A Gentleman Under the Mistletoe (The Lord Julian Mysteries #7)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

I changed into dry socks and my Hessians, loose, comfortable, tasseled half boots that would not do for riding, but kept my feet dry in the out of doors. When I had rendered myself presentable, I tapped on the door of the duchess’s apartment and waited until she granted me permission to enter.

“Your Grace.” I did not bow, but neither did I presume I was welcome. My mother and I had come far in terms of a thawing in relations, but we were not easy companions. I myself wasn’t entirely sure why or when we’d grown awkward with each other.

In my early childhood, Her Grace had been unfashionably involved with her children, and not only her daughters. She’d been the queen of a hundred picnics, our first dancing master, and first to delight in our lopsided drawings and rhyming couplets.

That had changed as I’d matured and as I’d gained a subtler understanding of legitimacy and my own lack of it, but the duchess had also put some distance between us. She’d recently explained that my godmother, grieving her own young son, had swept into my life, and kindness had dictated that Godmama be allowed to intrude.

That explanation fit with my recollections, but not with my instincts, and thus I remained somewhat wary in dealing with Her Grace.

“Julian, I did not invite her.” The duchess paced before a roaring fire, her hems whipping about her boots. “Not this time. I have included her on many previous occasions, but this Christmas… She can be overbearing on her good days. I’m sorry.”

“You had no idea Aunt Crosby was coming?”

“Of course not. She casts a pall of gloom over all in her ambit, and the holidays are no time for that sort of behavior. We put up with her twice a year as it is, and we must welcome her whenever she chooses to visit, but I deserved some notice. Tommie’s apartment hasn’t been aired since Michaelmas.”

I left the topic of gloomy holiday moods alone and wondered, not for the first time, why Her Grace was so unnerved by Aunt Crosby’s particular brand of vinegar. Perhaps the ladies were too close in age, perhaps Aunt Crosby had been the more conventionally pretty younger woman. The roots of discord were old and well entrenched.

“Hyperia put Aunt Crosby in the Rose Suite. Aunt claimed Uncle Tommie’s apartment would be too drafty.”

Her Grace fetched up against the mantel, tapping a nail on its polished oak surface. “Those rooms face north, and the ceilings are majestically high. Tommie never let anybody quite forget that he was the son of a duke.” Said with a twinge of asperity, by a woman who was seldom allowed to forget she was a duchess.

“The Rose Suite was clean, warm, and ready for a guest. Hyperia will make do wherever we put her.”

Mama shook a finger at me. “See that you don’t put her in your bed, young man. You and she take risks, spending so much time together. If you aren’t to marry her, Julian, then you should keep your distance.”

“And if she doesn’t want to marry me?”

The duchess resumed pacing, her heels beating a tattoo on the Axminster carpet. Green silk graced the walls of her sitting room, and the furniture was upholstered in burgundy velvet. The carpet incorporated both hues in a pattern of rioting flowers and greenery, and fresh camellias added a dash of pink on the escritoire.

A lovely room, and a refuge from the wintry landscape steadily turning a more uniform white beyond the windows.

“Why wouldn’t any sensible woman want to marry a ducal heir, Julian?”

Precisely because she was sensible. “Hyperia has a fear of childbed, and we would be expected to secure the succession, or at least give it a good try.” I wasn’t capable of doing my part at the moment, but marriage was for life, and I wanted children irrespective of the title.

“So space your offspring, hire excellent midwives, and see that Hyperia gets the best of care. No woman looks forward to bringing forth her children ‘in sorrow,’ but the business is bearable or the race would expire.”

In a good number of cases, the woman or her child expired . My mother, who’d given birth seven times, had to know that.

Clearly, the duchess was flustered by Aunt Crosby’s ambush. Time to change the subject. “Leaving aside matrimonial topics—”

“For now.”

“Leaving them aside , I want you to feel free to pop up to Town and do some last-minute shopping. Conspire with Godmama to buy out the shops, enjoy an oratorio or a pageant, and leave the aunties to kick their heels here until Christmas.”

My mother sent me an annoyed look. “I am Hyperia West’s chaperone. Until her brother deigns to join us, I cannot abandon my post.”

“The aunties are both here, and they will serve for the sake of appearances.”

My mother’s expression underwent a progression of shifts, from irritated, to blank, to intrigued, to pleased, then irritated again.

“If I nipped up to Town, those two old schemers would desert the regiment and leave you here with Hyperia, causing tongues to wag. They will not chase me out of my own home at Yuletide. I will make that very plain to them and be equally clear that as hostess, I have decided the menus, the seating arrangements, the guest lists, and sundry other details those two will think to meddle with.”

Well, isn’t this jolly? I now had a third warring faction at Caldicott Hall: the aunties, Uncle Terrence, and Her Grace. All had allies and enemies among the staff, and all were wily and tenacious in social battles.

“Your Grace…” Please don’t make the holidays any more difficult. Don’t make my holidays any more difficult.

“You cannot expect me to take this insult quietly, Julian. They think because Arthur isn’t on hand that they can pull nonsense like this. They have insulted you as well, presuming on the hospitality of the Hall at a time of year when you cannot in good faith stuff them back into their coach and commend them to the elements.”

I was abruptly tired and vastly unamused. I hadn’t the heart for a cheerful Yuletide season, but my wits would assuredly not survive weeks of acrimony.

“Your—Mama, might we not consider that Bertha is getting on and could well have forgotten to send you the requisite letter asking to include Aunt Crosby in her invitation? Might she have misplaced it, or drafted it and never ordered her lady’s maid to copy and send it? Must we attribute the worst motives even to family?”

The duchess tossed herself into the chair behind her escritoire and took up the family seal from her wax jack. “You are being reasonable. You were always the most reasonable of my boys. Arthur can be a stickler, in his way, and prodigiously stubborn. Harry was given to outrageousness, while you… Oh, very well. I shall try to be gracious. I have spent a lifetime learning the art of appearing gracious. But, Julian, I warn you, if those women push me too far, I will not answer for the consequences.”

“All I ask is that you try. Hyperia will try as well, and so shall I. How is Mrs. Swinburne?”

The duchess sighed, and a lot of the fight went out of her. “Lonely. Harry is lost to us. We know that, and we grieve his absence, but poor Mrs. Swinburne… Her children are thriving, her grandchildren are thriving, but they are thriving on the other side of a wide and dangerous ocean. Every year, she grows more certain she will never see them again.”

Mama set aside her seal and rose. “You are right, Julian. I have no business being cross. Does the kitchen know we have an unexpected guest?”

“I’m sure Hyperia made them aware.”

“Please thank her for me. You ought to marry her, Julian.”

“One grasps the merits of your suggestion.” I withdrew rather than invite another harangue. The relevant question was not who ought to do what, but what Hyperia wanted to do with her life. She had allowed me an understanding—private, mutually acceptable intentions to pursue courtship and matrimony—but she had not given me her hand in marriage.

Yet.

I went in search of my beloved to thank her for dealing with the Attack of the Aunties, and I found her in a surprisingly agreeable location.

“I developed the habit of coming here over the summer,” Hyperia said. “The southern exposure was wonderful for reading in the morning. Do you mind?”

She’d chosen Harry’s old rooms, which still bore his stamp. Harry’s ledgers and journals marched along the shelves behind his desk. Harry’s favorite landscape of the Hall hung over the mantel. The colors—blue and maroon with gilt and cream accents—were his favorites. The hassock and reading chair by the balcony windows conjured his ghost, lounging with day-old London newspapers or frowning at some bill he’d yet to pay.

Harry’s cavalry sword, which deserved to be conspicuously displayed in the library or first formal parlor, hung casually from the curtain rod, half hidden by the blue velvet drapes.

“Why these rooms?” I asked. “I don’t mind, but it’s a curious choice.”

Hyperia studied the landscape, which depicted the Hall in autumn. The lime alley was a blaze of gold, the sky over the front portico a cerulean blue, and the house itself radiated dignified contentment.

Would that its occupants did as well.

“The duchess agreed that Harry’s apartment should be made available for visiting family. He’s been gone two years, and this wing is much handier to the kitchen and public rooms than the guest wing is.”

The sitting room was cold, but a hearty fire was chasing the chill away. I assumed another blaze was heating the bedroom.

“The duchess agreed,” I said, “but then, she did not give the order to have Harry’s things boxed up. The spirit is willing, but the heart hesitates.” Though as to that, Harry’s journals and ledgers were only so many bound volumes. To the casual observer, they might have been novels, biographies, or plays.

“What’s bothering you, Jules? Besides Aunt Crosspatch inserting herself onto the guest list, Harry’s ghost, and Her Grace’s dramatics?”

I took Hyperia’s hand. “How did you know? Mama was in a proper taking. I reminded her that Bertha might simply have forgotten to send along a note warning us of Crosby’s intent to visit. The letter might have gone astray, and Crosby is a grouch, but she’s generally a mannerly grouch.”

“And Her Grace listened to you.” A conclusion, not a question. “I hope you noticed that.”

I looped my arms around Hyperia’s shoulders and drew her near. She came into my embrace willingly, and for a moment, I simply held her. When she was close, I was less inclined to fret and fume. I could think. I could sort emotion from facts.

“I love you,” I said. “The next few weeks will be busy and challenging, but I want you to know that I am glad you are here. I hope we can make some sweet and lasting memories, despite the ill will simmering among the elders.”

“So do I. They’ll sort themselves out, Jules. They’ve been bickering and sniping for years.”

I led Hyperia to the sofa, and we sat side by side, hips touching. She fit against me perfectly, and should we ever marry, I promised myself I would never take the pleasure of her casual affection for granted.

“May I ask for your help with something, Perry?”

She took my hand, and I looped an arm around her shoulders. “You never ask for my help.”

“I never have to, because you give it almost before I know I need it, but in this instance, I am not investigating a puzzle. I need a different sort of help.”

“Name it.”

A small knot of worry eased. I did not deserve such loyalty, but I knew enough to treasure it. “My spirits have dipped,” I said, dodging the blunter truth. “The darkness, the cold, the greater awareness of those no longer present… My last memories of my father in any sort of health were of him at Yuletide. He had a capacity for silliness that I lack, and I miss it.”

I was digressing, or stalling.

“Harry is gone too,” Hyperia said, “and I’ve appropriated his rooms. I can move, Jules, but the housekeeper allowed as this was the simplest solution, and I do like these rooms. They are comfortable and unpretentious.”

As my apartment was. “You should stay here,” I said. “I like the notion of you nearby, and the housekeeper was right that the simplest solution makes the most sense. Harry wouldn’t begrudge you his old rooms.”

For Hyperia to occupy these rooms, this sofa, Harry’s bedchamber was tangible evidence that Harry’s place as my closest confidant, the person who knew me best in the world, had been superseded by Hyperia, though Harry would never be replaced in my heart. As much a friend as a brother, as much irritant as inspiration.

“He would not begrudge me these rooms,” Hyperia said, stroking my knuckles, “but you miss him terribly.”

“Some times more than others. He was like Papa about Yuletide. The pair of them were self-appointed Lords of Misrule, every year, without fail. They would lurk under the kissing boughs and spike the ladies’ punch, and sing loudly enough to be heard in the village—at all hours—using lyrics for the old carols that would shock Vicar to his toes.”

“Naughty lyrics.”

“And hilarious. Arthur and I are cut from more sober cloth.” I was still dithering, still gathering my courage. I kissed Hyperia’s knuckles and plunged onward. “I am daunted, frankly, by the prospect of presiding over the Hall’s holiday festivities.”

“You are daunted, and your spirits are dipping,” Hyperia said carefully. “Tell me how I can help, Jules.”

“If I threaten to make a bonfire of Arthur’s correspondence, don’t indulge me. He asked little enough of me, ever, and a daily pile of letters and invoices and reports ought not to be a challenge. That said, I cannot seem to get ahead of the Royal Mail, and Arthur assured me winter is when the correspondence slows down.”

“Do you need an amanuensis?”

“Arthur’s clerks serve well enough in that capacity. What I expect I need is a distraction, and thus I have planned a few acts of anonymous generosity. The first was replacing the church bell, though it seems somebody else had the same idea. I’ve found a pony for Leander. The beast is admittedly big for him. Good bone, wonderful eye. Better too big than outgrowing your pony in a year or two, or so I reasoned.”

Hyperia was staring hard at the fire, my hand in hers apparently all but forgotten.

“Perry, am I being ridiculous? I’ve kept the pony at the livery, and even Mr. Blentlinger doesn’t know for whom he’s boarding the creature.”

“Oh, Jules.” She rose up and settled in my lap, her arms about my neck. “You are so sweet. Leander will know the pony is from you, but go ahead and be shy. I love that you would be so generous, and the church has needed a new bell for years. Just your luck that somebody else would think to remedy the situation when you decide to see to it. Tell me more.”

Another knot of worry loosened, though I had a few more in reserve. “Mama was saying that Mrs. Swinburne longs to see her family in Philadelphia, and as I think on it, Mrs. Swinburne has her pension and the use of the cottage, but that doesn’t mean she has the funds for a comfortable passage, much less to establish herself for any length of time in Philadelphia.”

“She won’t want to be a burden on her daughter,” Hyperia said. “You’re right about that. She won’t want to crowd the household or strain the budget. She’ll want to go as somebody with something to contribute, though you do realize, Jules, we might never get her back?”

Hyperia made the most perfect lapful. When she settled against me, her head on my shoulder, the sense of rightness surpassed even perfection and wafted into the realm of the divinely ordained.

“Mrs. S put Caldicott Hall first for more than forty years, Perry. She came here as a scullery maid and served loyally and well. We owe her the choice, and I intend to see that she gets it.”

“Anonymously.”

“A bearer bank draft is anonymous.” Having turned my mind to the matter, a bearer bank draft seemed almost too easy.

“I like it, Jules. I like the generosity and the discretion. If Mrs. S wants to keep her good fortune to herself, or send the money to her family, you give her that latitude by making the gift without fanfare.”

“But she shouldn’t be without her family…” I fell silent, because Hyperia was right. Swinnie should make whatever choices suited her. She might move to Philadelphia, make an extended visit there, or set the money aside for her progeny. That was none of my business.

“This is my plan—to spread some quiet holiday cheer, to occupy myself with improving Yuletide for a few others, so I fret less about low spirits or blue moods. It’s not much of a plan, so I am consulting you before I get too attached to it.”

Hyperia kissed my cheek. “It’s a good plan, Jules. Throw yourself into it, and I will help any way I can. You like puzzles, and these Father Christmas projects will require some puzzling over. The time of year is dreary—no getting around that—but we can distract ourselves from the dreariness. I do like this plan exceedingly.”

My heart felt lighter for having her encouragement, and then another thought struck that raised my spirits considerably.

“I have something to show you,” I said, rising with Hyperia in my arms.

“Jules, I can walk.”

“I’d have to set you on your feet if you walked, and I don’t want to let you go.” We passed into the bedroom, and with Hyperia’s help, I got the door to the dressing closet opened.

“We need some light,” I said, setting my burden down reluctantly. “Stay here. I won’t be a moment.”

I found a carrying candle and lit the sconces in the dressing closet. Hyperia’s effects—dresses, capes, shawls, dressing gowns—hung in shadowed folds on pegs along the outside wall. A wardrobe filled half the wall opposite the door. I turned my attention to the fourth wall.

“Somebody might have repaired it,” I said, moving aside hatboxes and boots. “But one can hope.”

I felt around the wainscoting, found the familiar groove between two unprepossessing panels of oak, and tugged. The panel swung open, and a musty breeze issued forth. When I pushed against the boards standing two feet beyond the wainscoting, I was greeted with the scents of lavender and cedar.

“What’s through there?” Hyperia asked, hunkering down to peer into the gloom. “Is that another dressing closet?”

“That, my dear, is the finest view of my own dressing closet you will ever see. Harry and I found this little opening, which might have been left over from the days of priest holes or servant passages. We kept it to ourselves, and as far as I know, not even the footmen know of it.”

“How interesting.” Hyperia sat back on her heels. “Jules, I do believe we will enjoy a very Happy Christmas indeed.”

We kissed in celebration of that notion and in celebration of nothing in particular, save the joy of anticipated closeness shared with a dear and precious companion.

Supper was an ordeal.

Four courses of excellent food were served with Aunt Bertha’s signature sauce du malheur et misère poured over every topic of conversation.

The lovely cream of potato soup occasioned a lament about spices losing all their potency when improperly stored. The duchess asked for a second serving in response.

Mrs. Gwinnett’s artichokes au gratin on toast was pronounced too rich. Her Grace made it a point to eat every bite of her serving.

The roast, done to a turn, was assessed as overcooked. Mama went dangerously silent.

By the time the raspberry fool was brought out—a public school treat for fidgety boys, according to Aunt Bertha—Ginny and Kerrick had exhausted the topic of Scottish holiday traditions, and I had exhausted my patience. Hyperia had gamely complimented each dish, but even Aunt Crosby seemed exasperated with Bertha’s carping.

Mama rose when Aunt Bertha had consumed only three bites of her dessert—finding fault at length did occupy the mouth—and smiled brightly around the table.

“Ladies, shall we leave the gentlemen to enjoy their port? Bertha might not care for her sweet, but I vow I could not eat another bite of Mrs. G’s delightful fare.”

Hyperia smothered a smile. Ginny looked relieved. Kerrick and I busied ourselves holding chairs and offering our elbows to the ladies. Mama marched ahead unescorted, while I took the curiously quiet pair of beldames down the corridor, and Kerrick escorted Hyperia and Ginny.

“If Bertha does not moderate her capacity for unprovoked odium,” I said as Kerrick and I gained the privacy of the dining room, “I will take up fasting.”

“Ye cannot fast, laddie. You’re too skinny as it is. Ye might consider developing a chronic case of the wind. Cabbage will serve, along with beans. Too bad peaches aren’t in season. I can make a positively foul wind out of a quarter bushel of peaches.”

“Flatulence wouldn’t deter those two.”

Kerrick wandered to the sideboard, picked up the entire serving bowl of raspberry fool, and brought it to his seat.

“If you want some, Jules, you’d best speak now. Raspberry fool is just cranachan without the oats and whisky, which I can partially remedy.” He produced a flask and liberally doused the fruit and cream with same.

“That is not tea.”

“How perceptive my lord is, but then, we heard you were the noticing sort.” Kerrick took up his spoon and closed his eyes. “For what I am about to receive, seeing as I have been such a good little laddie, I am grateful. Amen.”

I opened the cupboard on the left end of the sideboard and took out a couple of decanters. “I will not last another month of suppers like this one, Kerrick. I mean it. Arthur’s correspondence has daunted my spirits, Bertha’s carping delivers another blow to my mood, and Uncle Terrence has yet to stick his oar in. I wanted Yuletide at the Hall to be…”

Kerrick looked up from his devouring. “Aye?”

I wanted my holidays to be sweet, quiet, and pleasant. Not grouchy, trying, and disappointing. “Peaceful,” I said. “I wanted this season to pass peacefully.”

“No sense of fun, that’s your trouble. You’ve a teething baby, two bored little boys, fretful elders, and exhausted new parents on hand. I grant you, Hyperia seems disinclined to cause trouble, but I’d keep an eye on Her Grace. You’ll not get peaceful with this lot, Jules, but then, peace can be boring.”

No, it could not. Not to me.

I set the decanters on the table within Kerrick’s reach. “I’m going for a walk. Excuse the rudeness, but I’d rather enjoy some fresh air than watch you fortify yourself for the mandatory half hour around the teapot.”

“It’s worse than that.” He scraped together a bite of whisky cream and fruit. “Ginny will plead fatigue, and she is knackered, so I will smile and send her off to bed. Miss Hyperia and the duchess will follow in her wake, and I’ll be alone and defenseless before two of the most tiresome old trouts ever to cheat at whist.”

“Do they cheat?”

“I will accuse them of it when they pick my pockets.” He took the last bite, set the bowl aside, and patted his flat tummy. “I suspect they have been playing together so long, they don’t need to cheat. They can convey an entire hand and a strategy with a glance. Ye bletherin’ gods of war and destruction, I am a tired mon.”

Also a dear man. “Tell you what, Kerrick. You do the duty this evening, and I will spell you tomorrow night. If we both get some respite, we’ll hold up better.”

“Now you’re thinking like a parent. On your way, then, though a puny little Englishman like you is daft to wander out of doors on a night like this. Six inches of new snow and a ring around the moon.”

“But the wind has died down, and the stars will be magnificent.” The special quiet that came with new-fallen snow would be even more glorious.

“Mind you don’t get lost among the drifts.” Kerrick rose, straightened his sporran, and squared his shoulders.

“I know my way around this property.” I had made up my mind to complete a certain errand before going to bed, lest I lose my resolve in the midst of a mountain of reports and letters.

I stopped by the estate office to collect a document, then bundled up in gloves lined with lamb’s-wool, old boots, a thick cape, and two scarves. I hadn’t far to go, but Kerrick was right. The night was bitter, dangerously so if the wind picked back up.

I also had to be careful to avoid the usual paths and instead stuck to hedgerows and shadows. To use the old senses—the instinct for terrain beneath fresh snow, the knack of sticking to the lea of the drifts and the natural windbreaks, did restore a measure of my good cheer.

The stars were breathtaking, as only they could be on a clear night in deep midwinter. When I’d gone some distance from the Hall, I stood for a moment and let the quiet envelope me. On a night like this, the new church bell would be heard for miles, and that was a comforting thought. I marched onward, pleased to be out in the elements, pleased to have an objective other than enduring Aunt Bertha’s incessant bile.

My destination was a tidy cottage along a meandering little burn. The water moved mostly beneath ice, a brittle, determined trickle, though the surface was still broken in places by rocks and bracken. As cold as the air had become, by morning, that sound would be silenced until the next sunny day.

I paused to reconnoiter and closed my eyes the better to consult the senses of hearing and smell. A slight tang of peat smoke hung in the air, which was the equivalent of the all’s well. A visual inspection of the little dwelling gave the same result. No lights, no movement, save for wisps of smoke rising in moonlight made brilliant by the blanket of snow.

Far away, a dog barked. I sent up a prayer the beast would find shelter soon and stole across the open ground to admit myself to a darkened kitchen. The fire had been banked, though the hearthstones still radiated warmth, and the kitchen itself smelled of baking bread.

Mrs. Swinburne’s cottage was a solid, even gracious structure of six rooms. The lower floor consisted of a half-sunken kitchen at the back and a dining parlor and sitting room at ground level. The first floor, I had reason to know, boasted two bedrooms and another parlor, with accommodations for a maid beneath the eaves.

As pension cottages went, it was lavish, but then, Swinnie’s loyalty had been unstinting. Still, I was confident she would rather have had more modest accommodations and much greater proximity to her family. I made my way upstairs—the third stair creaked—and found the informal parlor where Swinnie likely wrote letters by the dozen to her family in Philadelphia.

A desk—one could not call it an escritoire—sat in the moonbeams that streamed through the window. With a sense of suppressed glee, I crossed the room and extracted a document from the pocket of my cape.

Let Swinnie travel to see her loved ones come spring and decide for herself whether to bide in Merry Olde or Merry New. I unfolded the document—a generous bank draft, if I did say so my humble self—and looked over the desk for the perfect place to…

The blotter already held a document, and that document, when I peered at it by moonlight, revealed itself to be a bank draft made out to bearer. The sum was the same as I’d filled out mere hours earlier on my own bank draft, though the two documents differed in one detail: This one, the one written by an anonymous benefactor, had three words scrawled in the lower left corner.

Other than that, and the account numbers in the upper right corner, the drafts were the same. What a coincidence.