Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (19 page)

The boys understood they’d be carrying firewood to stoke furnaces in hell if the duke got hold of them, so they nodded, but they weren’t entirely sure they did comprehend the vicar’s penance, nor what to do about it. So that night, when they were gathered around their mother for the evening story, Benjy asked, “Mama, who is the most unhappy person you know?”

Sabina squeezed her youngest, there in the old worn leather chair at her right side. Jasper sat on her left, and Martin was perched on the stool by her feet. “Unhappy, dear? Why, I don’t think I know anyone who is unhappy. Mrs. Cotter could use more milk for her children, but Jed Hanks said he’d lend her a cow. And Mr. Jordan at the inn is worried about his son off with the army, so we must remember to add young Tom to our prayers, along with the other brave soldiers.”

“Gads, I hope Mr. Davenport doesn’t expect us to end the war,” Jasper whispered to his older brother, at which Sabina’s brows came together.

“Now what is this about?”

“Oh, the vicar was just practicing his sermon,” Martin quickly told her. “Something about windows to the soul, I think. What did you hear, Jas?”

“He definitely mentioned windows, all right. And…branches of knowledge. Isn’t that right, Martin?”

Sabina shook her head. “Mr. Davenport must be preparing for Christmas Eve, hoping to impress the bishop if the children’s pageant and the chorale don’t sway His Eminence enough to loosen his purse strings.” She only hoped the vicar didn’t put everyone to sleep.

Seeing her frown, and worrying more over their thorny dilemma than over the bishop’s visit, Benjy asked, “You’re not unhappy, Mama, are you?”

Speaking of purse strings, Sabina would have been a lot happier if she did not have to worry about her finances all the time. She managed on her tiny income, but without the luxuries, nay, the comforts she wished she could provide for her children, especially with Christmas coming. But her late husband’s clutch-fisted man of affairs had no idea of how much three boys ate, or how quickly they outgrew their clothes. Still, she made do. “No, darling, I am not unhappy. How could I be, when I have the three finest sons a woman could wish?”

“Even if we are not rich?”

“Especially. Money doesn’t bring happiness, darling. Just look at the duke. He never has to worry about paying the butcher or the wine merchant, so he overindulges himself right into the gout. Then he is even more discontented.”

“But why is the duke so unhappy, Mama? He has the finest stable in the shire.” Martin couldn’t imagine anyone with such prime horseflesh not being delighted with his lot in life.

His Grace of Espinwall was the meanest, most ill-tempered old curmudgeon of Sabina’s acquaintance. She believed he must have been born raging at the midwife, and he’d likely die swearing at St. Peter for interrupting his schedule. Sabina couldn’t say that to her sons, of course, especially not if the vicar was trying to instruct them about goodness and mercy, along with their Latin. “Well, I suppose he is so downcast because his wife has passed on and his son never comes to visit. Think how wretched I would be without you and your brothers. Espinwall has that whole enormous castle to himself, with no one to talk to except his servants. Perhaps he is lonely.” And perhaps pigs had wings.

“Why doesn’t his son come?”

Sabina fingered the locket at her throat. “They had a disagreement a long time ago, before any of you were born. And I suppose both have too much pride to mend the rift now. Viscount Royce makes his life in London, and his father stays in the country, so they never have a chance to reconcile their differences.”

Benjy nodded somberly, but Jasper and Martin winked at each other. “What about Reverend Davenport, Mama?” Jasper asked before Sabina could resume her reading or announce bedtime. “Do you think he is happy?”

Sabina laughed. “Oh, Mr. Davenport frets himself to flinders, but I believe he enjoys worrying over all of us. I always thought he’d be better off with a wife to look after some of the parish duties for him and see that he gets a proper meal, but he hired Mrs. Hinkle to keep house for him, most likely with your Latin lesson fees, so I am even more pleased that he agreed to take you on.”

Jasper nudged Martin with his foot, and the older boy nodded, already making plans. “Someone else in the village must need our prayers, don’t you think, Mama?”

“Well, I suppose you could ask God to look after everyone in Chipping Espy, darling. That would be lovely, and wouldn’t leave anyone out.”

“What about Miss Gaines?” Benjy wanted to know. “Should we pray for her, too?”

“She doesn’t even go to church, you noddy!” Jasper ridiculed. “You can’t pray for a—”

His mother clamped her hand over his mouth. “Of course you may pray for Miss Gaines, Benjamin. She is one of God’s creatures, too.”

“And she needs it more, ’cause she has no friends. No one ever calls on her. Do you think that makes her unhappy?”

“How should Mama know, cloth-head? Miss Gaines ain’t respectable. Besides, that toff from London used to come visit every few weeks. Ty Marshall says—”

“I do not think we need to hear what Ty Marshall has to say about Miss Gaines, Martin. In fact,” Mrs. Greene quickly added, “it must be time for bed.” She jumped up, nearly tumbling Benjamin out of the chair in her efforts to head off any more awkward questions. Giving each boy a kiss on the forehead, she said, “Good night, my darlings. Sleep well. And please try to remember to wear your old clothes tomorrow, and to be more careful near the briers. I am so proud of you for volunteering to help bring in the firewood for the poor families, I could burst. What would I ever do without my good boys?”

Sabina Greene’s good boys stayed up for hours, plotting and planning. The next morning, before they went off to the vicarage for their lessons, the three redheads detoured to the posting office, where they parted with one of their hoarded coins to see a letter delivered. They were not entirely sure of the complete address for the missive they’d spent half the night composing, but another tuppence convinced the post rider to discover Viscount Royce’s direction. “Th’fella can’t be that hard to locate,” the rider declared, pocketing his fee. “Famous rakehell, ain’t he?”

2

Connor Hamilton, Viscount Royce, rode as if the hounds of hell were snapping at his stallion’s heels. Why he was in such a hurry, cutting across fields and taking barely remembered shortcuts through the home woods, he was not sure. The demons that were urging him on were nothing to the devils that waited ahead.

He hadn’t wanted to come. He hadn’t wanted to see his father. Despite the lack of affection between them, Connor certainly had no desire to see the old dastard stick his spoon in the wall. He didn’t want to be duke, didn’t want to live in Espinham Castle, with its foolish turrets and crenelations, arrow slits and drafty halls with rows of armor, where he and his best friend had played for hours. He did not want to rule Espinham’s acres of fields and spinneys and ponds and forests, where he and his best friend had rambled. Most of all, he never wanted to see that best friend again.
Friend, hah!
The jade had married someone else as soon as his back was turned! By George, Connor didn’t even want to be in the same county as Sabina Martindale. No, Sabina Greene.

He’d managed to avoid her for years—eleven, to be exact. She did not attend his mother’s funeral; she was lying in, he was told at the time. And he did not attend her husband’s. He’d thought of sending his condolences, but that would have been the height of hypocrisy. Connor wasn’t the least bit sorry the old lecher was dead, nor that Sabina was left alone with a passel of brats to raise. She’d made her bargain, hadn’t she?

Now the duke was dying, but the memories never would. Hell, even the urchins gathering kindling in the woods reminded him of Sabina’s bright hair and ready laughter, blast her to hell!

He tossed Conquistador’s reins to a slack-jawed groom and pushed through the carved front doors. “Am I on time?” he shouted to the startled butler who hurried to see what manner of caller dared to open the massive castle doors by himself.

“On time?” The duke kept regular hours at Espinham Castle. Always had, always would. Watson glanced at the huge clock that stood in the entryway. It was barely five. “Dinner is not till six, my lord.”

“Who cares about food at a time like this? Has the vicar come?”

“Tuesday, my lord.” Watson hurried to catch the viscount’s riding coat, hat, and gloves before the younger man tore up the wide, winding stairs. He shook his head at the retreating figure. “Same as always. That’s His Grace’s cribbage night.”

Connor was already on the floor above, headed past the hanging tapestries and the battle axes on the wall, toward the modern wing of the castle. He burst into the duke’s suite without knocking.

The duke had been enjoying a preprandial sherry and a salacious French novel in the privacy of his bedroom, where neither his busybody butler nor his meddling manservant could say him nay. His gouty foot was propped on an extra pillow on the immense ducal bed; his shirt collar was open, awaiting a fresh neckcloth. His Grace looked up at the commotion in his sitting room, prepared to tear the hide off any servant who dared interrupt his afternoon’s repose.

There stood his son. In all his dirt, with a trail of mud behind him and the smell of horse wafting ahead of him, and a scowl on his face. The duke’s glass tipped, dribbling sherry down his chin and onto his shirt. He dabbed at his mouth with his sleeve, then recalled the French novel and tried to stuff it under the bedclothes, which dislodged his foot off its pillow, which sent pain shooting through him. He shouted in agony.

“Oh, my God, it’s as bad as I feared! Thank goodness I got here in time!” The viscount strode to the bed and reached for his father’s hand. “I came as soon as I heard.”

When the pain subsided, Espinwall asked, “Uh, Royce, just what was it that you heard?”

“Why, that you were ailing, of course. Or did you think to keep it from me? That would be just like you, I suppose, dying all alone so your son could feel remorse for the rest of his life. Thank goodness your physician had the sense to send for me.”

The duke took a moment to think. “You came to Espinham because you thought I was sickly—is that right?”

Connor’s blue eyes narrowed. The duke’s handclasp was surprisingly firm, and his eyes were as clear as the viscount’s own. His Grace had always been a heavyset, robust man, and he hadn’t lost a smidgen of heft that Connor could see. He took his hand back. “You don’t look ill to me.”

The duke gasped and clutched at his chest. He moaned a bit, too.

“Oh, Lud, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have burst in here like this, shouldn’t have upset you or doubted the doctor. Would you rather I leave?”

For answer, the duke held out his hand, pleadingly. “Please…stay,” he whispered.

“Of course, Father. Just tell me what I can do for you. Shall I send for your man? The doctor?” All Connor could see in the way of medication was a decanter of sherry. Perhaps it was too late for anything else but solace for the pain. He poured a glass and held it to his father’s lips. “What do you need?”

Groaning again, His Grace mumbled what sounded like air. Connor started fanning him with the French novel. “There, catch your breath.”

The duke pushed the book aside. “I said, ‘heir,’ you dolt, not ‘air.’ I don’t want to die without the succession assured.”

Connor left the bedside to get help. His father was obviously delirious. The viscount shouted for the duke’s man, then demanded he send for Dr. Goodbody immediately.

“But, my lord, His Grace’s physician is Mr. Kennilworth, same as always.”

“He must have consulted another doctor when the condition worsened. We’ll track the man down later. Just get someone here, now!” He went back to the bedside.

“I thought you’d left,” the duke whimpered, hanging onto Connor’s coat sleeve.

“No, I won’t go anywhere as long as you need me.”

“And you’ll look after Espinham and everything after I’m gone? You won’t disappear back into London’s stews?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” the viscount insisted, trying to keep his voice steady through the lump in his throat.

“Of course I am, you gudgeon. Everyone dies eventually, even youngsters like you, going off to wars and duels and madcap curricle races. Then where will the estate be? In the hands of some humgudgeon upstart fourth cousin, that’s where.”

“It won’t happen, Father, I swear.”

“You do? Heavens be praised! Now I can die in peace!”

“You’re not dying,” Connor insisted, but his father was already babbling about grandsons.

“Why, you could even marry that Martindale woman. She’s a widow now, you know.”

Connor took a step back from the bed. “What? You absolutely forbade me to marry her! That’s why I went away in the first place.”

The duke waved one hand in the air. “That was then, when she was my librarian’s daughter, barely gentry. This is now. You haven’t found anyone else to marry in all these years, and she’s a proven breeder. Three sons, by George, and you have none.”

“I wouldn’t marry Sabina Greene if she were the last woman on earth.”

The duke gasped and fell back on the pillows, his hand over his heart again. “Damn if you’re not as perverse as ever. When I say nay, you say aye. When I say you can, you say you cannot. Thunderation, boy, I demand it!”