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

Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

We did justice to the Christmas Eve feast, with even Aunt Crosby cleaning her plate. Bertha, for once, sent compliments to the kitchen, though she glowered pointedly at Squire Pettigrew all the while.

Peace on earth could take varied forms.

As I watched Terrence escort Aunt Crosby to the family parlor after the meal, I thought again of how difficult any visit to the Hall might be for her and of how delighted she’d seemed when she was playing with Leander’s puppy.

She, who professed to detest dogs.

“Jules?” Hyperia slipped her arm through mine. “Would you rather join us for tea than gather round the port and cigars?”

“I detest cigars. They give me dyspepsia.” I wasn’t that fond of port either.

“Then have Kerrick preside in the dining room. You come with us. We’ll let you pretend to read the paper while you doze by the fire. Tomorrow will be long and busy.”

I looked over my shoulder at Terrence and Crosby making a slow progress down the corridor. The meal had clearly tired Crosby, and Terrence’s expression was a mixture of affection and worry. Memories came back to me of small moments— Aunt Crosby choosing green tea over her preferred strong China black. Aunt finishing only about half of her meals, wearing two shawls rather than one. Arriving without an invitation, despite being a great one for protocol and decorum.

And then there was the little coincidence of when I’d encountered Miss Winters in the servants’ hall, just after my unsuccessful sortie to Mrs. Swinburne’s cottage—Miss Winters, who’d claimed to have just come in from admiring the starry, starry night.

“Aunt Crosby has been letting Bertha run on at tiresome length,” I said, “when in previous years, Crosby took on the task of keeping Bertha in line.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hyperia followed my gaze. “Aunt Crosby?”

“She loves dogs, Perry.”

“She does?”

“She loved that rascal Thomas too. I’d bet the whole lot of Christmas baskets on it.”

Hyperia tugged me through the parlor door. “What are you going on about?”

I’d been focused on the conundrum of my paternity, which had turned out to be a puzzle relating to Harry’s paternity, but the mystery of our anonymous Father Christmas had been swirling in the depths of my mind too.

“Crosby always demands Uncle Tommie’s old rooms, but this year, she wanted—she needed—warmer quarters.” And that departure from a pattern maintained over the course of years decided me on several points. “I know who procured the bell, Perry, and who is sponsoring Mrs. Swinburne’s reunion with her family, and who is behind the pony and the puppy and Miss Winters’s windfall.”

Others were joining us in the parlor. Hyperia and I moved to the window while the ladies took seats closer to the fire. Young Jamison arrived with a lavish tea tray, a sprig of holly affixed to his lapel.

“One person did all of it, Jules?” Hyperia asked quietly.

“With the aid of an ally or two, one tired, dear person accomplished all of that, and I must have a quiet chat with her.” While there was still time. “If you’d keep the other ladies occupied around their scandal broth, Aunt Crosby and I have a few things to discuss.”

Hyperia’s smile was puzzled, but she marched forth to admire Young Jamison’s boutonniere and offered to pour out.

I positioned myself near Aunt Crosby, who was waiting for Bertha to finish fussing with the pillows on the sofa.

“Auntie,” I said, bending close to Crosby’s ear, “you have been naughty.”

She gave no indication that she’d heard me. “I married a Caldicott, young man. One learns by example all about naughtiness.”

I put an arm gently around fragile shoulders. “Tell me all about it, that I might be instructed by your wisdom.”

She came along easily, and we appropriated the pair of reading chairs near the opposite hearth. The duchess gave us a passing glance, and Ginny noted our defection, but Hyperia asked Aunt Bertha about her favorite holiday treat, and Aunt Crosby and I were allowed our privacy.

“What gave me away?” she asked when I’d positioned a footstool for her just so, and she’d rearranged her shawls at length.

“The puppy was the purveyor of the final insight. You professed to hate dogs, but I saw you in the yearling paddock, and you no more hate dogs than I hate my horse.”

“Your Atlas is a splendid creature. Young Atticus adores him.”

“Where did you meet Atticus?”

She readjusted the drape of her larger shawl to cover her knees. “In the playroom. The boy Leander is quite taken with Atticus, and Atticus, though older, is unused to being admired. They engage in exactly the sort of bloodthirsty play you and Harry used to delight in.”

I was abundantly, sorrowfully aware that I might not have another Christmas with dear Aunt Crosspatch.

“I have learned of Harry’s irregular antecedents, though the truth was only recently made plain to me. For you to be around us—around him—must have been painful.”

Hyperia brought us each a cup of jasmine gunpowder tea, then retreated. Aunt Crosby held hers cradled in both hands.

“The whole business predated my marriage to Thomas, but he hadn’t told me of it. To him, it was the past, a closed chapter. He was so fond of the boy, though, and he and I were not to be blessed with children. I regarded that as divine retribution for Thomas’s cavalier behavior, but failed to see why I should be punished as well.” She took a sip of her tea. “Thomas and I put each other through some hard years, Julian. Mean-spirited, difficult, trying…”

“What changed?”

“Dorothea kept inviting us to the Hall, and she was so gracious, and so clearly indifferent to Thomas as a man. She and Claudius had mended their fences, and to an extent Thomas was right—the whole business did not concern me. That Thomas would fail to inform me of the situation was his attempt to save face before a younger wife. I could understand pride. I am not the most perceptive creature, but I do understand pride.”

She was very perceptive. “You knew we needed a bell.”

“Both your father and my husband were buried without a death knell. The leading family in the shire, and we buried them without alerting the angels to their passing.”

Did the angels know Harry had joined their ranks? I would hazard they did, given Harry’s nature. “You sent Miss Winters to leave Mrs. Swinburne a bank draft, and you arranged for Leander to have a pony and a puppy. I suspect Uncle Terrence was your minion in those undertakings.” Hence, his skulking about the hedges.

“Terrence can be discreet, on rare occasion. You should know I’ve arranged for more than a pony and a puppy. The boy is Thomas’s grandson, and I am in a position to see that he’ll not want for anything. I will also leave him Burnside Manor and ensure his inheritance is in good condition when it passes to him.”

A perceptive, generous woman. “You needn’t. Arthur and I will do right by the boy.”

“ I shall do right by the boy in his grandfather’s stead, young man. He’s a very bright lad and worthy of the legacy.”

Leander would be a wealthy little fellow, one day all too soon. “Are you the reason Miss Winters has come into a sizable inheritance?”

Aunt smiled, revealing a mischievous side. “Those two, pining from afar. They tried to be careful, but every time I’d visit at the Hall, Winney found an excuse to deliver some bit of lace or embroidery to the vicarage. When I made my duty visit to Mrs. Vicar, I never saw the results, because they somehow ended up in the curate’s cottage instead. Most curious.”

“A matchmaking Lady Father Christmas,” I said. “Curious indeed.”

“I owe her, Julian. Winney is a second cousin of some sort on my mother’s side, a lady fallen on hard times. I simply arranged matters such that she needn’t be quite as patient.”

“And you love dogs.”

“Who cannot love a dog? I wanted the boy to have a companion. He’s alone in the world, which should not be possible in a ducal household, but we well know it’s not only possible, it’s entirely likely. Thomas was in some sense raised as an only child, his older, smarter, handsomer brother set apart from him. I only came to see that when Arthur was raised in the same tradition. I don’t care for it, though that probably makes me a radical.”

I wanted to hug my radical aunt. “You are very forgiving.” Perhaps that was another gift of approaching death. One reconciled oneself to one’s humanity and to the humanity of others.

She finished her tea and set the cup back on the saucer. “I am forgiving now . Thomas wasn’t entirely to blame for what occurred, I know that. Dorothea was a young, lonely, embittered spouse, and Thomas was angry with Claudius over some financial matter. Claudius had increased Thomas’s allowance and situated him comfortably on a good property, but Thomas expected more. Claudius expected Thomas to grow up. We all make mistakes, and Claudius was no saint as a husband.”

She studied the group across the room. Ginny was regaling the ladies with some tale about Kerrick on the wedding journey, and all was merriment and fond laughter.

“Dorothea and I,” Aunt Crosby said softly, “live with regrets. I come here as a sort of reminder that I have blundered too, but also because Dorothea invited me when any other woman would not have. Besides, being furious and affronted is a great lot of work.”

“We could ask Bertha about that, though she and Pettigrew seem to be negotiating a truce. Do I sense that you enjoy watching Terrence bluster?”

“Mind your own business, young man. Terrence has been privy to the family secrets and held his tongue.”

Discretion in his case might have been the better part of devotion. I decided to be direct rather than discreet. “Have you consulted the physicians, Aunt?”

“I am in the very pink.”

“You are putting your affairs in order.” I knew the look. With the late duke— my father , the late duke—I hadn’t had enough experience to sense a preparation for final partings, but I’d made the preparations myself and seen many a soldier do likewise.

Aunt Crosby was unwell. She might recover, she probably would not, and her life had been difficult in some regards. Lonely.

She fussed with her shawls. “One should always have one’s affairs in order.”

We weren’t to discuss particulars. Very well. “One should also be rewarded for taking an entire neighborhood’s Christmas in hand and not expecting a word of thanks. I do thank you, and I have a gift for you.”

“I have everything I need, Julian. Truly, I do.”

“I beg to differ. You will come with me and for once without being contrary.” I rose and offered her my arm. She came along—Aunt Crosspatch indeed—and we found Young Jamison at his post in the corridor. I gave him a few instructions, and he bustled off double time.

“I have no use for a pony, Julian. I know my Christmas list has put you a bit out of countenance, but I assure you that was pure coincidence. The bell, Swinnie, the pony… I was merely tending to the logical tasks.”

I escorted her to the music room, which was toasty enough and quiet. “You did a thorough job of reconnaissance and took the logical steps based upon your observations. I will have to be very clever in subsequent years if I don’t want you beating me past the post again.”

Though we might not have subsequent years.

“You most assuredly will, but then, the Caldicotts tend to cleverness. Witness, you arranged for Theodoric’s ancestral pile to get a thorough cleaning, such that he has lost his best excuse for discouraging callers. Ingenious of you. Bertha will storm his gates if he doesn’t extend her an invitation before Twelfth Night. If this gift of yours does not soon—”

A tap on the door silenced her. Young Jamison came in, Lucky trotting at his heels.

“Your gift,” I said. “His provisional name is Lucky, and he is a thorough gentleman.”

Aunt extended a pale, veined hand. “Lucky?”

As if he had indeed heard his name, the dog came forward, sat on his haunches, and sniffed delicately.

“Not Lucky,” Aunt said, stroking his head. “This is a dignified creature and so handsome. Fortunatus, I think. Lucky by another name. One hopes he’s house-trained.”

“That he is,” Jamison said. “Knows all the tricks. Sit, stay, lie down, come, shake hands, roll over, and more than that. He’d make a proper footman, though we aren’t normally called upon to bark very often. Shall I take him up to your room, milady?”

“A good suggestion,” I said before Aunt could protest. “A short tour of the side garden and then upstairs with him. Fortunatus will need a water bowl in some obscure corner of his quarters, and somebody should find the dog a leash.”

“Julian, that beast has no need of a leash. He has herding skills in his pedigree. A leash would be an insult to his dignity.”

Jamison grinned, suggesting that Mrs. Gwinnett’s seasonal potation was much in evidence belowstairs.

“Away with you, Jamison,” I said, “and I will see her ladyship to her apartment.”

Aunt Crosby made a final little fuss over the dog, who accepted her affection cheerfully, and then we were making a very slow progress through the house and up the steps.

“I was dreading this Christmas,” I said as we paused on the landing. “Thinking I had to somehow measure up to Arthur’s standards, guard all the traditions, soothe all the ruffled feathers, and present myself as the good-humored exponent of all that is worthy about the Caldicotts.”

“You always did enjoy a challenge, young Julian.”

“I wanted a mission. I wanted orders to follow, maps and objectives, and that’s a fine way to manage in time of war, but this is peace, and my strategy has failed utterly.”

We started up the steps even more slowly, with Aunt Crosby leaning heavily on my arm.

“Not failed utterly, my boy. That’s a fine canine you got me. Bertha and Pettigrew are in better spirits, and Terrence has agreed to escort me home next month. I gather you and Miss West are quite in charity with one another, and I have managed to make a few memories with Thomas’s grandson. Perhaps I will not be remembered exclusively as Aunt Crosspatch or Aunt Crotchety. All this, mind you, before Christmas itself.”

Never had I traveled so slowly through my own house, nor with such a bittersweet sense of time passing.

“I plan to offer Miss West an engagement ring.”

“Winney and I have a bet going. See that your young lady says yes before sunset on Twelfth Night.”

“The sun sets so early this time of year.” We arrived by glacially sedate degrees at her parlor. I held the door, lit the sitting room candles, and nodded to Miss Winters, hovering in the bedroom doorway.

“The sun sets early,” Aunt Crosby said, “but the sunsets are gorgeous. Winney, we are to have a dog, a fine, handsome, mannerly fellow. My Christmas token, courtesy of his lordship. What do you think of that?”

Miss Winters allowed as how a canine on his manners was a fine addition to any household, and then she shooed me out the door as if I’d been young Leander, intent on showing off my new spinning top to all and sundry.

I stood in the chilly corridor, happy, sad, and everything in between. I had found Aunt Crosby before we’d lost her, and that joy was mine to keep until I, too, could sincerely admire the fire and beauty of winter sunsets, despite the cold and approaching darkness.

I stopped by my room, retrieved a small package, and returned to the parlor, where only my mother and Hyperia remained. The duchess excused herself, waved off my escort, and hugged me in parting.

“Happy Christmas, Julian,” she said. “And to you too, Miss West. Very happy.”

Duchesses did not wink, but they smiled in a certain knowing fashion. Thus fortified, I closed the door behind my mother and prepared to offer Hyperia her Christmas token along with—again, forever, and for always—my heart.

“Let’s take a tour of the public rooms,” Hyperia said. “All must be in readiness for the great day tomorrow.”

A perambulating proposal wasn’t quite what I’d intended, but a gentleman did not argue with the woman to whom he was about to offer marriage for the third or fourth time.

“All of me is in readiness for a sound night’s sleep,” I said, offering my arm. “I don’t suppose…?”

She peered into the music room, which at Yuletide was a public place. “We need our rest, Jules.”

We left the warmth of the music room and moved toward the gallery. “As it happens, darling Perry, I sleep best with my arms around you.”

She preceded me into the gallery, which had lost some of its chill by virtue of two roaring fires. They would be continuously stoked through Christmas Day to ensure that on Boxing Day, should the stray neighbor drop by, the room would be comfortable.

Hyperia stopped before a portrait of my late father with a young, solemn Arthur standing beside him, Arthur’s little paw on Papa’s shoulder.

“Of the two,” she said, “Arthur looks the more serious.”

“He was and is the more serious, but I hope he’s not feeling very serious at the moment. I, by contrast…”

Hyperia moved on, and I began to sense that she was eluding the moment. Eluding me .

“You gave Lucky to Aunt Crosby, didn’t you, Jules?”

“He is to be named Fortunatus, and yes. She clearly enjoys canine company, he’s available for the post, and they seemed to get on famously. Not as famously as we get on, but well enough.”

“And the rest of it? The puppy and the pony and whatnot? Did Aunt Crosby admit her role?”

“My membership in the loyal order of anonymous Yuletide benefactors forbids me to say.”

Hyperia’s next stop was the duchess surrounded by her daughters, a stair-step arrangement of pulchritude, mischief, and affection. “Your mother makes it look so easy to be always gracious and dignified.”

“She has had her lapses in dignity, as we well know. Perry, are we in a footrace?”

My darling turned and regarded me with Mama and my sisters smiling over her shoulder. “Jules, I’m having misgivings.”

I kept a pleasant expression on my face, I hoped. “About?”

“Not about you, but about…” Hyperia waved a hand at the generations of rogues and belles surrounding us. “I am merely gentry. You might well be the duke one day. You probably will be, in fact, and that will make me…”

I wanted to take her hand, to hold her to me physically. I put my hands behind my back instead. “The duke’s dearest beloved. I’ve been thinking.”

“You do that a lot.”

“I want the Boxing Day revels returned to the Hall. I understand that Mama was in mourning for a time, and Arthur is not on hand to weigh in on the decision, but I am quite clear in my own mind, and for now the decision is mine.”

Hyperia moved closer to the nearest hearth. We were burning coal in the gallery for now—hotter than wood and in need of less frequent replenishing—though the scent of pine boughs competed with the ubiquitous coal smoke. A great trove of roping was coiled beneath the windows in readiness for a flurry of last-minute decoration on Christmas Day.

“You are telling me,” Hyperia said, “that you are your own man, and I can be my own woman—my own sort of duchess.”

She made a pretty, worried picture silhouetted against the hearth. “When have you been anything else but your own woman? I told you when I went off to Spain not to wait for me. You most assuredly did. I came home in complete disarray of body and mind, and you insisted on showing Society that we were yet cordial. You abet my sleuthing, and worse, you encourage it. Half the time, you have the insights that solve the riddles. You have Arthur, Banter, Lady Ophelia, and Her Grace quite sorted out, and Leander and Atticus adore you.”

“That matters? What those two boys think?”

“It matters to me, and to you, too, and that is why I know you will make a fine duchess. You see clearly and kindly, Hyperia. You see me clearly and kindly, and your honor supports me when my own grows tentative. I have a ring in my pocket, a lovely little ruby to complement your coloring and symbolize my love.”

I extracted said jewel and held it out to her in the palm of my hand. “Toss it in the fire, if that will make you happy. You tell me that you love me, regardless of my antecedents, my legitimacy, the color of my hair, the state of my memory. I love you the same way, you goose. Ferociously, unstoppably. Be you gentry, queen of the shire, and everything in between, I love you, and I always will.”

She peered at the ring. “Don’t you dare toss that little beauty into the flames, Jules.”

“Don’t you dare toss our future away because of a little thing like a tiara.”

“Have you seen your mother’s tiaras?”

Shrewd of Mama, to show them to Hyperia now. Honest of her. “They are quite pretty. You are more lovely to me than any mere adornment, and I am asking you to marry me. I will keep asking until you send me away or cede the day. If you do send me away, I will ask by correspondence—I am quite proficient at wrangling mail now—and I will send pigeons and minions to plead my cause, and Kerrick to sigh and gaze about mournfully on my behalf, and Atlas to do the same.”

My threats earned me not even a hint of a smile, which was appropriate, because they were offered in earnest.

“And Atticus, Jules? Will you recruit him to your cause?”

“He will harangue you without ceasing. I’ve offered him free run of the schoolroom, so be prepared to hear my praises from him in French, Latin, Cockney, and Greek.”

“You did what ?”

“The boy is bright and brave, Hyperia, and he has been loyal to me and to you. He deserves a chance. I can’t change the cards life dealt him at birth, but I can add a few to his hand along the way.” I hadn’t anticipated that Hyperia would object to my decision, but she was clearly giving the matter thought now.

“People will say he’s your by-blow, Jules.”

“Would that bother you?”

The beginning of a smile hovered in her eyes. “Not in the least. He’s like you in many respects. Thinks for himself, has his priorities in order.”

I moved closer, the ring still in my hand. “You are my priority. Never doubt that. Don’t marry me unless you will be happier for it, Perry. I hear myself say that and want to slap a hand over my own mouth, but my heart insists I speak the words. Your terms or none at all. What I have to offer, and what I cannot offer, are too… too odd a combination. You must be sure of your choice.”

This was not the speech I’d rehearsed, not the soaring metaphors and carefully chosen snippets of poetry I’d delivered to myself in my cheval mirror.

And my spontaneous offering was apparently a failure. Hyperia blinked at the ring, then blinked again.

“So pretty and so… so typical of you. Nearly plain, but lovely. Elegantly understated.”

Was that a yes or a no? “Please marry me. Ours will be an unconventional union, Perry, but we will be the most loving couple ever to make our own way through life. That much is mine to give.”

She took the ring from me and held it up to her eye so that she viewed me through its circle, then slipped it onto her finger.

“It fits. You don’t forget the details, Jules. I will marry you.”

The fit of an engagement ring was not a detail. “The matter is decided, once and for all?”

“Yes. You gave Aunt Crosby the dog you would have kept for yourself. You are giving Atticus a choice about his future. You wanted to give all the elders their death knells and all the couples their wedding bells. Your gifts are unconventional, but they are loving, Jules. I dread the thought of being a duchess—your mother’s slippers will be difficult to fill—but I am very clear that I want to go through life with you at my side.”

Saved by a dog? “Atticus might decline my offer.”

Hyperia stretched out her fingers, the ruby catching the firelight. “For a time, he might, but when he sees that Leander is learning some French, he’ll reconsider. Where is some dratted mistletoe when I want to kiss my intended?”

“We don’t need any mistletoe.” I drew her into my arms and let actions prove the point. A great, soft unfurling began in my heart, of worries, hopes, dreams, possibilities, and burdens. Hyperia had given me her word, and she would never, ever break it.

We might be engaged for ten years or ten days. That did not matter. We had plighted our troth officially, and all the world would have to deal with us as a matched pair.

Happy Christmas indeed.

The ensuing days were busy to the point of pandemonium. We did move the Boxing Day revels back to the Hall—more pandemonium, complete with a biddy hen flapping around the minstrels’ gallery while Leander gave chase. We had bellyaches and sore heads aplenty amid much jollity. Aunt Crosby grew rosier as the twelve days progressed. Aunt Bertha became nearly sweet, until she and Pettigrew were all but cooing while Terrence and Crosby pretended to be amused.

Aunt Crosby and I unwittingly started a local tradition. In subsequent years, anonymous Father Christmases regularly worked their magic. Old Mrs. Mayhew’s ancient billy goat was succeeded by a robust young buck who set all the nannies’ hearts dancing on Christmas morning.

The Kirkpatricks’ farm became home to a new team of plow horses who’d shown up in the pasture unannounced. The assembly rooms were gifted with a new piano, though nobody would confess to hauling it up a flight of stairs on New Year’s Eve.

Waltham and surrounds became home to an annual surfeit of elves, though by tacit agreement, Aunt Crosby, Hyperia, and I kept the origins of the tradition to ourselves. Mama doubtless guessed, and I was sure Pettigrew and Aunt Bertha had their suspicions. As for Uncle Terrence, he took a different leaf from my book and proposed to Aunt Crosby on New Year’s Day.

All quite lovely, though for me the entire holiday was joyous because I had become Hyperia’s official fiancé. Our path to the altar was far from smooth, short, or easy. Our adventures in that regard tried us sorely and took us in many an unexpected direction, but those are tales for another time!