Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Apples.’ She held out a hand, stroking the small white spheres. ‘Snow-apples.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jean reached out his hand to join hers, moving over the fabric. ‘And these blooms that border them… they are the flowers of the ginger plant, if the apothecary didn’t mislead me. I began to add them a week or so ago.’

  ‘For the ginger biscuits.’ Amelia turned to him, eyes wide, unable to conceal even a tiny part of her astonishment. ‘How did you—’

  ‘I did not know. I would never have presumed to ask.’ Jean cupped her face, his hand full of equal parts roughness and grace. ‘But I did hope. All men must have hope.’

  Amelia swallowed. ‘And if I had married someone else?’

  ‘I would have given you the dress, and watched you walk into the church.’ Jean winced, frowning. ‘No. No, I cannot even say it without pain. I definitely would have sailed away to some unknown island, and spent the rest of my days stitching grass garments for birds and rats.’

  ‘But you would have given me the dress.’ Amelia stepped closer. ‘Even if you weren’t the man I was going to marry.’

  ‘Of course. Your choices are not mine to make.’ Jean leaned forward, kissing her forehead. ‘All I can do is make sure you are beautifully clad, for each and every choice—’

  He stopped as Amelia reached upward, kissing him with all the passion she could muster. Throwing her arms around him, pressing her body against his, she broke away to speak with some urgency.

  ‘Which fabric would it be possible to sacrifice, if pressed?’

  ‘My goodness.’ Jean lifted her up, kissing the corner of her mouth. ‘Is Madame making a choice?’

  ‘Yes. An impetuous one.’ Amelia smiled. ‘But I won’t need to be beautifully clad. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

  THE END

  A Christmas Confession

  By Felicia Greene

  The House of LeClerc's appointment room, a hallowed hall of flowered carpets and softly spoken maids bearing cups of tea, was normally only used by the most moneyed of Jean LeClerc's many clients. Duchesses had purchased their day-dresses while sat on the dainty cream-coloured chairs, while an impulsive purchase of twenty pairs of gloves from the Crown Princess of Sweden had filled the room with eager whisperers. Today, however, as rain pattered gently on the muddy streets of Bath, the appointment room was host to a far more unusual affair.

  'You are, of course, all aware of what will happen to the Chiltern name if this madcap affair comes to fruition.' Cora Ashton, formerly Seabrooke, slowly sipped her tea as her husband nodded in agreement. 'I'm all for it, of course. Please do not think that I am in any way impeding you. But one must consider the consequences with a determinedly realistic eye.'

  'Cora, our realism is assured. Well, mine is at any rate - I cannot speak for Iris.' Daisy Benson, formerly Chiltern, cast a shrewd glance at her sister, who merely sighed dreamily with a knowing smile. 'And speaking as practically as possible, this is the only time such a scheme can be undertaken without undue damage. Iris and I are safely married off, to men either rich enough or titled enough to weather the storm -'

  'I say, that isn't very flattering!' Matthew Benson frowned in mock-reproach, the length of black cloth concealing his eyes wrinkling as he smiled. 'Were our nuptials little more than a way of facilitating this harebrained affair?'

  'If they had been, I rather think they would have been better-planned.' Simon Harker smiled at Iris. 'My wife arrived in a flower-cart, and yours laughed at you about your inability to make cakes. Hardly the actions of two committed trap-setters.'

  'Or so tremendously well-planned that no-one ever would have suspected.' Iris smiled at Simon's sudden look of confused suspicion. 'There there, darling. And Daisy is, as always, correct. There is no better time than now.'

  Laurence Martin, silent until this very point, leaned forward. The most well-regarded pastry-cook in Bath, and trusted implicitly by everyone who sat around the elegantly made table, he combined a sarcastic deference with louche, elegant wit.

  'With all due respect to my betters... time to do what, exactly?'

  'Time to have Carstairs declare his love for Mother.' Daisy spoke promptly.

  'Yes. I had managed to reach that point.' Laurence sighed, raising an eyebrow. 'But how on earth, my dears, are you going to go about it?'

  'Well it cannot be difficult, can it?' Iris rolled her eyes. 'All they seem to do is look sadly at one another when the other isn't looking. I'm surprised the house isn't awash with tears. All we would need to do is ensure isolation for a little while. And it will be Christmas, after all, and snow will very probably fall...' She clasped her hands to her chest. 'Oh, it will be wildly romantic!'

  'Carstairs and her Ladyship have managed to avoid declaring their intentions through two weddings and innumerable Easter days, full of bright ribbons and prettily hopping rabbits.' Laurence sighed. 'Because, and I am loathe to remind you, Carstairs is -'

  'Laurence, if you are going to say the butler as if it is some shockingly shameful secret, kindly keep silent.’ Daisy sniffed. ‘You of all people should be ready to cast aside such archaic notions.’

  ‘Oh, I’m merrily casting aside societal follies from soup to nuts.’ Laurence’s mouth twitched. ‘But the ton will not. You know they will not.’

  ‘Since when has mother given a fig for the ton?’ Iris shrugged. ‘I believe she has always hated the very idea of the social whirl. She never seemed all that inclined to raise Daisy and I as marriageable young ladies, after her first efforts were so thoroughly quashed.’

  ‘By you two. Wasn’t some poor chap pushed bodily into a pond?’ Simon spoke gently. ‘Perhaps she was simply wise enough to admit defeat.’

  ‘I have never heard Mother admit defeat on any matter, from the trifling to the necessary.’ Daisy folded her arms. ‘If she stops doing something, it is because she has decided to stop. And if she decides to do something, however enormous the task, nothing on earth will stop her.’

  ‘And if she decides to send Carstairs away, and devote her life to good works?’

  ‘Then we’ll stop her, of course.’

  ‘I see.’ Laurence sighed, risking a glance at James and Cora Ashton. The couple had the usual expressions of genteel shock that came from listening to the Chiltern girls for any length of time; Cora’s brief interlude as a chaperone for Daisy and Iris had failed to leave much of a mark. ‘Of course.’

  A soft knock on the door interrupted the party. As Jean LeClerc’s heavily accented tones washed over the group, Laurence gave a visible sigh of relief.

  ‘Well? Are you going to buy gowns, or is there more intrigue to discuss? I have had to send away a Countess.’

  ‘Intrigue, Jean. Intrigue upon intrigue, which requires your attention. Come in.’ Laurence smiled. ‘I hope to heavens that you have some ideas.’

  The party rose as Jean LeClerc entered. The man’s looks had certainly helped him to establish himself as Bath’s premier modiste; what woman didn’t want to be dressed by a tall, green-eyed Frenchman with such delightfully intense scowls? The fact that he was happily married to Amelia Benson, a woman with one of the oldest and most well-respected names in the country, helped his cause more than it hurt. A green-eyed Frenchman without a wife was a cause for concern; one with a wife, a wife that he openly and shamelessly adored at every opportunity, could be looked upon favourably by all.

  ‘Intrigue? I hope you are not asking me because I am French.’ Jean looked at the assembled company with narrow eyes. ‘May I remind you that Laurence is French as well.’

  ‘I am French, but I am tired. Call it age, or simply cynicism, but I lack the appetite for schemes.’ Laurence smiled. ‘I am in need of instructions from someone well-versed in the art of love. As are we all.’

  ‘I see.’ Jean’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you finally going to do something about the poor man following your mother around?’

  ‘That is his job, Monsieur. You make it sound as if he climbs in through the window every m
orning.’ Iris held a hand to her mouth as he held back a giggle. ‘But yes. I am surprised you noticed the phenomenon.’

  ‘Everyone with eyes has noticed.’ Jean gave an elegant, theatrical shrug. ‘I have never seen a man so in love, and so determined to hide it to himself. And your mother—why, it is as if she—’

  ‘Monsieur, we are here to discuss general ways to move things along. As we are not French, we are far too frightened to discuss particulars—especially when it comes to our mother.’ Daisy gave a prim nod. ‘We have already hit upon the idea of isolation—we must keep them alone for a little while. Easy enough, given that we are meant to arrive on the morrow—we can simply arrive on Christmas Day instead. But apart from that… how does one encourage spontaneous declarations of love?’

  ‘I maintain that we should pay a group of travelling actors to recite sonnets under the windows.’ Iris sighed. ‘But I was most rudely laughed at when I suggested it.’

  ‘Actors should be kept as far away from love as possible. And isolation, yes. Of course.’ Jean rolled his eyes. ‘But that is not all. For declarations of love, there must be three things—isolation, beautiful food, and divine clothes.’

  ‘And deeply-held feeling, I imagine.’ Simon frowned.

  ‘Not really.’ Jean shrugged. ‘Divine clothing can make any feeling seem deeply-held. As can good pastries.’

  ‘And we are fortunate enough to have the acquaintance of the best gown-maker in Bath, if not England—and the best pastry cook.’ Daisy smiled triumphantly. ‘I believe our little scheme could work.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ Laurence rolled his eyes. ‘I see a night of very secretive baking in my future—and a pilfered gown from the House of LeClerc. And an early start for whatever hapless messenger needs to hide a hamper and gown in the depths of Chiltern Manor.’

  ‘But Laurence!’ Iris clasped her hands piteously. ‘You will be labouring for love!’

  ‘And handsome recompense.’ Daisy nodded. ‘Very handsome indeed.’

  ‘In that case, excellent.’ Laurence smiled. ‘Handsome recompense will make romantics of us all.’

  A weak winter sun stood at its full height over the roof of Chiltern Manor the following day, as the manor’s resident robin cheeped aggressively from the holly bush that grew next to the front door. Lady Chiltern, wrapped in her morning robe, looked at the frost-tinged countryside with a sigh that acknowledged the bucolic magnificence of her land.

  Christmas Eve had always been one of her favourite days. As a young woman she had adored the feeling of being snug in the bosom of a loving family, with enough meat and drink and good cheer to richly serve both themselves and anyone who came to call—and the promise of gifts on the morrow, of course. As a young wife, with a husband who considered Christmas a distraction unworthy of his attention, she had tried to ensure the same air of excited gratitude in a young Daisy and Iris. And now… and now…

  Now she was older; not old, but older. Older, and widowed, and tinged with a faint, irritating sadness that she suspected came from frustration rather than grief. Her marriage had certainly not been a love-match; Jeremy had made sure to tell her so during the first disappointing weeks of courtship. Now, as Lady Chiltern thought of Daisy and Iris finding such exquisite happiness with the suitors they had chosen, she felt a slight tension in her shoulders that was almost akin to jealousy.

  She certainly wasn’t jealous of her daughters. If anything, she was jealous of the girl she had been; the young Catherine Chilton who had been given so many choices, so many routes to happiness. The girl who had chosen so well when it came to wealth, friendship, motherhood… but not when it had come to marriage.

  ‘Come now.’ She shook herself, speaking to herself sternly; a habit that had come with age and didn’t appear to be vanishing. ‘No-one needs to see you like this.’

  No-one was an exaggeration. One person in particular had a knack for seeing her at her most vulnerable; her moments of indecision, or melancholy, or pain. And Lady Chiltern, despite a healthy lack of pride, did not want to see him when she was at anything less than the height of her powers.

  Not because she was embarrassed—because she was afraid. Afraid of what she would say to him, if her needs grew greater than her restraint. Afraid of taking his hand, of gripping his wrist, and asking him to please, say the words that she could see him thinking whenever he looked at her—

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Lady Chiltern jumped at the sound. Eyes narrowing, she made out the approaching figure of the Chiltern messenger boy. ‘Hello Wilkins. Does your mother need something?’

  ‘No, ma’am. And I’m sorry I didn’t go to the servants’ entrance—but seeing as you’re ‘ere—’

  ‘Not at all. A wise decision.’ Lady Chiltern smiled. ‘Is there something I must be told?’

  ‘No, miss. Two letters—nicked ‘em off the coach, to get ‘em to you faster.’ Wilkins beamed. ‘Dunno who they’re from.’

  ‘Goodness. I wonder who has written to me.’ Lady Chiltern took the proffered letters, her eyes widening as she saw the familiar handwriting of her two daughters. ‘Do go to the back, Wilkins—there’s a basket full of Christmas treats for you and your mother ready, if you look sharp about it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am—but has someone come to look at your roof yet?’ Wilkins looked up at the slate tiles of Chiltern Manor’s roof, his lips pursed in an expression that was almost comical on his childish face. ‘That ivy’s gone right through. Could crash down. Happened to Betty Drake’s sister—she almost lost a foot!’

  ‘Goodness. How frightening.’ Lady Chiltern spoke somewhat absent-mindedly; she couldn’t quite remember who Betty Drake was, and had been living peacefully with the ivy-choked roof since before Daisy and Iris’s presentation at court. In that moment, nothing was more compelling than the contents of the letters in her hand. ‘I will consider the matter directly, Wilkins. Now go and get your basket.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Wilkins’ smile grew even wider. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  Lady Chiltern watched him run out of sight as she opened the letters. She read slowly, her slight frown growing deeper as she read both Daisy’s and Iris’s words.

  Both of the letters were written with a few more splotches and mistakes than normal; both of them, if Lady Chiltern read around the various digressions and excuses, were informing her that they would not be able to arrive that morning. Late afternoon, at best—possibly Christmas morning itself, if unlucky. Daisy made vague mention of a problem with a carriage, and a lack of acceptable substitute carriages for hire, while Iris appeared to have found a bedraggled bundle of kittens in the kitchen garden of her Bath townhouse.

  Well. That made the traditional Christmas Eve luncheon slightly less probable—which was more than a little irritating, given that everything had already been prepared. Lady Chiltern gently placed the letters back in their envelopes, noting with a sad smile that snow had begun to fall. She would have lunch served all the same, complete with swathes of holly and ivy on the table, just in case her daughters managed to arrive at a reasonable hour.

  Closing the front door, noting the billowing tufts of snow that attempted to follow her down the corridor, she made her way to the morning room. It had always been her favourite place; smaller and less grand than the other reception room, but warm and bright with happy memories. Memories that Lady Chiltern recalled with a touch of bittersweet longing, given that her planned Christmas Eve was slowly slipping through her fingers.

  There was a soft knock at the door; a calculated knock, designed to be unobtrusive but not ignored. Lady Chiltern knew who it would be, who it had to be, and felt the usual flutter of her heart in her throat.

  ‘Come.’

  As the tall, black-clad figure of the butler entered the room, his form familiar and yet somehow new, even after so many years, Lady Chiltern hurriedly patted her hair into a less windswept shape.

  She knew her attentions were ridiculous. Carstairs had seen her in almost all of her most unk
empt moments, including shortly after the births of both Daisy and Iris. It had been he who had brought her beef tea and rose syrup, long after Jeremy had abandoned her for London—and the mistress he kept there. He had seen her, if not openly weeping, then perilously close to it.

  But still. She always wanted him to see her at her best; glowing, radiant, dressed in satin and holding flowers. That, if nothing else, would explain the glimmer in his eyes that she hoped, hoped above all other hope, was devotion.

  ‘Forgive me the disturbance, my lady.’ Carstairs paused a little way away; just enough for Lady Chiltern to keenly feel the space between them.

  ‘As always, Carstairs, it is no disturbance.’ She looked at the letters in her hands with a slightly melancholy laugh. ‘I am hardly taxed beyond my energies, in the absence of my daughters—my daughters who will be arriving late, due to any number of sudden concerns that have sprung from the earth like mushrooms. Wilkins has just delivered me their letters.’

  ‘Odd.’ Carstairs frowned. ‘I believe I have already seen Wilkins here this morning. He looked rather out-of-breath—I had assumed you had given him some small task to complete.’

  ‘Oh no. Whatever he was here for, it had nothing to do with me.’ Lady Chiltern sighed. ‘Until he gave me my news, of course. Poor Cook will have to postpone lunch. It’s already nearly three o’clock. At this rate, we will be eating in the dark.’

  ‘Yes… Cook, as it were, is why I am here.’ Carstairs cleared his throat, looking oddly uncomfortable.

  ‘... Oh.’ Lady Chiltern’s mind, a treacherous friend at the best of times, immediately cast up a most flattering image of Cook. Not quite beautiful, perhaps—not even a charitable person would say such a thing, and she wasn’t feeling charitable at all—but certainly sprightly. If Carstairs had chosen Cook for a wife, well, that was simply splendid, and she definitely would not cover all of the mirrors in Chiltern Manor with swathes of black cloth, weeping like a banshee…