, no, it is not!" Marie protested. "I shall be able to tell you which gentlemen are the best catches, and we can start out by favoring only the most eligible young men. It will be great fun, you will see."

  Pouring the tea, Diana watched her mother offering Mr. Drummond his brandy, and she hid a smile of relief. Perhaps the brandy would warm his frozen features. If she were a miracle worker, her Christmas gift to Jonathan would be his father's forgiveness.

  Charles and the twins had apparently repaired their best attire. They joined the company now all polished and immaculate. The twins had slicked back their brown cowlicks and wore their short coats. Charles had donned a formal hammer-tailed coat of chocolate brown over a gold waistcoat and fawn trousers. With his cravat starched and neatly tied and his blond hair gleaming in the candlelight, he made a striking picture.

  "I should like to welcome you more politely than with snowballs," he said genially, holding out his hand to Jonathan's father.

  For the first time, Diana thought with a pang of grief, Charles must act as man of the house. It seemed very odd to think of her older brother as a man and not the young scoundrel who came in foxed at night and crawled through windows when his father locked him out. But he acted the host with a maturity that had not been there when he left home.