Greetings of the Season and Other Stories

by Barbara Metzger

  Charleen was not looking forward to another year of trying to cover the gray hairs, the fine lines, and her living expenses. If she didn’t snabble herself a new husband soon, the men wearing a path to her door wouldn’t be eager suitors, they’d be bailiffs and bill collectors. Maybe she could marry one of them. Lud knew she wasn’t getting any closer to bringing Lord Boughton up to scratch. Hell, her bosoms would reach her waist before he reached the conclusion that he needed a new wife. Charleen, on the other, ruby-ringed hand, had decided she needed to be Countess Boughton ages ago. The earl was well-mannered, well-favored, and most important of all, well-breeched. What was in his well-tailored breeches was not half bad either.

  Well, Christmas was coming, and she’d make deuced sure the earl did his gift selection at Rundell and Bridge’s. Charleen really wanted a gold band and all that it entailed, but being well-versed in reality, the lady allowed as how she’d settle for a diamond necklace. She could always sell the sparklers and invest in the Funds. The future had to hold something besides stiff joints and swollen ankles, something that would last a lot longer than her looks.

  *

  Christmas was coming, at last! Lady Samantha Wouk sat up in bed and practiced her cough. She was not going to let such a golden opportunity get past her, not another year. This holiday, the earl’s seven-year-old daughter vowed to herself, was going to be different. She and her governess were already at The Boughs, fortuitously deposited there a month ago when Aunt Jane came down with the influenza. That was the excuse given for packing her off, bag and baggage, anyway. Not that Lady Samantha wished the lady ill, but being sent off like a sack of dirty laundry suited her down to the ground, so long as the ground was her father’s country estate in Ossing. Now all she had to do was get that elusive gentleman to come visit his own home.

  According to the servants, Lord Boughton seldom rusticated, but seldom was better odds than never, in Samantha’s book. He never came to Aunt Jane’s at all, not once since Samantha had been taken there as an infant on her mother’s death. Not that the earl’s daughter blamed him. Oh no, Samantha knew how much Aunt Jane disapproved of Lord Boughton’s extravagant lifestyle, with his clubs, his horse races, and his parties, all of which sounded perfectly delightful to the gentleman’s offspring. Aunt Jane always clucked her tongue when his name was mentioned in the newspapers. That was how Samantha knew to sneak a look.

  Samantha did not mean to interfere with what Aunt Jane called the earl’s hedonistic pursuit of pleasure. She did not expect the stranger who happened to be her father to play at dolls’ tea parties or know how to braid hair ribbons. She only wanted to remind him of her existence. What she really wished for this Christmas—and had, for all the ones that came before—was a mother, someone to whom she wouldn’t merely be a responsibility or a paid chore. Someone who wouldn’t pass her off to distant relatives or, worse, a boarding school. According to Aunt Jane and the servants, though, when they did not think she was listening, the earl did not like women. He never danced at coming-out balls, and he never escorted the same lady for very long. From what Samantha had gathered, Albrett Wouk hadn’t much liked her mother, either. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, more for the begetting of heirs than for being life companions. In fact, and according to her old nursemaid who’d been left to help look after Aunt Jane, the earl had abandoned his countess in the country as soon as she was breeding. Most likely he’d have returned to try again for a son, but Lady Boughton had not long survived her daughter’s birth. Nanny said they’d all heard the earl swear he’d never marry again, but would let one of his cousins succeed him. He hadn’t changed his mind in seven years, and Samantha didn’t think he’d change it for a girl-child he never bothered to visit, no matter how lonely she was.

  Well, Christmas was coming, and if she couldn’t have a mother, Samantha had decided, she’d settle for a cat.

  In truth, Lady Samantha didn’t mean to get truly sick. She coughed under the covers until her throat was sore, and she made sure her toes came out of the blankets, into the chill night air. She picked at her food, dragged her feet during walks, and rubbed her temples, the way she’d seen Aunt Jane do. Unfortunately, her charade thoroughly convinced Miss Musgrove, her governess, who immediately sent for the local physician. When Mr. Weeks found nothing wrong, Miss Musgrove ordered the cook to start brewing healing draughts from an old herbal tome in the library.

  Either the recipe was in error, or the ingredients were mislabeled, or perhaps the proportions were simply not suitable for such a tiny mite of a miss, but Lady Samantha took a turn for the worse. Now she couldn’t keep any food in her stomach, and could barely lift her head off the pillow. The physician shook his head and ordered her bled. One look at the leeches, and Lady Samantha started screaming for, of all persons, her father. Then she fainted. The doctor proceeded for five days after that, as the earl’s daughter lay limp on her bed, growing paler and thinner and weaker.

  *

  Christmas was coming, dear Lord, and the child was dying. Miss Musgrove spooned another dose of the latest concoction down her charge’s throat, then watched as the brownish liquid dribbled out of Lady Samantha’s mouth. She scrubbed at the untidiness with a damp towel, wishing she could make the entire unpleasant situation disappear as easily.

  Miss Musgrove smoothed out the skirts of her black bombazine gown, frowning. Now she’d never have that school of her own where her pupils did not outgrow her teaching or her discipline. Goodness, a person got tired of looking for new positions, of being relegated to the wasteland between the servants’ hall and the family rooms. Was it too much to ask to wish for a bit of security, a touch of independence? Now she’d not even get a reference from the earl or his sister-in-law, not after letting their kin die in this godforsaken place with its one incompetent doctor.

  The governess’s hands trembled to think that they might even blame her. The earl was an influential man. He could have her sent to Botany Bay. But no, she’d followed the directions carefully, to the best of her ability. And the servants could tell him that she’d called for the doctor immediately. It was the old charlatan’s fault that the disease had progressed so rapidly. If Weeks had treated the girl when they’d first sent for him, perhaps Miss Musgrove would not find herself in such a coil. No, they couldn’t blame her. Besides, everyone knew the earl didn’t much care what happened to the chit anyway. It wasn’t as if she were his heir or anything. Miss Musgrove cared. Horrors, Christmas was coming and she could find herself out of a position.

  After much hand-wringing, Miss Musgrove did what she’d been hired specifically never to do: she wrote to the earl. His sister-in-law Jane was too weak, and the earl was the one who paid her wages. Let him come take responsibility, and let him see what a good job of nursing the governess had done, certainly worthy of a bonus.

  *

  Brett finally reached the bottom of the pile of correspondence, vowing to raise his secretary’s salary, if the chap ever returned from his vacation. The last letter was addressed in distinctly feminine, perfect copperplate. Brett held it to his nose, but the scent was indecipherable. The seal on the back was also unrecognizable, being common red household wax. The sender was definitely not Lady Trant, for Charleen could barely read the opera program, much less write such an elegant hand.

  Unfolding the page, the earl let his eyes drop to the signature. He did not recognize that either. He almost tossed the letter to the floor with the rest of useless drivel, but the name “Samantha” caught his eye. As in “your daughter, Samantha.” Brett read the letter, then read it again, swearing at the bone-headed woman, his missing secretary, his negligent sister-in-law, and his dead wife. Then he called for his carriage. No, his horse would be faster. The coach could follow with his bags, with his own Harley Street sawbones, with the contents of the nearest apothecary shop. While he was waiting, Brett scrawled a note to his solicitor, directing him to see to Charleen, the check, and the necklace. And to hire a temporary secretary to handle the res
t of the mess.

  Somewhere in the furor of his departure, whilst changing his clothes, gathering together money and his pistol and a hastily packed hamper for the journey, Lord Boughton discovered that he knew what he wanted for Christmas after all. He wanted to be a father.

  3

  “What does Mactavish want now?” Gerry asked her brother when she saw the note he was holding. Only one person of their acquaintance wrote with such a bold, sprawling hand. Besides, she’d seen the writing all too often enough in the past years. Mr. Euan Mactavish was the India nabob who was leasing Selden House. It suited the wealthy merchant to live in a gentleman’s house. It did not suit him to live with falling tiles, smoking chimneys, or leaking drains. Sir Eustace was frequently summoned to their old home to listen to the latest disaster, and to renegotiate the terms of Mactavish’s lease in recompense. Lud knew the Seldens could not afford the repairs and renovations Mactavish insisted upon. Gerry couldn’t help her suspicions that the self-made mogul liked having a titled gentleman at his beck and call, even if Stacey was a mere baronet. “What does he want you to fix this time?”

  “I have no idea. The message is addressed to you, sis.”

  “Goodness, what could Mr. Mactavish want with me?”

  “Perhaps he wants to make an offer for your hand, too,” Stacey teased. “Just think, you could move back to our old house and live like a princess. A much better bargain than Squire and his three imps of Satan.”

  Mr. Mactavish was short and bald and took snuff. He was loud, demanding, and used to giving orders. He was also old enough to be Gerry’s father. “Don’t be absurd,” Gerry told her brother, taking the letter from him and slitting the seal on the back. “I cannot imagine what’s on the man’s mind now.”

  What was on the canny Cit’s mind was a title. Christmas was coming, and he hadn’t gotten rich by letting the grass grow under his feet, no sir. Who knew what bucks and beaus Squire might assemble for that annual ball of his? Mactavish meant for his little girl to meet all of them and marry the most elevated of the lot. If Squire couldn’t produce anything better than young Sir Eustace, at least his Ginger would get her feet wet in the social waters. Mactavish meant to bring her out in London in the spring. Not all doors would be open to a tradesman’s daughter, of course, but enough would, an’ he make her portion generous enough. The problem was, his little Ginger’d been at a fancy seminary for young females until now. With no wife and no permanent home, Mactavish hadn’t been able to have the rearing of the chit. Now that he had her home, he realized he’d made one of his few miscalculations. Ginger was as pretty as she could stare, and well educated, for a female. The price of her wardrobe could have clothed entire Indian villages. But there was no getting around the fact that his little gal was no dasher. She was a shy, wispy thing who didn’t know how to go on in company. So Mactavish wrote to Miss Geraldine Selden, who was one of the few ladies in the neighborhood, and the only one who gave lessons in the village. Pianoforte and such, Mactavish recalled. She’d even had a London Season before that ne’er-do-well father of hers popped off. Surely Miss Selden would know just what to do to put some life into the little puss.

  *

  “He wants me to be a kind of companion to his daughter, who is finally home from school,” Gerry told her brother after reading her letter. “And listen to this: he is willing to pay me handsomely, just for showing her how to go on, introducing her around the neighborhood, that sort of thing so she won’t feel such a stranger.”

  Gerry twirled around and kissed her brother’s cheek. “Our luck is changing, Stacey, I just know it is! And right in time for Christmas!” Now she might even earn enough blunt to buy Stacey’s horse back from Squire.

  Stacey was not quite as excited. He was sincerely happy for Gerry’s windfall, of course, and hoped she’d use her wages to purchase some luxury he couldn’t afford for her. Still, he hated to see his sister going out to work as an upper servant. And a moody young miss who sat mumchance could be as difficult a pupil as Squire’s threesome, who only sat when they were tied to their chairs. “The chit might be a hopeless antidote, you know, besides shy. She could be short and bald like her papa.”

  “Heiresses are never the wrong height or hair color, silly. And Mactavish can afford to purchase her a wig!” Gerry was not going to be discouraged. “I’ll call on them this very afternoon. And I’ll bring along a special gift, so Miss Mactavish understands that I wish to be her friend, not merely another instructor. The poor girl must be tired of lessons after all these years. Of course, I’ll have to make sure she can do the country dances, and I know she’ll be asked to entertain the company at some party or other. I’ll have to see what she can perform on the pianoforte. And if she knows the proper way to pour tea, how low to curtsey, that type of thing. Goodness, there’s not a moment to spare, with Christmas right around the corner.”

  Unfortunately, Christmas was not the only thing coming around the corner.

  Sir Eustace went off about estate business, leaving Gerry to dither about which gown to wear for the visit, not that she had a great many to choose from. ’Twould never do to appear dowdy, not when Mr. Mactavish was counting on her—and paying her—to bring Miss Mactavish into style. In the end she selected her newest walking dress, a dainty sprigged muslin copied directly from the pages of La Belle Assemblee. The fact that the frock was more suited to a September stroll than to a winter’s walk was irrelevant. What was warmth compared to making a good impression? Gerry pulled her heavy brown wool cape on over the gown, instead of her more fashionable but thin pelisse. The niffy-naffy butler who had taken Mamford’s place at Selden House was the only one who would see such a plebeian article. Besides, the voluminous cape had pockets both inside and out to hold pencil and paper for making lists, the latest novel from the lending library, and the gift she was bringing to welcome Miss Virginia Mactavish to Upper Ossing.

  Rather than trudge the entire two miles along the winding carriage drive, Gerry decided to walk the short distance along the high road to the gap in Selden’s stone wall. From there the house was a mere stone’s throw away. The high road, though, was in poor condition after the recent rains and yesterday’s market day traffic. Gerry stepped through the gate and picked her way carefully between puddles and ruts and piles of horse droppings. The pair coming from the other direction took no such precautions.

  The horse was huge and black, and covered yards with every pounding step. He wasn’t at an all-out gallop, but a steady gait that could last for miles. The rider sat tall and straight, with his caped greatcoat billowing behind him like some dark angel’s wings. He was bare-headed, with his black hair pulled back in a queue. Together they were a magnificent sight, one she was sorry Stacey would miss. Gerry stopped walking to admire the superb pairing of horse and rider as they neared, until she realized that they were going to pass altogether too near. She’d be pelted with the gobs of mire and muck tossed up by the stallion’s hooves. She was going to arrive at Mactavish’s looking like a wet, filthy mudhen. With a yelp, Gerry leaped backward. Only there was nothing beneath her feet, behind her. She screamed as she skidded to an ignominious seat in the roadway, almost under the stallion’s feet.

  The rider tried to stop, truly he did, shouting and pulling the horse back on its hind legs till it was a miracle he stayed aboard. But now a frightened, confused mass of black muscle was towering over her, with metal shoes about to descend. Scrabbling for purchase in the mud, Gerry heaved herself away and rolled to safety—in the ditch.

  She was sopping wet, covered head to toe in filth, and stank like a midden heap. All because some London toff was in too much of a hurry to mind where he was going. Gerry had no doubt the rider was from the City, as full of himself and his importance to the world as her half boots were full of stagnant water. “Damn you to hell!” she shouted to his receding back, as she tried to pull herself out of the ditch.

  Lord Boughton had ridden just far enough past the fallen female to let Riddles gain hi
s footing, then he turned and sped back, leaping off the stallion, dreading what he might find. Thank God the woman was standing, not lying with her head against a rock, or her limbs twisted, or her neck broken. Brett did not even hear her curses over the pounding of his heart. He reached down to lift her from the knee-deep scum.

  Gerry couldn’t help but notice that the gentleman’s boots, at her eye level, were still gleaming. And the hand he held out to her was gloved in immaculate York tan kid. She took great satisfaction in putting her own sodden mitt in his. And greater satisfaction in telling the arrogant bounder just what she thought of such reckless, irresponsible, cow-handed riding. “How dare you act as if you owned the very roadways! Are you so high-and-mighty that no one else is allowed to share the very air you breathe?”

  The air surrounding the bedraggled female was none too aromatic, so Brett quickly released her hand, once she was back on the roadway. She did not even pause in her diatribe. “Don’t you even bother to look where you are going, or are we lesser mortals supposed to anticipate your presence and run for safety?”

  He’d seen the brown dab of a girl step through the little cottage’s gate, of course, but naturally assumed she’d get out of the way, not stand and gape at him and Riddles like a bacon-brained booby. She’d cost him enough time already, though, so rather than stand arguing in the ill-kept road, Brett reached into his pocket and tossed the chit a coin. “For your inconvenience,” he said.

  “Inconvenient? You call this inconvenient?” Gerry gestured to her befouled cape, the bonnet that was floating, upside down, in the ditch water, her ruined shoes. Now she could not go to Mactavish’s this afternoon at all, and this great gawk of a so-called gentleman thought it was an inconvenience! “You puffed-up popinjay! I could have been killed!”