Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030)

by Layton, Edith; Jensen, Emma

  “Well, go on,” Charles urged.

  Needing no further bidding, the bird plunged his beak into the glass and took a long draft, tilting his head back with pleasure as the sherry trickled down his throat. Charles didn’t hear Lady Marchwell enter the room, and knew nothing until her sharp voice suddenly addressed him. “So you have the audacity to still behave as if you reside here, do you, sir?”

  Once again he turned quickly, his heart sinking at her tone, which did not bode well for his chances. Somehow he managed to execute what he hoped was a suitably respectful and placatory bow. “The compliments of the season to you, Lady M.”

  Juliet’s aunt, dressed as Queen Elizabeth to the very last curl of her elaborate red wig, inclined her head civilly, no more, and her sapphire-and-silver brocade gown, stiff with a farthingale, rustled as she advanced from the door. “Why have you returned after all this time?” she inquired coolly.

  “To make full atonement.”

  “Then you may not be comforted to know that Juliet hasn’t intimated a change in her attitude toward you.”

  His heart sank more. “She still despises me?”

  Lady Marchwell went to scoop the reluctant magpie onto her finger. “That’s enough of that, you drunkard,” she muttered, and Jack hung his head forlornly as he realized his tippling had been curtailed for the moment. Lady Marchwell stroked the bird’s gleaming back as she looked at Charles again. “Juliet has never despised you, Charles, she has simply been unable to forgive you for hurting her so much.”

  “I know the extent of my sins, Lady M, but I also know the extent of my love for my wife. It is endless, believe me, and I have come back to try my damnedest to win a reconciliation.”

  “Have you indeed?” Her attention wavered again as Jack, deeming her attention to be sufficiently diverted, hopped back to the tray and took another swift sip. Lady Marchwell was incensed and tapped him imperatively, at which he gave an indignant squawk and flew up to a holly-swathed bust of the Emperor Tiberius that was set in a niche above a topmost shelf of books. Some sprigs of holly were dislodged, and to show the extent of his annoyance the magpie threw the rest down as well, then shuffled about, muttering horribly.

  Lady Marchwell ignored her pet’s wrath as she addressed Charles. “When you and my niece were married I believed yours to be an indestructible love match. You didn’t seem separate people, but one entity, sharing every thought and sensation, anticipating each other’s words, knowing all there was to know. Juliet entrusted you with her heart, but learned most cruelly that you were merely pretending to entrust yours to her.”

  “It was no pretense, Lady M,” he broke in quickly.

  Jack made a rude noise from the safety of the emperor’s head, and Lady Marchwell’s eyebrow quirked. “My sentiments exactly,” she said wryly, holding Charles’s eyes. “It had to be pretense, sir, or you would not have taken up with Sally Monckton, whom I believe to have had five further protectors since your departure from the scene. Off with the old and on with the new is her motto, it seems.”

  Charles was offended. “Lady M, I do not regard this as a matter for amusement. Surely you can find it in your heart to forgive a little? It’s Christmas, the—”

  “The season of goodwill?” she said quickly.

  “Yes.”

  “It was Christmas six years ago too,” she pointed out, and Charles’s resentful glance went to the magpie.

  “So it suits you to blame Jack, does it?”

  “I did,” Charles admitted, “and I suppose it is only habit now, for I fully realize that if I had behaved myself there would not have been an incriminating note to be discovered.”

  “Very true.”

  He looked imploringly at her. “I crave another chance with Juliet, Lady M, another chance to place this ring upon her finger.” He fumbled inside his shirt and pulled out the wedding ring on its purple ribbon.

  Lady Marchwell stared at it. “Is . . . that Juliet’s ring?”

  “Yes, of course. How can you doubt it?”

  “Because we thought Jack had hidden or lost it forever.”

  “Ah.”

  Her eyes moved to his. “How enigmatically you say that.”

  “Perhaps because the way it was returned to me was rather enigmatic too.”

  The long-case clock near the door began to whir, and then chimed the hour. It was nine o’clock. Lady Marchwell went to a large upright chair and sat down carefully, mindful to be decorous in spite of the farthingale beneath her regally sumptuous royal costume. “Very well, Charles, you have ten minutes in which to convince me that I should help you. When you have said your piece I will consider whether to grant you your wish or have you thrown out. But first you will explain the matter of the ring. Be quick now, sir, for the seconds are ticking away.”

  For a moment he couldn’t find words. He went to the fireplace, and rested a hand on the carved stonework above it as he looked up at Juliet’s portrait. “The ring was returned to me in February 1814, on the very eve of my departure for India. I had at last given up trying to gain admittance here, and given up writing letters that I feared were never opened.”

  “Oh, I saw that Juliet received every one,” Lady Marchwell interrupted, “but she did not change her mind, especially as the sorry tale was still very much in circulation, and Sally Monckton was doing all she could to blacken your name in the scheme of things. Eventually Juliet desired that you be informed she was no longer here at Marchwell Park, and that I was yet to be informed where she had gone. I complied with her wishes.”

  He looked around at her. “She was here all the time?”

  Lady Marchwell nodded. “But we digress, sir, for you were telling me of the ring’s return.”

  Charles looked at the portrait again. “In February, having decided to forget my sorrows by going to Bengal, I settled all my business here and made every possible arrangement for the running of my affairs during my absence. I also saw to it that Juliet received a handsome allowance, as always she had.”

  “I know.”

  He gazed at his wife’s face on the canvas. “On the eve of my departure I endeavored to sleep in the private room I had taken at White’s. It was midnight and the night one of the coldest of that unbelievably bitter winter. A fire burned in the hearth, but even so there was ice on the inside of the window. I wasn’t relishing the coming journey, or indeed leaving England, for I was leaving Juliet as well, but I had accepted that she would never forgive me. Suddenly I heard a tapping at the window. I confess I was alarmed, for it was on an upper floor with a sheer drop. I went to melt a little of the ice on the glass with my hand in order to look out, but I saw nothing. Even so the tapping came again, so I wrestled with the frozen window, which at last gave up its resistance.”

  Lady Marchwell’s hand crept to her throat. “What did you find?” she asked, her eyes a little wide.

  “Jack.”

  “Jack? But that’s not possible, he never leaves the park, and certainly would not have ventured anywhere at night in that awful winter, let alone all the way to St. James’s. And anyway, how on earth would he have known where you were?”

  “It was he, make no mistake, for how many one-eyed magpies are there that also reek of sherry? Not many, I fancy. What’s more, he had the wedding ring in his beak, so it could not possibly have been any other specimen of Pica pica.”

  As if knowing what Charles was saying, Jack claimed full responsibility from the niche. “Chak-chak-chak-chak.”

  Charles continued. “He stood on the thick crust of ice and snow on the window ledge, just looking at me, then he put the ring down and flew off. Ever since I have worn the ring on a ribbon around my neck, and it has been my constant wish to one day see it returned to Juliet’s finger.”

  “Chak-chak.”

  Lady Marchwell recovered a little from the tale of her pet’s extraordinary conduct, and regarded Charles thoughtfully. Had he turned he might have seen the compassion in her eyes, and the gentle sympathy playing upo
n her lips. She was not by any means set against him; indeed it was her opinion that his estrangement from Juliet had gone on for far too long. He had done wrong, but should he be punished forever? Ah, that was the question. “What did you do in India?” she asked suddenly.

  “Do?” He smiled. “I made my fortune, or at least I made another fortune. I rival Croesus now.”

  “How lucky you are.”

  “Maybe, except that like Croesus I am cursed. Outwardly I seem to lack nothing, yet in truth I lack everything, because the person I yearn for, hunger for, has rejected me these past six years.” He turned. “Is she here?” he asked directly.

  Lady Marchwell hesitated, and then shook her head. “No.”

  His heart sank. “Please do not play me for the fool again by saying you do not know her whereabouts.”

  “Oh, I know, but I am in a quandary.” Lady Marchwell rose from her chair and carefully tweaked her voluminous Queen Elizabeth skirts. Then she held up a hand for Jack to fly to her, which he duly did, rocking for a moment before gaining his balance. The bird’s handsome head cocked to one side as for the first time he perceived the wedding ring. Opportunist magpie thieving was the last thing Charles desired right now, and as he pushed the ribbon hastily back inside his shirt, Lady Marchwell continued to speak. “You see, Charles, although you have convinced me that you deserve another chance to see Juliet again, I—”

  “You have?” Charles was so delighted he could have rushed to hug her, but given the circumstances, such familiarity was hardly fitting.

  “Yes, I have,” she confirmed. “Six years ago I was dressed as a fairy godmother, which I fancy was well suited to the granting of a wish. Queen Elizabeth may not carry a wand, but her royal power will no doubt serve the same purpose. I will do what I can for you, Charles, but have to warn that I do not think Juliet will want to see you. She has become settled, and—”

  “Settled?” he broke in quickly. “There is someone else?”

  She smiled. “No, not with someone else. She is her own woman, no one else’s. But I will approach her for you.”

  Relief almost swamped him. “Tonight?” he said quickly, wanting to rush her.

  “Certainly not. It’s Christmas Eve, for heaven’s sake. You will have to contain your impatience.”

  Where was he expected to stay in the meantime? he wondered as visions flashed before him of disgruntled postilions, icy roads at night, and every Windsor inn filled to overflowing.

  Lady Marchwell went toward the door, then halted. “I am not cruel enough to send you away again while I deliberate, but I fear the house is already too much of a crush with guests. However, there is room at the Retreat.”

  He was taken aback. “But . . . isn’t that considered Juliet’s territory?”

  “If she were here, yes. But she is not.”

  “I saw no lights there as I arrived, and presumed it was closed for the winter.”

  “Not closed, exactly, but rather in a state of readiness. Guests were expected, you know them actually, my grandniece Rebecca, her noisy husband, and singularly ill-behaved brood. For the sake of my other guests I decided such an undisciplined faction should be confined to the island, and until this evening I still imagined they might still arrive. Then a message came a short while ago to say that young Theophilus has the measles, so they are all staying at home in Daventry. I haven’t yet had time to send word to the servants at the Retreat, so right now they still expect to have work to do. So they may as well attend to you instead. If, that is, you find yourself able to stay there. After all, it is full of memories.”

  “I have no quarrel with memories, Lady M, for they are all I’ve had for a long time now. Besides,” he added shrewdly, “I do not doubt that if you so desired it some closet or attic here in the main house could be found for me, but your other guests have memories too, and my face is bound to stir whisperings you would prefer not to hear again.”

  “I don’t deny such selfish motives, for I would rather not spend Christmas with the household raking the coals over, or the New Year with the monde of London fanning the embers.” Lady Marchwell gave him a faint smile. “So the Retreat is agreeable to you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Very well, I will make arrangements for you to be rowed across.”

  “I am capable of rowing myself, Lady M.”

  She smiled. “Maybe, but the river is running a little high, and it is some time since you last made the crossing, brief as it is. A scandal about your watery demise would not please me either, so I would prefer James to attend to your safe arrival on the island.”

  Good old James, Charles thought sourly.

  “Wait here, and when all is in readiness James will come for you. You have luggage, no doubt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Everything will be taken care of.” With that Lady Marchwell went out with Jack, leaving Charles alone with the ticking of the clock.

  5

  The rowing boat bobbed halfway between the shore and Magpie Eyot, and Charles huddled in the stern with a lantern that threw little light as the storm raged mercilessly over the southern counties. The Thames was not only swift and strong, but choppy too, obliging James to work mightily upon the oars to prevent the boat from sliding downstream with the current.

  Charles was uneasy on such deep, dark, swift water, especially on a night as cold and inhospitable as this. The joy and merriment of Christmas seemed a universe away, and danger brushed so close that England suddenly seemed more alien and hazardous than the Bengal climes he had known these past years. The swollen river sucked and gurgled along the bank, and gusts of snow stung his face as he listened to the wind rushing through the slender fronds of the great willows, the lowermost branches of which dragged in the water. Ahead lay Magpie Eyot, where the storm was in full cry through the tall Scotch pines.

  How far away now that balmy summer day not long after their marriage, when he had rowed Juliet on the sun-dappled river, and gently maneuvered their little boat beneath the willows so he could kiss her in the secrecy of the leafy bowers . . .

  “We really ought to return to the lodge, Charles, for everyone will be there by now and will be wondering where we are.” Juliet lay back lazily on a mound of cushions in the stern of the rowing boat, twirling a bright pink pagoda parasol over her shoulder. She wore a cream lawn gown, frilled and beribboned, and brown ringlets tumbled from beneath her straw bonnet.

  “No one will even notice our absence,” Charles replied, handling the boat into the cool green shadows of the willows. “When Lady M invites her Whig friends to an afternoon at the Retreat, the gentlemen expect to spend all their time talking politics while attempting to rob the Thames of all its fish. The ladies desire only to sit in private little groups discussing—and inventing, I might add—matters of as scandalous a nature as possible.”

  “Maybe they will think we are suitably scandalous for slipping away like this.”

  He laughed. “Never! We will always be dull fare for gossips because we are so married and in love that we think only of each other.” Shipping the oars, he quickly rose to catch a sturdy bough that projected from a lightning-blasted tree, then made the boat fast to it. The little craft swung gently around on the current before lodging safely against the tree.

  Juliet dipped her fingers into the shining water, her face suddenly thoughtful. “Will we really?” she murmured.

  “Mm?” He paused as he took off his coat. “Will we really what?”

  “Always be dull fare for gossips?”

  “Of course.” But inside he was aware of a flicker of something, a vague restlessness perhaps. Whatever it was, it touched him now, reminding him of how young he and Juliet were to be man and wife. He had loved her for a long time now, to the exclusion of all others, with the result that while he devoted himself solely to her, his friends indulged in all the passions and peccadilloes young men do. Did he resent that? The thought shocked him, but could not be dismissed, for if of no importance why had
it entered his head at all?

  “Charles?”

  He looked into Juliet’s lovely green eyes. “We love each other too much to be scandalous, my darling,” he said reassuringly, but was still pricked with a sliver of guilt, even though he had done nothing. Doubt had been raised in his innermost self, and he had to force a light laugh as he got down on the cushions with her. “I am certainly thinking of loving you right now, Lady Neville,” he whispered, leaning over to kiss the tip of her nose.

  “And I am thinking of my new parasol, which will surely be consigned to the Thames unless I am able to set it properly aside.”

  “How easily you attempt to dampen my ardor,” he replied, taking the parasol and tossing it behind him in the boat.

  She was flirtatious. “Is your ardor so delicate that so small a thing as a parasol becomes an obstacle?”

  “Fie on you, madam, are you challenging my manhood?” He moved over her, supporting himself on his hands as he gazed down into her eyes.

  Voices carried from a crowded pleasure barge that sailed downstream only yards from their secret place amid the willows. Juliet’s breath caught nervously. “Sssh, Charles, they may hear us,” she whispered.

  “There will be nothing to hear if you kiss me,” he replied.

  She knew the look in his eyes, and was a little shocked. “Here? Oh, Charles . . .”

  “Why not here? Where better to make love than on the river, beneath a canopy of leaves? Have you no spirit? Don’t you relish the risk of being caught?”

  She gazed up at him for a moment, and then smiled. “You are leading me astray, Sir Charles.”

  “Ah, so you do relish it,” he breathed.

  “I would be an eeyot not to,” she said softly as he sank down to gather her into his embrace. Their lips came together, and she linked her arms around his neck, her body arching against his. And so they made love in the boat, their passion and pleasure taking them into another realm entirely. As Charles was lost in the ecstasy of the moment, the insidious uncertainty, so briefly presented, slid ashamedly away into the leafy shadows.