Greetings of the Season and Other Stories

by Barbara Metzger

  So the prodigal son was going to return home in style: the coach and team, with driver and postilions and outriders, and the painted crest on the door with all those rubbishing lions and hawks.

  But Bevin also forgot that Vincent was no longer around to make all the travel arrangements. Therefore blood cattle weren’t waiting at the changes, just the usual posthouse breakdowns. The tolls had not been paid in advance, nor had suitable accommodations been booked. With so many other travelers abroad at the holiday season, oftentimes Bevin was lucky to get a bed at all, without having to share with Finster. The sheets were unaired; the food was deplorable and served in the public areas, since the private rooms had been reserved ages ago. Lord Montravan was not that much of a snob that he minded breaking his bread with sheep drovers; he did object to the dogs, though.

  The trip was taking so long—and Bevin’s patience was wearing so thin—that he decided to hire a horse for the last stages, bone slivers be damned. If he didn’t get to Montravan Hall in time, he might as well be dead anyway.

  The nags for hire at that last inn were an unprepossessing lot at best, but Bevin was considered a notable judge of horseflesh, so he picked the likeliest steed, a rangy black gelding with an intelligent look. The horse was so intelligent, he had definite ideas on where he wished to spend Christmas Eve. He waited a mile past that inn to express these sentiments, and Bevin was not turning back. The contest of wills over who chose which road left Bevin’s left hand numb and the seat of his breeches caked with mud. He never let loose of the reins, consummate horseman that he was, and finally convinced the hard-mouthed brute to give the stables at Montravan a look-see.

  Then the gelding cast a shoe, out of spite, Bevin was sure. The nearest village was a mere five miles down the road, according to the driver of a passing high-perch phaeton who not only didn’t slow to give the directions, but also managed to splash a more liberal amount of mud on the earl’s caped coat. The five miles afoot were cold, hungry, and at least seven, Bevin swore.

  And the blacksmith was away at his daughter’s in Skellington, two miles east.

  There were no horses to be let in the little village, although the tavern proprietor thought old Jed Turner might lend his ass, now that farm chores were slacking off. Instead a boy was dispatched to fetch the blacksmith home with the promise of a generous reward. Bevin hadn’t figured on handing over the ready every time he stopped either, since Vincent had always seen to all charges in advance. At this rate the earl would soon be forced to sleep in empty barns and eat winter-dry berries as cold and hard as that dastard’s heart.

  He sipped at his ale in the tavern for the time it took for Duncan the smith to get back, making each tankard last as long as possible, then had to stand the man a round to warm his innards. Bevin thought Duncan would warm up faster by heating the forge, but he refrained from pointing that out to a man who dwarfed Johnny Coulton in height and Prinny in girth. Duncan was, moreover, Bevin’s only way of getting that black bone rattler back on the road, so he ordered another glass.

  Johnny Coulton moved quickly for a big man. Duncan moved slowly, even for a big man. He walked slowly, readied his fires slowly, and took forever to shape one blasted horseshoe. And all the time he wanted to talk, about his daughter, about the state of the nation, about his craft. He even insisted, while the iron was heating, on the earl’s trying his hand at the job. Bevin reluctantly bent a nail into a circle, just to show the smith that all noblemen weren’t effete wastrels. Then he wiped the sweat off his brow with his throbbing hand.

  The black didn’t cooperate, naturally. They had to send to the tavern for two more men to hold the brute, which of course necessitated Montravan’s standing them a round, too. By the time Bevin was back in the saddle, the gelding was well rested indeed. With a short memory for everything but his own barn, the black was more unruly than ever. By the time his lordship had the beast headed in the right direction, darkness had started falling. So had the snow.

  *

  It was Christmas Eve, and it was snowing. He wasn’t coming. Most likely he had changed his plans and decided to spend Christmas with his new in-laws. More likely he couldn’t bear to be parted from his bride-to-be, Petra thought irritably. That was entirely understandable, she told herself, not understanding in the least how he could leave Montravan Hall at sixes and sevens without him.

  There was no head of the household to bring in the Yule log, no lord of the manor to greet the villagers who came trudging through the snow to carol for their benefactor. There was no Earl of Montravan to sit in the front pew at church, and no neighborhood nabob to pledge a new roof for the school. There was no dutiful son to soothe the dowager’s nerves, and no loving brother to tease Allissa out of the sullens. And there was no smile for Petra.

  Then his carriage arrived with Finster and the baggage. The countess swore Bevin was lying dead in a ditch somewhere and called for her hartshorn and vinaigrette.

  “Don’t be goosish, Mama,” Allissa said helpfully. “Bevin is never so cow-handed as that. Be sure he’s decided to spend his last nights of unfettered bachelorhood in the arms of some tavern doxy.”

  “What do you know of doxies, missy?” her mother demanded.

  “I know a man’s mistress gets nicer presents than his family.” Allissa had been eyeing the stack of packages neatly gathered on a piecrust table in the drawing room all week. The devious little minx might just have opened her presents and resealed them, Petra considered, except that Allissa was still on tenterhooks, working herself into a frenzy of excitement and despair when she had to wait.

  The dowager was also sadly out of curl. The snow might keep her guests away, Cook’s lovely goose might be overcooked if that rattlepate son of hers didn’t get here in time, and the package Squire Merton placed on the piecrust table was much too large to be the ring Lady Montravan had hoped for. Besides, her companion had two presents from the dowager’s own son, while Lady Montravan had only one. True, one of Petra’s gifts appeared to be a book—from the size, shape, feel, and nonrattle of the package—but Lady Montravan was known to enjoy a good novel, too. Petra was a good enough girl in her way, the dowager admitted, but it was outside of enough that her firstborn was not only taking a bride to supplant his mother in his affections, but was also showing preference for a charity case.

  So Lady Montravan had been more querulous than ever, demanding more and more of Petra’s time, right on top of all the holiday preparations…and an outbreak of measles in the village. Petra had done what she could, working with the earl’s steward to make sure there was enough firewood to go around and spending hours in the kitchens herself to ensure the afflicted families had proper nourishment without overburdening Montravan’s already busy cooking staff. She tried to find time to visit the homes of the stricken families, singing carols to the restless, feverish children, cutting paper stars to win a weak, spotted smile.

  If only it were as easy to put Allissa in better spirits. The girl was anxious about meeting the new sister-in-law who was going to be responsible for Allissa’s own presentation. She was in a fidge over attending her first New Year’s ball, and she was near hysterics over that dratted inappropriate tiara. The present from Bevin could be the headpiece. The box was big enough, Allissa remarked at least twice a day. Petra decided Bevin should be drawn and quartered for sending those packages so early and putting them all through this adolescent agony.

  Petra distrusted Allissa’s hectic, glassy-eyed look and tried to get the younger girl to rest.

  “Oh, do stop treating me like a child, Petra,” Allissa snapped. “I am not the one snoring away or yawning over my sewing.”

  No, Squire Merton was the one having a catnap near the fire, and Petra was the one who was yawning, from being up since dawn. But Petra had had the measles, and no one, typically, could recall if Allissa had. That was something else Petra had to worry about.

  A small hint to the dowager that perhaps the roads were getting slippery was enough to cancel th
e trip to church. Lady Montravan was delighted not to move from her sofa into the cold night, so she declared that they would do better to await Bevin here, or word of his demise.

  They took turns reading the Nativity from the Bible, listening to the clock tick and the squire snore.

  “Please, Mama,” Allissa begged for the nth time, “can we please open the presents? Bevin is obviously not coming, and I am growing a trifle weary.” She peeped at Petra through lowered eyelashes in an effort to enlist the other’s sympathy. “You know I’ll never get to sleep tonight with so much anticipation fluttering my nerves, and I do so want to be in looks tomorrow. You always say a woman needs her rest to be her best. Why, if I am too fatigued,” she added slyly, “I just might grow ill or something.” Petra tried not to stare at the slight blotch on Allissa’s cheek. If she didn’t notice it, perhaps the spot would vanish. Perhaps it was merely a blemish, and if the chit did indeed get to her bed, it would be gone by morning.

  “I am sure Lord Montravan would not want us to be disappointed,” she said. “Maybe we could open the other gifts first, since Finster is certain his lordship will arrive momentarily.”

  Lady Montravan was convinced. If that lobcock Willoughby Merton hadn’t come through with a ring, she’d have to rearrange tomorrow’s dinner seating. Sir Fortescue was invited, as well as old Redford from the Grange. Redford had one foot in the grave, but…

  She jabbed the squire awake with the tip of her lorgnette. “We’re opening the presents now, Willoughby, since we’ll likely be out searching for Montravan all night.” As if she or Allissa would go riding out with lanterns. Or sit up past the unwrappings.

  “What’s that? Montravan’s lost? Downy fellow like that, I’d wager a monkey he’s found a snug nest for the night.” The squire’s wink let them all know he didn’t believe it would be any hot brick keeping Bevin warm that evening. Petra’s heart sank lower. Everyone knew the man was a rake, so why should it bother her now, when it was Miss Harleigh’s problem? She sighed, drawing the dowager’s attention.

  “We may as well start with Petra’s gifts,” Lady Montravan decreed. No surprises there, and no one could accuse her of hurrying the proceedings out of vulgar curiosity or greed.

  They all opened their handkerchiefs to the usual polite, unexcited mouthings. They all tossed Petra’s hours of effort aside to reach for the next offering.

  Allissa and Lady Montravan exchanged their gifts then, each receiving an elaborate new ensemble for the New Year’s ball: gown, gloves, shoes and shawl. Cost had been of no concern, since they put the charges on Bevin’s account.

  “Oh, thank you, Mama,” Allissa enthused, holding up the gown of spangled satin in the exact color blue as her eyes. “It’s just what I wanted. However did you guess?” she asked for the squire’s benefit, since he was the only one not along for the shopping and fittings.

  Lady Montravan had to hold up her own new lavender sarcenet, with turban to match, complimenting Lissa on her exquisite taste. Then it was Petra’s turn to open Lady Montravan’s present. Petra was actually surprised to see the exquisite dress length of gold velvet, until she noted the slight water stain near the edge. The color would bring out the gold in her brown hair, Petra knew, and might even give some life to her brown eyes and honeyed complexion. Of course, there was hardly time to make up a gown by the New Year’s ball, which Lady Montravan might have taken into consideration, but Petra expressed her honest delight enthusiastically enough to gratify the dowager’s self-esteem as a gentlewoman of genuine generosity.

  Allissa gave Petra a matching stole, which coincidentally also matched a stole Petra knew the chit had two of. No matter, Petra vowed, she’d be as finely gowned as any lady at the ball, even if she had to stay awake for the next six nights to do it. Why, she might even outshine Lady Belinda Harleigh. And the barnyard animals might speak at Christmas Eve. At least she wouldn’t be ashamed at the ball, appearing as the poor hanger-on in made-over dresses.

  Squire Merton adored his embroidered pillow. “Can’t think of a more thoughtful gift, m’dear.” He even had a tear in his eye as he kissed the dowager’s pudgy fingers. She puffed out her chest until he got up, corsets creaking, to go buss Petra heartily on the cheek. “And I bet I know whom to thank for the effort. Why, it’s Skipjack to the life. Just think, he’ll be on my sofa forever.”

  Just think, Petra thought, she’d be in Lady Montravan’s black books forever, too. It was a good thing she had already decided to leave after the new year.

  While he was up, the squire fetched his own gifts to the ladies. Petra and Allissa each received a pair of York tan riding gloves, which Petra truly needed and appreciated, thanking the squire for his consideration. Allissa made barely polite responses, then waved a glove to tease Pug into a game.

  Lady Montravan opened the box from her portly gallant and lifted out a fox tippet, complete with glass eyes. While the squire related every detail of the poor creature’s gory demise, Lady Montravan was turning it this way and that, searching the box and tissue for the ring. “How nice,” she said, tossing the object of at least seven hunts aside, knocking over a glass of restorative sherry. She mopped at the spill with Petra’s handkerchief, then threw the soiled lace-edged linen to the floor.

  “We might as well open Montravan’s presents,” she grumbled. “He’s not coming.”

  “Don’t you think we ought to wait for his lordship?” Petra suggested.

  “No, I do not, miss, and I still make some of the decisions around here. I am worn out with the tension of worry and must seek my bed soon. If that rakeshame is so inconsiderate as to be late, then he cannot expect me to ruin my health. Allissa, bring the gifts. I’ll start.”

  No one dared contradict the countess in such a mood, not even Allissa, who merely whined at her mother to hurry; she’d go next.

  Lady Montravan unwrapped a magnificent ruby brooch. “Oh, the dear boy,” she cooed, holding the pin to the lavender gown to judge the effect. Then she reached for the enclosed card just as a commotion was heard in the hall.

  “‘Greetings of the season,’” Lady Montravan started reading when a disheveled, dirty earl tore into the room.

  “Mama, don’t!” he shouted. Too late.

  “‘Looking forward to seeing you with your esteemed parents,’” she continued, puzzled. Then she shrieked. “He wants me dead! It’s not enough that he’s sending me to that dreary dower house; now he wants me in the vault with my ancestors! My heart! My heavens!” And she swooned dead away, there on the sofa.

  9

  “There’s been a dreadful mistake,” Lord Montravan tried to say into the ensuing chaos, but no one paid him any attention after Petra’s first tentative smile. The butler was shouting for her ladyship’s maid and the housekeeper, while Petra was scrambling under the sofa for the smelling salts. Squire Merton poured out another glass of restorative—and swallowed it down. Then he started coughing and bellowing for something decent a fellow could drink at a time of crisis. Footmen were sent running in all directions, and Allissa was gulping back sobs of frustration, saying that she’d never get her tiara at this rate and if her older brother was in such a hateful mood.

  “That was despicable,” she raged at him. “You know how Mama’s nerves are so easily overset. And at Christmas, and your coming late! How could you write such a thing?”

  “I didn’t, brat, so stubble it,” he began, looking on helplessly as a maid started burning feathers under Lady Montravan’s nose.

  Allissa snatched the card off the table and thrust it at Bevin. “It’s your handwriting, isn’t it?”

  Petra glanced up from her place at the side of the reviving, moaning countess. Those were indeed Bevin’s heavy, slanting strokes on the holly-bordered card.

  “Yes, but the messages—” he began again, his words lost anew to Lady Montravan’s groans and clutchings of her heart.

  Her mama being alert and her usual stridently complaining self, Allissa now felt free to gather up the box w
ith her name on it while no one was watching. Petra glanced over, frowning, just as the younger girl ripped the wrappings apart. The earl had bought Allissa a tiara after all, but Petra was relieved to see the circlet was of delicate gold, with no ornate tracery and no diamonds. The coronet would look sweet with flowers woven through it, entirely in keeping with a young miss’s debut.

  “It’s for babies!” the young miss wailed when she saw there were no diamonds. Then she reached for the enclosure at the bottom of the box.

  “No!” Bevin shouted, leaving off patting his mother’s hand and reassuring her of his continued devotion and affection, that the message was meant for Lady Belinda, who would not, after all, be… He jumped up and tried to seize the card, but Allissa danced out of his grasp. He couldn’t very well wrestle with her over it, so, heart sinking, he watched as his spoiled sister’s face grew redder and redder, just as it used to before she threw herself on the floor in a tantrum. Someone should have saved them all the trouble by drowning her then, he thought, when she began to scream.

  “‘Happy hunting”! How dare you, Bevin Montford! As if I’m going to the Marriage Mart just to snare the most eligible parti! Is that all you think of me, that no man will ask for me, but I have to go…go hunting for a husband? Just because you fell into the parson’s mousetrap, you think all women are sneaky and devious, don’t you? You are mean and nasty, Bevin Montford! Nasty, nasty, nasty, and you always have been, making me have those horrid governesses, and making me wait to go to London.”

  Allissa was sobbing in earnest now, totally beyond reason or control.

  Petra left Lady Montravan’s side to take Allissa into her arms. The girl felt warm, likely from her overheated emotional storm, Petra hoped.

  Bevin was raking his fingers through his already mussed hair. “I didn’t write that to you, Lissa, I swear. I wrote that for Squire Merton. Now where the devil has he gone off to?”