Christmas Surprises Page 7

  Instead of being annoyed at the interruption, Jonathan grinned. “Relieving you of the responsibility, old fellow. All I need is the lady’s word. Now give it back and go away, if you would be so kind.”

  Mr. Drummond harrumphed from where he had been left standing across the room. All heads turned in his direction.

  “It seems to me, if you’re entertaining ideas of taking a bride, that you will need some prospect of financial security to offer the lady. I know of a promising position if you are willing to take direction from an obstinate old man.”

  Jonathan tore his gaze away from the glowing promise in brown eyes long enough to meet his father’s look. “I am willing to learn from a man with more experience, sir, if he will have me.”

  “He’ll have you all right, and with open arms.” Embarrassing himself with this display of emotion, Mr. Drummond gestured curtly at Charles. “Come, Carrington. If we harbor any hopes of getting these two off our hands, we’d better turn in. I don’t think the carpet will suffer more if it waits until morning.”

  Grinning, Charles returned the letter to his sister, bussed her on the cheek, shook Jonathan’s hand, and gesturing at the maid and butler hovering in the doorway, dismissed everyone but the lovers from the room. Quite pleased with himself, he grabbed up the bottle of brandy and guided his distinguished guest to the study for one last drink of celebration.

  Jonathan and Diana scarcely noticed their departure.

  Smiling, Jonathan lifted her fingers to his lips and admired the lovely color in her cheeks. He could not mistake the love he found in those clear, bright eyes, but he would have no mistake this time. Not daring to let himself hope more, he pressed the letter upon her.

  “Read it, Diana. I do not think I can stand the suspense any longer.”

  Nodding, she unfolded the vellum pages carefully. For four years her happiness had been stored away in a secret hiding place. Four years were long enough. She read swiftly, starting with her father’s letter to his best friend’s son. The words of praise and caution brought tears to her eyes, and by the time she read his approval at the end of the letter, she was openly weeping. Jonathan had not needed this letter to speak his case, but his judgment that Diana would not accept him without her father’s approval had been a right one. That it came now, after his death, was an unhappy but fortuitous instance. Her tears blotted the pages as she carefully tucked them away for later perusal.

  Jonathan’s youthful letter, on the other hand, brimmed with life and hope and dreams. He explained his father’s opposition to his only son’s desires to serve his country, and his own decision to buy a commission rather than return to the comfortable life of his father’s house. Then he spoke of the life and the love he wished them to share if she would wait. The ring was to be her signal that she was prepared to set all others aside in favor of him. He did not expect her to make the decision soon or even quickly, but only to mention her decision to wear the ring when she wrote to Charles.

  It was a young man’s letter, full of nonsense and dreams, but the man standing before her now waited with the same eagerness and anxiety as the youth who had written it. The scar upon his forehead whitened with concentration as he watched her for some clue of her feelings, and the tension in his taut frame told her of the importance of her reply.

  Eyes streaming with tears, Diana lifted the letter bearing Jonathan’s loving farewell and kissed it as she would have done had she discovered it four years ago. Then twisting the ring upon her finger, she gazed longingly into his handsome face.

  “Four years I waited for this letter. Four years I could have been wearing this ring. Do you think we can make up the lost time somehow?”

  “It won’t be easy, but I’ll try. I love you, Diana. If I promise to find other topics besides the weather, will you marry me?”

  A small smile of dazzling delight began to form on her lips. “You have four years of letter writing to catch up on. Do you think you can do it by the time my year of mourning is ended if I tell you now how much I love you and how much I have missed you?’’

  “I can move mountains and learn to deal with Frankie and Freddie if you’ll just show me how much you mean those words.” Jonathan moved daringly closer, sliding his arm around her waist as he reached to set the bulky letter aside.

  “Jonathan!” Startled by his sudden brash behavior, Diana brought her hands to his chest to hold him off.

  He smiled, glanced briefly up to the sparkling ribbons of the mistletoe still dangling among the remaining greenery overhead, and returned the heat of his gaze to her pinkened cheeks. “I caught you under the kissing bough, my love. You can’t refuse.”

  “So I can’t.” Acknowledging defeat gladly, Diana slid her arms about Jonathan’s neck and felt the warm pressure of his lips against hers and melted into the strong embrace she had only been allowed to dream of for so many years.

  In the hallway, peering through the crack between the doors, two young girls giggled with delight at the sight of their brother and sister embracing beneath the mistletoe.

  Caught up in the romance of the moment, they failed to note the shadow sneaking up from behind, dangling a piece of greenery, until the branch hung over their heads. A whispered “Surprise!” caused them to glance in tandem at the mistletoe, and squealing, they bolted wildly for the stairs.

  Elizabeth’s protesting cry of “Charles!” as she ran up the stairs made no impact on the pair in the drawing room. While the others raced madly through the upper halls, the happy couple laid more sedate plans for the future, all of them spoken through the magic of kisses, with the permission of the kissing bough above.

  Christmas Goose

  Despair blew across the cliff with the December wind, pummeling Simon Lemaster with the same gale force that tore open his coat and whipped at his cravat. He heard the resounding trumpet call to arms in the high whine through the rocks, heard the clash of artillery in the crash of the waves, and the sound of men dying in the mournful cry of the gulls. The smoke of too many battlefields cluttered the sky in boiling gray clouds.

  He blamed the wind for the moisture tearing in his eyes, but he knew his own soul responsible for all else. He glanced down at the rocks below his feet, imagined the height of the waves at high tide, and wondered if he had the courage. Deciding he had no more of that honorable asset now than he had when he led his men into battle, he gathered his weight on his walking stick, and limping, turned his back on the sea.

  He supposed a bottle of laudanum more his style if the melancholy became more than he could bear. In any event, the holidays were no time for such thoughts, although the holidays had brought them on in the first place. For the first time in six years, he had come home for Christmas. No living in a tent in the middle of a mud field, no lounging on a bug-infested mattress in a bordello where everyone spoke a foreign language. The voices around him spoke clear crisp English with a rural accent, the air smelled fresh and sweet, and childish laughter echoed up hill and down valley. He couldn’t bear it.

  He kept seeing the shadowed eyes and hollowed cheeks of children so starved they could barely lift their feet. He saw their mothers, worn out from years of fighting and surviving, often not knowing the father of their children, victims of rape and necessity. With enough liquor and distance, he might eventually erase their faces, they were foreign faces, after all.

  But he couldn’t erase the faces of those children on the docks, the hope and despair in their mothers’ eyes as they waited for their menfolk to descend from the boats returning them home, menfolk missing limbs or other vital parts making them useless as wage earners for the rest of their lives. Those faces were English, the wives and children of men he’d led into battle. Those men had fought more fearlessly and bravely than he ever had, but only he had emerged relatively unscathed to a wealthy home and a family who could support him should he never do another day’s work. His men had come home to nothing but a hero’s pride, a cold fireplace, and empty bellies.

  Simon h
ad tried talking to his superiors. He had gone over their heads and talked to every government official he could find in London at this time of year. He’d met with stone walls everywhere he turned, and finally the melancholy had overwhelmed him to the point that he had to come home. At least in battle he’d felt some sense of accomplishment. He could make a difference occasionally. But back in the security of England, he could do nothing. He had no power, no wealth of his own, no status to change a system so archaic it would treat men as pawns to be disposed of at will.

  He had to stop thinking like that. The anger and frustration had long since dissipated into this endless despair. He would throw himself off on the rocks if he kept up this train of thought. He had to divert his attention, think of the gingerbread cooking back home in the kitchen, decide on presents for his nieces and nephews, search for the happiness that eluded him when he should finally be at peace. He had everything. Why should he mourn for those who did not?

  Simon heard the sharp yip of a dog somewhere further down the cliff path, and he scowled. People ought to keep their dogs at home, not let them run the dangers of these crumbling cliffs. Too often loose dogs ran in packs, endangering the sheep. He debated searching for the culprit or leaving it be. He had difficulty making any decision at all these days.

  A sharp yipe called him to action much as the call of a trumpet once had. Cursing his aching foot, Simon hobbled over the rough ground, searching for the source of the sound. He found it in a pile of rubble and boulders a little way down the path. A young collie, tail flapping like a flag, worried at a paw caught between two stones. Liquid brown eyes turned trustfully to the stranger approaching.

  “Stupid, fool animal,” Simon muttered, wincing as he slid on his bad foot. The path could be treacherous to the sure of foot, and he most certainly was not that at the moment.

  With malice aforethought, he unwrapped his cravat and tied it to the dog’s collar. He intended to find the owner of the mongrel and lecture them thoroughly on the care and upkeep of stupid animals. The dog made no protest but licked his hand gratefully. Maybe the animal wasn’t so stupid after all. At least it had the sense to offer gratitude and respect to those who came to its aid.

  The stone dislodged easily. The dog presented another difficulty entirely. Leaping and bounding and smearing Simon’s doeskin breeches with mud, he nearly jerked his rescuer from his feet when he raced for the top of the cliff.

  Still, it gave Simon something to think about besides his despair. The walk back to town was considerably brisker than the one out here. The dog remained mercifully quiet now that it was free, but it tracked the scent of every rodent ever to cross its path until the hampering neckcloth brought it back in line. It proceeded at a run so as not to miss a single moment of the romp. Simon had practically lost his breath by the time he reached Lymeshead.

  The main street of the village wound along the creek meandering through the town square, around a hill, and over a stone bridge on the far side. Fortunately for Simon, the vicarage stood on this side of town. It made as good a starting point for his search as any.

  A young man of fair hair but infirm health, the vicar wandered into his cottage garden at the same moment as Simon opened the gate. They hailed each other, and the vicar leaned over to pat the tail-wagging collie.

  “Leopold! What are you up to now?” the young man asked, scratching behind the dog’s ear and glancing up to the stiffly correct man holding him. He’d never seen the younger Lemaster in such disarray, with his cravat off, his shirt open, and his expensive trousers mud-streaked.

  “Then you know this wretch, Richard?” Simon demanded. “He nearly got himself killed out on the cliffs today. I mean to give his owner a severe talking to. Could you direct me to the culprit?”

  Straightening, Richard smiled at the young lordling’s outrage. He’d known Simon since childhood. The younger son of a viscount, Simon had all the stiff-necked pride of the aristocracy, but a sense of responsibility wider than the sea lapping at their doorsteps. No man could shoulder the weight of the world. Even Richard had abandoned that hope at an early age. But Simon was too stubborn to admit defeat. Richard pretty much figured Simon would have single-handedly defeated Napoleon if necessary, for he would never have come home otherwise.

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s a culprit involved. Leopold is a stray that landed on the Widow Tarkington’s doorstep some months ago. She’s done everything within her power to find the dog’s owner, while attempting to teach the rascal manners. Unfortunately, animal training is not one of her strong suits. I should imagine Leopold either escaped the barn or chewed off his rope.”

  “Widow Tarkington? Matthew married?” Thunderstruck, Simon stared at the amiable vicar.

  Richard shrugged. “Men do, you know. He came home long enough to meet and court her, then went off to get himself killed. There’s times I think he married her because he knew he would die, and he wanted someone to look after his sisters.”

  “Stupid sod,” Simon grumbled, staring past the vicar’s head to the gray-shrouded sky over the sea. The wind was less here, on the lee side of the hill. “A soldier should never marry. There ought to be laws.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose if celibacy went into law, we wouldn’t have many soldiers. Not a bad thing to consider if all countries enforced it, I suppose, but I can’t see it happening in our lives.”

  Simon ignored this wisdom. Grasping the collie’s impromptu leash more firmly, he took his leave. “I should call on the widow, in any case. Matthew would have wanted it. I wish someone had told me sooner.”

  Richard shrugged. “Someone would have soon enough. You’ve only been home a few days. I truly don’t think Matthew is frowning at you from heaven.”

  Ignoring that small admonition also, Simon followed the collie through the garden gate and back to the main street. Although he and Richard were much of an age, Simon had never been particularly close to the vicar, who had always been sickly and something of a scholar. But he and Matthew had got into romps together through most of their lives. They’d gone to war together, but in different units since Matthew couldn’t afford colors in the more prestigious guards Simon had joined. It must have cost the better part of Widow Tarkington’s savings to have bought colors at all, but there had been little other chance of Matthew making a living. His acreage was too small and too rocky to produce the kind of income needed to support a country squire—which was why the Tarkington men seldom led long lives. It seemed a sin to have another widow in the family so soon.

  Wondering which of the village girls Matthew had chosen for wife, Simon wandered the familiar path through town, past overgrown hedgerows, and down a dirt lane to the old farmhouse Matthew had grown up in. Matthew’s father had once been owner of sufficient land to scrape a comfortable living, but bad investments, a bad economy, and an early demise had brought the squire’s living to an end. Simon remembered hearing some time back that Matthew’s mother had died also, but he had just assumed the girls had gone to live with family. It hadn’t occurred to him that Matthew had chosen to raise his sisters by himself. Although, now that he thought about it, Simon couldn’t remember ever meeting any of Matthew’s relatives other than his parents. Perhaps there hadn’t been any.

  The collie sensed he came close to home and jerked and strained at his leash. Simon’s damaged foot ached with the exertion, and he found his pace dragging in direct proportion to the dog’s need to go faster. Wearily, he contemplated unfastening the leash, but he refused to allow the dog to come out ahead. He would see it firmly secured first.

  The stone farmhouse looked shabbier than he remembered, but the front door had been freshly scrubbed, the knocker polished, and the steps swept. Simon pounded on the knocker, listening to it echo through the hollow inner hall. He and Matthew had frequently tested its echoing capacity in years past. With no furniture or wall to obstruct it, the knock resounded quite clearly through to the kitchen.

  Still, no one came to the door.

&nbs
p; Remembering the Tarkingtons had kept few servants, Simon surmised they had none now. He waited a while longer, giving the occupants time to set aside whatever they were doing, but still no one responded to his call. He meant to turn away and loose the mongrel in the barn when a high-pitched squeal sent him racing as fast as the dog toward the rear of the house.

  As Simon came around the corner, a fleet-footed creature dashed between his legs, and his weakened foot finally gave out under him, landing him firmly on his rear in the muddy yard. The makeshift leash slid from his hand and the dog ran off, barking, in the direction of the squealing pig, trailing the cravat after him. Before Simon could attempt to right himself, a tall figure in skirts, racing around the corner, screaming in fury stumbled over his outstretched legs and fell smack into the dirt beside him.

  Simon only had a dim impression of angles and bones and creamy skin before the female gave him a surprised look, darted a glance in the direction of the racing animals, and leapt to her feet again. Without a word of apology, she charged after pig and dog.

  Shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs evidently replacing his brain, Simon staggered upward. His fleeting impression was enhanced now by the sight of the tall slender figure outracing the pig to shoo it awkwardly with her long skirts. With the aid of the barking collie and a fence, she managed to trap the animal sufficiently to confuse it, but not necessarily to send it in the appropriate direction. With a sigh, Simon limped to her rescue.

  Even the pig had a collar, Simon noted wryly as he swatted a porky rear end with his walking stick, sending the obstreperous animal back toward the barnyard where it belonged. The collie followed at its tail, shepherding it as he ought to shepherd sheep. The sight made Simon’s lips twist in a smile he hadn’t felt on his face in quite some time.