Turned inside out? James’s eyes widened, and without a murmur he took the purse and returned to the chaise to speak to the indignant postilion.
“A wise decision,” Charles observed, then continued into the red-and-white tiled entrance hall, where the same family portraits were arrayed in the same places on the oak-paneled walls, and the grand staircase was as seasonally garlanded as always. A Yule log crackled in the hearth of the handsome carved-stone fireplace, and the sounds of merriment and music from the adjacent great parlor were loud. Every December the house bulged at the very seams with family and friends, and an excellent time was had by all. Evergreens were everywhere, confirming Charles in the long-held belief that every year Lady Marchwell denuded the woodland on the boundary of her land. No hostess decorated her home more lavishly for Christmas, or celebrated more generously; and no invitation here was ever willingly declined.
Another footman, who did not know him, requested his name and then took Charles’s top hat and gloves and laid them carefully by the copper bowl of holly on the carved oak table in the center of the hall. As he was divested of his coat, Charles detected the delicious smell of hot spiced wine and mince pies coming from the kitchens. The same Christmas fare had been in preparation during the agonizing moments when his deceit had been laid bare to Juliet. He had been standing in this very spot, having just returned from Sally in London, when Juliet came downstairs to greet him. Then Jack the magpie’s mischief had intervened, and suddenly a marriage had lain in ruins.
The footman interrupted Charles’s thoughts. “If you will wait in the library, sir, I will go to her ladyship.”
The library, directly across the hall from the great parlor, was a suitably private place where raised voices and harsh recriminations could not be overheard. As the footman hurried away into the grand parlor to find Lady Marchwell, Charles paused for a moment, toying with the shirt frill protruding from the cuff of his tight-fitting dark blue coat. After the more casual attire he’d adopted in Madras, these fashionable English togs were damned uncomfortable. What with a starched neckcloth, close-cut waistcoat, and pantaloons that might have been painted on his person, he felt like a Christmas capon trussed, stuffed, and glazed in readiness for roasting.
His glance moved to the heavily carved door of the library. “And there, if I’m not mistaken, is the oven,” he said as he crossed toward it.
2
As Charles proceeded in trepidation to the library at Marchwell Park, his estranged wife Juliet lay on a cushioned wickerwork sofa in front of a roaring fire where fresh pinecones hissed and spat among the leaping flames. Her handsome green eyes reflected the flames, her pale complexion was blushed to pink, and she was sipping hot chocolate from a bone china Wedgwood cup painted with a river scene. She was twenty-five years old and attractive, with even features, a slightly retroussé nose, and a generous mouth. Her sparkling character, neat figure, and natural grace had once made her the belle of many a ball, but she did not sparkle much now, and much preferred a quiet life at home.
Light brown curls tumbled loosely around the shoulders of her fern-colored merino robe, beneath which she wore a nightgown, because Christmas Eve or not, she had decided to retire early. There was no reason not to, for she had dismissed the servants to their families and celebrations, and was alone in the house without any plans to do anything except perhaps read a little in bed before putting out the candle.
The cozy room she was in was called the drawing room, but did not really warrant such a grand description, being intimate, quaintly rural, and brightly furnished. It had blue wickerwork chairs and sofas with white convolvulus embroidered on the sky blue cushions, and latticed paper twined with painted creepers that covered not only the walls but the ceiling as well. Alternating with the wallpaper were mirrored panels set in rough elm frames, and the Axminster carpet, woven especially for the room, suggested a bluebell wood in spring. Diamond-paned windows, arched and elegant, reached down to the floor and were adorned with borders of stained glass. In summer they were flung open to the grounds, the notion being that nature was invited into the house, making it difficult to tell where the one ended and the other began. It was meant to conjure the picturesque country home of a gamekeeper or farm laborer, but was far too luxurious and fashionable to be convincingly rustic.
Summer was far away now, however, and the winter wind drew down the chimney, making the pinecones twinkle and the red-ribbon decorations on the mantel lift gently. The scent of conifer drifted from the sprays Juliet had gathered that day, and like everything else associated with Christmas—mulled wine, mince pies, chestnuts, roast goose—it brought thoughts of Charles. From time to time the memories were so keen that her finger still seemed enclosed by the wedding ring she had discarded on discovering the extent of his unfaithfulness. She was aware of weakly permitting the past to still dominate her life, but at this time of the year her resistance seemed to fade away completely, exposing pain that was as fresh and hurtful as if those events of 1813 had only happened recently.
Sometimes she was glad that Jack the magpie had finally forced things to a head; sometimes she wished with all her heart that the truth had remained buried. She paused. Did she really mean that? Could she honestly wish to have remained in that dreadful half world of unproven suspicions, fretful for answers, afraid of those same answers, and feeling sick with misery that happiness seemed to have slipped away behind her back? She had been aware for some time that Charles was keeping something from her, for she had glimpsed it in his eyes, sensed it in his odd reticence about his visits to London, and felt it in the hesitance of his lovemaking. Something was wrong, but whenever she asked he denied it. Slowly but surely a rift had appeared between them, but he had pretended not to notice, which only added resentment to her burden of hurt bewilderment. From there it had been but a short step to wondering if there was someone else in his life.
Looking back she wished she’d been difficult with him, or had screamed and made scenes, but she hadn’t. What an eeyot he must have thought her. The old pet word brought a lump to her throat, and she clenched a fist and dug her fingernails into her palm, a ploy that always seemed to keep tears at bay, although she did not know exactly why. It had certainly worked during those dreadful moments when Jack’s instinctive thievery had forced Charles’s shabby secret into the open.
The denouement took place in the entrance hall at Marchwell Park. She and Charles were actually staying in the Retreat for Christmas as always, but she had been with her aunt in the main house when he returned from yet another of his unexplained visits to London. The house was full of guests, mostly in their rooms at that moment dressing for the Christmas Eve ball, which that year had a fairy-tale theme. It was evening and she was already in her costume as she ran down the staircase to greet him. She was dressed as Titania, in a gauzy sea green gown and tiny sequined wings. Her hair flowed loose, and her smile was bright, for she had resolved to do all she could to close the chasm that marred her marriage. The delicious fragrance of mulled wine and baking mince pies permeated the house from the kitchens, but it was only afterward that she’d become aware of it; only afterward she’d come to hate it.
Now, as her thoughts wandered back to those final moments, time seemed to peel away and suddenly it was Christmas Eve 1813 again, and the bitterest winter in living memory had just begun . . .
“By all the saints, it’s cold outside!” Charles declared, his spurs jingling on the Tudor-tiled floor as he crossed the hall to the table, where a footman waited to take his heavy olive green greatcoat, top hat, and gloves. In the seconds before the outer door was closed Juliet heard the crunch of hooves on frozen gravel as a groom led his horse away.
Her nerve faltered suddenly, and she hesitated at the foot of the staircase with a hand on the dark wooden rail. Outside icicles hung from eaves and hedgerows, a freezing mist had settled over the land, and chimney smoke was kept close to the ground; but inside all was bright, warm, and welcoming. The customary copper bowl
of holly stood on the carved oak table in the center of the hall, its berries bright and cheerful in the light from the wheel-rim chandeliers and roaring fire. The servants had not long finished adorning every sill, cornice, jamb, rail, and alcove with the greenery that was essential for the festive season, and now she was aware of the fresh scent of conifers.
She studied her husband anxiously. Charles was twenty-two, tall and striking, with blond hair and bluer-than-blue eyes, and there was a rugged strength about him that in spite of her unhappiness still drew her like a moth to a flame. His taste was impeccable, from the cut and quality of his greatcoat, to the superb lines of the damson coat and gray breeches he wore beneath it. The ride from London had not disturbed the excellent knot his valet had earlier achieved in his starched muslin neckcloth, nor had exertion wrinkled the fine striped marcella of his waistcoat.
He appeared the epitome of all that was handsome and admired in a gentleman, but in the depth of her heart his unhappy wife had begun to question his faithfulness. There was something going on that he wished to keep from her, and every instinct told her discovering what it was would break not only her heart but their marriage. Was there a more handsome man in all England? she wondered. With his complexion still tanned from the late summer he gave the impression of spending most of his days outdoors, yet of late he had become a denizen of London’s drawing rooms. What did he do when he was away from her? Who was he with?
Conscious that she had remained at the foot of the stairs, Charles waited until the footman had helped him out of the greatcoat before turning. His glance swept over her fairy-queen gown. “How now, proud Titania,” he murmured.
“How late, tardy Oberon,” she replied.
“True, and for that I beg forgiveness. But you have my word that I will be dressed in time for the ball.” His easy tone was forced, she decided, increased doubt sweeping her resolution aside. Pride would not allow her to debase herself by playing the sweet trusting wife.
Her silence made him uneasy. “Are you angry with me?”
“Should I be?” she asked, countering question with question.
Their eyes met again for a moment before she looked away. He hesitated, then nodded at the footman. “You may go now, but please leave my coat,” he added.
Surprised that such an undeniably damp garment was not to be spirited away to the kitchens to be dried and aired, the man did as he was bade, resting it neatly over the back of a tapestry-upholstered Tudor chair by the hearth.
When he had gone, Charles held out his hand to his wife. “I confess to being chilled to the very marrow, so let us go closer to the fire,” he said.
Slowly Juliet left the staircase, but she ignored his outstretched hand and went to the fireplace, where the customary Yule log winked amid the flames. From the corner of her eye she saw Charles’s hand fall away again, and knew that he looked at her for a moment before joining her. They stood side by side, their faces glowing with flamelight, but there was a chill in their silence.
“Is something wrong, Juliet?” he asked at last. “Are you unwell?”
“I am in excellent health,” she answered.
“Juliet, I—”
What he had been about to say would never be known because Jack’s loud, staccato chatter interrupted him. The magpie was perched on Lady Marchwell’s wrist as she smiled down at them from the top of the staircase. Juliet’s aunt was dressed as Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother, in a voluminous blue cloak over a white gown, with a tall pointed hat that completely concealed her graying curls. “May all your wishes come true, mes enfants,” she declared amiably, waving a rather gaudy wand as she began to descend.
Jack’s presence marked Lady Marchwell as something out of the ordinary run of ladies. No sweet, twittering canary or lovebird for her, instead she chose a raucous, cheeky, exceedingly ill-mannered magpie that would have stolen the world itself provided it glittered enough.
As she reached the foot of the stairs Juliet’s aunt smiled again. “Welcome back, Charles.”
“I’m glad to be back, Lady M,” he replied warmly, but Juliet knew he was annoyed about the interruption. And maybe he was annoyed to be here, instead of with . . . whoever it was.
“I trust you mean to change into costume before attending the ball?”
“Naturally, for what is Titania without her Oberon?” he replied.
What indeed? Juliet thought, for his words seemed a little too close for comfort.
Charles eyed Jack as the bird fluttered and then swayed on Lady Marchwell’s wrist. “Is that scoundrel drunk again?”
“He’s had a festive sip or two,” she admitted, “but only to toast the season.”
“Be honest, Lady M, he has some excuse or other to toast every day of the year, and twice on Sundays.”
Juliet would once have joined her aunt in laughing at this, but today she simply could not; indeed, she couldn’t even remain at his side, and moved away under the pretext of rearranging his greatcoat on the chair. The coat would provide a moment of distraction; a moment to compose herself a little more. She felt him turn quickly to briefly stretch out a hand that he immediately snatched back, and she sensed that his reaction had nothing to do with her leaving his side but everything to do with where she moved to. Why? What prompted such an undoubtedly nervous response on his part?
Any hope she had entertained of regaining her composure was forgotten, for the very act of moving the coat brought about a denouement that shattered everything. A dainty golden chain dangled from the coat’s flapped pocket, and began to glitter and flash in the firelight. It immediately caught Jack’s single eye, and with a delighted chatter—chak-chak-chak—he launched himself from Lady Marchwell’s wrist and dove upon the shiny object. For a few seconds he fluttered furiously against the coat, then flew off with his trophy, a costly gold locket that Charles’s conscience had bade him purchase for his betrayed wife. Finding a safe perch among the evergreens garlanding the gallery balustrade at the top of the staircase, the wobbling magpie brandished the locket and chain triumphantly in his beak.
Voices sounded from the floor above as the first guests emerged to go down to the grand parlor, although as yet no one had reached the staircase.
Lady Marchwell was dismayed with the magpie. “Oh, Jack, you bad bird! Bring it back this instant!”
But the bird’s antics were no longer of any interest to Juliet and Charles, for the locket was not the only thing to have been dislodged from the greatcoat pocket. A crumpled note had been pulled out at the same time. Charles moved swiftly to retrieve it, but his wife’s fingers closed over it first. She heard his sharp intake of breath, saw the guilt written large in his eyes, and knew this was his moment of nemesis. Had he made no move or sound she would simply have pushed the note back into the pocket and thought no more of it; instead she held it tightly in her hand as she studied her husband’s face, which was suddenly pale beneath his tan.
He swallowed, then cleared his throat and tried to make light of things. “It’s nothing, sweeting,” he said, and held out his hand for the note.
She stepped back. “What’s going on, Charles? Why don’t you want me to see this?”
“It’s nothing at all,” he repeated, but his tone gave the lie to his words.
Lady Marchwell’s attention was now riveted upon her niece and her husband.
“Then you will not mind if I look at it?” Juliet went on.
He didn’t reply.
“Charles?”
“I would prefer you not to,” he said then, at last meeting her gaze properly.
Time seemed to suddenly stand still, and all she could hear beyond the thudding of her heart was Jack’s pleased little noises as he deposited the locket amid the greenery and subjected it to a close, single-eyed examination. She knew too that a little gaggle of guests were at the top of the staircase, having paused there in some embarrassment as it was realized there was a scene of some sort taking place below.
“What is the matter, Juliet? Ch
arles?” Lady Marchwell was anxious, especially now there were other ears to hear.
Charles tried to smile reassuringly. “Nothing, Lady M, nothing at all, although I fear I may have given Juliet the opposite impression. It’s merely a note from a fellow member at White’s challenging me to a match next spring between his brown colt and my bay filly. He suggests Newmarket, and I am agreeable. That is all. The sum involved is rather more than I usually wager, and in all honesty I’d prefer Juliet not to know how much I am prepared to risk on my filly’s unproven talents.”
Experience not only told Lady Marchwell he was lying, but also the likely truth. Her natural impulse was to shield her niece by pretending to accept his explanation, not least for the benefit of the eavesdropping guests whose numbers increased by the moment. “There you are, Juliet. Gentlemen will always be gentlemen, and they will always wager upon anything, so don’t be a ninny, just give it back to him.” The underlying advice was plain enough. If you read that note now the whole house will soon be party to its contents; better to play the ostrich, prevent gossip, and save your marriage.
But Juliet could brook no such double standards, and didn’t care about the faces gazing from the floor above. To have simply returned the note to him unread might bring the immediate awkward moment to a close, but it would also ensure countless other such moments as her wretchedness refused to let the matter lie. She had to see what the note really said, for she could not continue as she had these past months.
There was a stir from the landing and staircase as with trembling hands she began to smooth the paper.
3
“Please don’t read it, Juliet,” Charles pleaded, “for I swear that it contains nothing over which you need concern yourself.”
Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030) Page 15
