Season's Regency Greetings Read online

  She thought a minute. “I really don’t recall seeing Thomas much at Denton, after he went to university.”

  “Try never. We weren’t good enough,” he said, and took another drink. “He never came around. Think of it, Mary: he was too good to visit the steward’s cottage, and will never be good enough for an invitation to Denton Hall. Poor man, poor man.”

  She mulled it over. “There is a certain irony to this conversation, Joe,” she said after some thought. “Tom goes up in society, but never quite high enough. I go down …”

  “… but you will always be a lady, no matter what your former relatives do to you. He may just resent you, too, Mary.” He was starting to mumble now from the brandy. “You’re in good company, because he resents me, too.”

  “Because you didn’t go to university? Obviously you turned down the same offer from Lord Davy.”

  “Oh, but I did go to university. I did well, even though it bored me beyond belief. It is …. It is worse than that.”

  She stared at him, feeling definitely muddled from all that brandy. She closed her eyes, and after a moment, the matter became quite clear. She laughed.

  Joe watched her appreciatively. “Figure it out?”

  “Joe, you’ll have to tell me what you do for a living, I suppose,” she said.

  “I am a lowly grain broker, but by damn, I am a hell of a businessman.” He smiled. “Despite my lofty education!” He started to laugh again, which made him look suspiciously at the glass in his hand. He set it on the floor. “I decided to do what I like. Every spring I visit farms and estates in Yorkshire, make predictions, and give them an offer on their crops. It is called dealing in futures, and I am good.”

  She clapped her hands, delighted at his good fortune. “I can hardly imagine more lowly commerce.”

  “Thank you! I have considered developing a side line in the bone and hide business, just to spite Thomas.” He grinned. “Imagine how I would stink! If I were to turn up at his London house, Thomas would probably fall on his knife.”

  She watched him, not flinching at his scrutiny, even as she felt her whole body grow warm. Sir Harry never looked at me like that, she thought. I should go to bed. There was one more matter; the brandy fogging her brain reminded her. “Let us see how this tallies: Thomas is unhappy because he will never scale the heights he feels he deserves, and he resents your success. I have seen my hopes of a lifetime dashed. What about you? You said earlier that you spend too much time doing just this.”

  It sounded so blunt that she wished she had not spoken, especially when he avoided her gaze. “I miss my wife,” he said, just as bluntly. “She was a grand woman, although I daresay Tom would have thought her common, had he ever met her.”

  “Would I have liked her?” Mary asked.

  “You would have loved her,” he replied promptly. “You remind me of her a little: same dark hair, eyes almost black, quiet, capable. Tall, for a woman. I like looking women in the eye.” He reached out to touch her leg, then pulled his hand back. She held her breath, not moving, not wanting to break whatever spell he was under. He took one deep breath and then another, and she could tell the Chateau du Monde had worked on him. “Maybe I was even thinking of you when I met her, Lady Mary. Or maybe I am thinking of her now when I see you. Or maybe I am drunk beyond redemption tonight.” He shook his head. “I will be sober in the morning and regret this conversation.”

  “I do hope not, Joe,” she said quietly. She was silent then, as spent as he was. After a moment, she moved her legs away from the hassock, then gathered herself together enough to stand. Her head seemed miles away from her feet. “I am relieved that is your last bottle of Chateau Whatever-it-is.”

  He chuckled, and struggled to his feet. “Let me help you down those stairs, Mary McIntyre. I would feel wretched if you landed in a heap in the servants’ hall.”

  She could think of no objection as he put his arm around her waist and pulled her arm around his. By hanging onto the wall, then clutching the banister, he got her to the door of the maids’ room.

  “Are you all right now?” he whispered. He turned his head. “Lord, can Frank King ever snore. Unless that is Myrtle.”

  They laughed softly together, his head close to hers. He leaned on her, and she thought for a moment that he was asleep. For no discernible reason—considering that her brain was starting to hum—she thought of Christmas. “Joe,” she whispered. “Do you and Joshua not really celebrate the season?”

  “I never quite know what to do,” he replied.

  “Have you any holiday decorations?”

  “Melissa had quite a few, but I do not know that either of us are up to those yet.”

  “Any others?” He was leaning on her quite heavily now.

  “There may be a box belonging to the defunct owner of this palace,” he said. “Probably vulgar and destined to set off Thomas. Oh, do find them!” He laughed.

  She put her hand over his mouth to silence him, and he kissed her palm, his eyes closed, then it was her wrist. His head was so close that she couldn’t think of a reason not to kiss his cheek. “I think I will see what Mrs. King and I can do about Christmas,” she murmured, “considering that we are snowbound.”

  He pulled her very close then, giving her brandy-soaked brain the opportunity to consider the feel of him in some explicit detail. They were about the same height. When she turned her face to look at him—so close he was out of focus—kissing him seemed the only thing to do that made any sense.

  He must have been of similar mind. He kissed her back, one hand tugging insistently at her hair, the other caressing her back in a way that made her sigh through his kiss.

  Mr. King stopped snoring. Joe released his grip on her hair when she pulled away, and regarded her sleepily, but with no apology.

  “Do you think we woke him up?” Joe asked quietly, his voice a little strange.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered back. “Lord, I hope not.”

  Joe touched his forehead to hers. “Good night, Mary,” he said. “In future, have a care who you drink with. Yorkshire is full of scoundrels and skirt raisers.”

  She went quietly into the maids’ room, closed the door, and leaned against it. She laughed when she heard him stumble on the steps, then held her breath, hoping he would not plunge to the bottom. Scoundrels and skirt raisers? she asked herself. Hmm.

  She woke to the sound of someone screaming in her ear. Someone well schooled in torture must have placed weights on her eyes, because they refused to respond. She managed to open one eye.

  Mrs. King, her eyes kindly, stood beside her bed. She held a tall glass.

  “Someone was screaming,” Mary gasped.

  “Oh, no, dearie,” she said. “I just said good morning.” She lowered her voice when Mary winced. “Abby was concerned about you, but I told her you just didn’t get enough sleep last night, Miss McIntyre.”

  And caroused well beyond my limit, Mary thought. “Thank you for that, Mrs. King,” she whispered. “I believe I will never drink brandy with Mr. Shepard again.”

  The older woman put her hand to her mouth. “He said exactly the same thing this morning, my dear, when he prepared this little concoction for you.”

  “Do sit down, Mrs. King,” she said, and pressed both hands to her head. “If I told you that I generally drink only lemonade, and take nothing stronger than sherry, upon occasion, you would probably call me a prevaricator.”

  Mrs. King did laugh then. “Of course I would not! My dear, I rather think that we shall lay the blame at Mr. Shepard’s door. He is a persuasive gentleman, isn’t he?” She leaned forward and held out the glass. “Do you wish this, my dear?”

  Mary eyed the glass with disfavor. “It’s so … black,” she said. “What is in it?”

  “He made me promise not to look, but he left the treacle can on the table.”

  “Oh, Lord, I am being punished for all my sins,” Mary said with a sigh and reached for the glass. Her stomach heaved at the fi
rst tentative sip. Here I am, only a few days from my old life at Denton, and I have already yielded to dissipation, she thought. She took a deep breath and drank the brew, then slowly slid back into the mattress.

  “He said I was to wait a half hour and then bring you porridge, well sugared.”

  “I will be dead before then!”

  To her amazement, she was not. She lay as still as she could, wondering at the sounds around her. After a moment, she understood why everything sounded strange: she had never heard a house at work from the ground up. In the world she had just left, servants were silent and invisible, the kitchen far away. She listened to Mr. King talking, and heard Joe Shepard laugh at something he said. Chairs scraped against the floor, pans rattled. Mrs. King must have opened the oven door, because the fragrance of cinnamon drifted right under the door.

  She looked around. The maids’ room was tidy and attractive, with lace curtains, a substantial bureau, and a smaller bed for Abby. The furniture was old and shabby. She knew it must have come belowstairs after its usefulness ended abovestairs, but it was polished and clean. I wonder if servants’ quarters are this nice at Denton, she mused.

  She thought then about her own establishment. Lord Davy had promised to provide her with a house anywhere she chose to live. Although he had not stated the obvious, she knew he would be more comfortable if she were far away. “After a while, people will forget,” he had told her. To her enduring sorrow, he had not even flinched as he threw away her entire life. And your questionable background will not be an embarrassment was unspoken but real.

  I wonder if Canada would be far enough for Papa, she thought, or even the United States. I am an educated lady of comfortable means, but what am I to do with myself? I need never work. If Sir Harry does not choose to pursue his interest in me, I am unlikely to marry within that sphere I thought I was born to inhabit. And who of another class would have me? Joe Shepard, you are right: Lord Davy was a misguided philanthropist.

  When the snow stopped, they would continue their journey, and she would be deposited at the home of her real grandmother, the woman who had begun the search that ruined her life. “A farm in Yorkshire,” she said out loud. Joe, you may be at home on the farms, but I am not, she concluded. I have nothing in common with anyone on a farm.

  She got out of bed slowly. Dressing taxed her sorely. Her own lady’s maid had left her employ a week ago when the gory news of her mistress’s changed social status filtered down to the servants at Denton. When Genevieve had approached her, eyes downcast, and said that she had found a position on a neighboring estate, she learned another bitter lesson: servants cared about social niceties. Genevieve knew that working for the illegitimate daughter of a modiste was not a stepping-stone to advancement.

  She took only a few minutes with her hair. Brushing it made her wince, but it was an easy matter to twist it into a knot and know she did not have to worry overmuch that it was tidy. In a rare burst of candor—he was a reticent man—Sir Harry had told her once that he liked her hair en deshabille. Well, you should see me today, Harry, she thought.

  What she saw in the mirror surprised her. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes even seemed to smile back at her, despite the late night and the brandy. Suspecting that her lot today was to scrabble among boxes for holiday decorations, she had put on her simplest dress, a dark green wool with nothing to recommend it beyond the elegant way it hung. At least I won’t frighten small children, she told herself as she left the room.

  She had hoped that Joe would not be belowstairs, but there he still sat, chopping nut meats on a cutting board. Please don’t apologize to me for last night, she thought suddenly, and felt the color rise to her face. Let me think that you enjoyed the kiss as much as I did, and that you wanted to tell me your story, as you wanted to hear mine.

  She held her breath as he tipped the knife at her. “Good morning, Mary McIntyre,” he said. “Did the magic potion work?”

  “I am ambulatory,” she said, “That, of itself, is a prodigious feat.”

  He nodded and returned to the work at hand. “I believe Mrs. King has some porridge for you. Do take these nut meats to her, and then come back, will you? I have all manner of schemes, and you have agreed to be an accomplice, as I recall.” He funneled the chopped nuts into a bowl and handed it to her. “If she has any cinnamon buns left, could you bring me another one?”

  She smiled at him and went into the kitchen, where Mrs. King presided at the table, rolling out dough while Abby stood by with a cookie cutter and a look of deep concentration on her face. Clarice hovered close by the bowls of sugar colored green, red, and yellow. “We are making stars, Miss McIntyre,” she announced. “And then ivy leaves?” she asked, looking at Mrs. King, who nodded.

  “Mrs. King, I believe you are a gift from heaven,” Mary said. She set down the bowl of nut meats. “I believe I am to find a bowl of porridge, and there is a request for another cinnamon bun, if such a thing is available.”

  Mrs. King took the porridge from the warming shelf. “It already has plenty of sugar, and here is the cream, dearie.” She touched Mary’s cheek. “You look fit enough.”

  “I feel delicate,” Mary said with a laugh. “Only think: I already know what my New Year’s resolution will be!”

  Mrs. King leaned toward her, and looked at the little girls before she spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “You have to beware of even the best men, Miss McIntyre.” She straightened up. “Not but what your own mother has not already told you that.”

  No, she did not, Mary thought. If someone had given my mother that warning, or at least, if she had heeded it, perhaps I would not be here at all. Then she thought of Lady Davy, and her cautions about fortune hunters, which was hardly a concern now. “She warned me, Mrs. King,” Mary said. “I intend to be extremely prudent in the new year!”

  She handed Joe his cinnamon bun, sat down at the table, and stared at the porridge for a long enough moment to feel Joe’s eyes on her.

  “It goes down smoother than you think, Mary,” he said.

  She picked up the spoon, frowned at it, then took a bite. He is right, she thought as she swallowed a spoonful, and another. “Who would have thought porridge is an antidote to brandy?” she murmured. “The things I am learning.”

  She felt nearly human by the time she finished. She pushed back the bowl, and looked at Mr. King, who had been watching her with a twinkle in his eye. I am in excellent company, she thought suddenly, and the feeling was as warm as last night’s brandy. “Mr. King, I know that Joe and I are both feeling some remorse at chaining your sweet wife to the Rumford, and here you are, orphans of the storm.”

  She stopped, embarrassed with herself, wondering why she had impulsively included herself with Joe Shepard so brashly, as though they had conferred on the matter, as though they were closer than mere acquaintances. She looked down in confusion, and up into Joe’s eyes.

  “That is precisely what I have been saying to Frank,” he said. “We should be ashamed of ourselves for kidnapping the Kings, and setting you at hard labor in the kitchen.” He looked at his half-finished cinnamon bun. “Yet I must temper my remorse with vast appreciation of your wife’s culinary abilities.” He picked up the bun. “You have fallen among thieves, but we are benevolent thieves, eh, Mary?”

  And there he was, continuing her own odd fiction. Do we want to belong together? she asked herself. Is there something about this season that demands that we gather our dear ones close, even if we must invent them? She knew without any question that she wanted to continue the deception, if that was what it was; more than that, she needed to.

  “I agree completely, Joe,” she said quietly. “Mr. King, we are in your debt.”

  To her complete and utter astonishment—and to Joe’s, too, apparently, because his stare was as astounded as hers—Mr. King began to cry. As she sat paralyzed, unsure of what to do, tears rolled down the little man’s face.

  “I’m sure we did not wish to …” Joe began, and st
opped, obviously at a loss.

  Mr. King fumbled in his waistcoat for a handkerchief and blew his nose into it vigorously, even as the tears continued to course down his cheeks. “What you must think of me …” he said, but could not continue.

  Mary sat in stupefied silence for a moment, then reached across the table to Mr. King. “Sir, please tell us what we have done! We would not for the world upset you.”

  Her words seemed to gather him together. He looked at the kitchen door. “It’s not you two,” he managed to say finally. “I have to tell you. You have to know.” He gestured toward the door that led to the stairs. “Myrtle mustn’t see me like this.”

  Without a word, they rose to follow him across the room, moving quietly because he was on tiptoe. As she looked at Joe, her eyes filled with questions; he took her hand, then tucked her close to him.

  With the door shut, the three of them sat on the stairs leading to the main floor. It was a narrow space. Mr. King filled one of the lower steps, and she and Joe sat close together above him, their legs touching. Joe put his arm around her to give himself room.

  Mr. King wiped his eyes again. “I’m an old fool,” he said apologetically. “I want you to know that in ten years, this is my happiest Christmas.”

  “But, sir …” Mary said. “We don’t understand.”

  He kept his voice low. “Fifteen years ago, our only child ran away. Myrtle had many plans for him, but they quarreled, and he left home at Christmastime.” He tucked his handkerchief in his waistcoat. “We looked everywhere, sent out the Runners, even, put advertisements in every broadside and newspaper in England. Nothing.” He shrugged. “We thought maybe he shipped out on an East India merchant vessel, or took the king’s shilling.” He looked away. “We followed every possible lead to its source.”

  “Nothing?” Joe asked. “You never heard of him again?”

  Mr. King shook his head. “Not a line, not a visit. I thought Myrtle would run mad from it all, and truth to tell, she did for a while.”