Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (27 page)

*

“So what do you think, Miss Selden? Can we make a match?”

Gerry twisted the ribbons of her sash between restless fingers. “This is so…sudden, Squire.”

“Sudden? M’wife’s been gone these three years. None of the old tabbies can find fault with that.”

“That, ah, was not what I meant. It’s just that I never thought to… You and I…? Not that I am not honored by your offer, of course,” she hurried to add, offering the plate of tea biscuits. “Just that I need some time to consider your proposal.”

“What’s to consider?” Remington waved one beefy hand around the tiny parlor, taking in the threadbare carpet, the faded upholstery, the mended curtains. “I’m no Midas, but I’m no nipcheese either. You’d have the household allowance and your pin money. A house of your own, mayhaps children of your own, too, though I just know my boys’ll take to you like their own ma.” He also knew enough not to bring the brats along, not wanting to scare her off afore he’d said his piece. Squire was so determined to conclude what he saw as an advantageous arrangement for both of them that he didn’t notice Gerry’s shudder, whether at the thought of mothering his hellions or of begetting a babe with him. “I’ll even throw in that mare you want for your brother, as a marriage settlement.”

Now that was horse-trading. Gerry told him she needed a few days to decide, with which Squire had to be content. On his way home, though, he passed young Selden, who asked him for additional work.

“I’ll tell you what, my boy. You convince your sister to accept my hand and I’ll see you don’t have to be giving lessons anymore. I’ll make you my factor or something. With a horse of your own. You think on it.”

Sir Eustace did think, about how his sister’s future would be secure, how she’d never want for anything again.

“Anything but love,” Gerry replied to his suggestion that she carefully consider Remington’s offer, for she was not likely to receive a better one. “And you know we promised each other that neither of us would wed for mere expediency, no matter what other sacrifices we have to make. Our parents’ unhappy marriage of convenience was lesson enough. Besides, Christmas is coming. Anything can happen.”

2

Christmas was coming, blast it. The government was nearly shut down, most of his friends had decamped for their country seats, and even his secretary had taken a long vacation to visit with family. Bah! Now Albrett Wouk, Lord Boughton, was left with an alpine mound of correspondence, an awesome list of dependents, an ambitious mistress, and absolutely no inclination for any of the argle-bargle. Everyone wanted something at this time of year, confound it, from the social-climbing hostesses to the suddenly solicitous servants. What did Lord Boughton want for Christmas? He wanted it to be over. If he desired something, he’d have purchased it for himself, no matter how extravagant. If he wished to visit somewhere, he would have gone, no matter how far. And if he wanted to put on leg-shackles again, well, he would have shot himself.

There was not one deuced thing that Brett could think of to make this season the least bit enjoyable, much less endurable. Merry and bright? Mawkish sentimentality and base avarice. Comfort and joy? Forced conviviality and just plain gluttony. Jolly? Fah. Without the la-la-la.

The earl shuffled through the stack of mail, sorting out the invitations. He supposed he’d accept one fashionable house party or another, the same as he did every year, for lack of anything better to do. He’d find the same overabundance of food and drink, the same overripe widows, the same overwhelming tedium.

Gads, last year the Sherills had trotted out three unmarried nieces to serenade the company at the Yule log ritual. The chits had been as entertaining as the log, though less talented. Hell and damnation, none of the invites sounded in the least appealing.

Even his current mistress was growing less appealing by the day—or night. If he stayed in Town for the holidays, Charleen would take the opportunity to cling even tighter to him and his purse. She’d expect him to do the pretty, naturally, and Lud only knew what she’d expect after that. Brett did not intend to find out.

Lord Boughton flipped through a few letters until one caught his interest. “Presumptuous puppy,” he muttered to himself, tapping the page on the edge of the desk. That Bartholomew babe Selden from Upper Ossing wanted to purchase back, at cost and over time, a necklace he’d sold at auction. What did the cabbage-head think the earl was, a money-lender? Father Christmas? Brett ripped the note in half and tossed the pieces on the floor with the rejected invitations. Let the bumpkin buy his own baubles.

His lordship frowned, remembering the sale at Selden House. He’d arrived too late to bid on the cattle, but the pearls had caught his fancy. As soon as he had the necklace home, though, the earl had realized it was a pretty trifle, but not extravagant or showy enough for the birds of paradise he usually decked in diamonds. Well, the confounded necklace must still be in his vault somewhere. He’d send it to Charleen, Lord Boughton decided, along with a check. That way, he’d be saved the aggravation of Christmas shopping and, with any luck, an emotional scene when Charleen realized that was all she was getting from him, ever.

* * *

Christmas was coming, by Heaven, and the New Year after. That meant another birthday in her dish, and the devil take them all! Charleen, Lady Trant, was getting old. It must have happened when she wasn’t looking, for just yesterday she’d been an Incomparable, a Toast. Today she was a slice of toast, dry and hard. Charleen swept her diamond-braceleted arm along the top of her dressing table, knocking scores of bottles, jars, and tins to the carpet. What good were all the lotions and potions? They couldn’t make her two and twenty again. One bottle had escaped her wrath, so she tossed it against the wall. Why not? She could barely read the label, anyway.

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 rest of the mess.