When lovely woman stoops to folly...
—Oliver Goldsmith, The Vicar of Wakefield
The spicy scent of evergreens perfumed the Great Hall, but even their fragrance was no match for the savory smells wafting from the laden plates and chafing dishes on the sideboard. Margaret eyed a platter of tarts hungrily, grateful for the hum of surrounding conversations that masked her stomach’s unladylike grumbling.
“Oh, I’m absolutely famished!” Elaine declared, joining her at the sideboard. “I hardly know what to sample first, but those tarts seem an excellent place to start. Jam or mince, Margaret? Or,” her dimples, as beguiling as her brother’s, deepened, “would you prefer one of each, as I do?”
Margaret laughed, reaching for a small plate. “Oh, the latter, most certainly!”
Together she and Elaine helped themselves to two tarts apiece, and went to sit in the window embrasure of the Great Hall, buzzing with activity like an overturned beehive—which should come as no surprise on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. The children had been sent upstairs just ten minutes ago to take tea in the nursery. Now their distracted elders hurried hither and yon, to place brightly wrapped parcels under the Christmas tree. Alasdair had just ordered Elaine off her feet for the time being, while he dealt with the heavier and bulkier of their children’s presents. Over in one corner, Hugo and Reg were wrestling with the rocking horse—intended for Harry—beneath Madeline’s critical eye.
“I don’t know why you attempted to wrap the thing, Hugo,” she remarked. “Harry will know exactly what it is just from the shape.”
“But tearing off the paper is half the fun of Christmas, my love,” he pointed out.
“He has you there, chérie,” the duchess remarked, smiling at her daughter as she paused to survey Hugo and Reg’s efforts. “And as the mother of several rambunctious sons, I can attest to that! Every inch of the floor would be covered with ribbons and paper on Christmas morning!”
Margaret chuckled, recalling her stepsons’ enthusiasm about unwrapping presents.
“Daughters do their share as well!” Elaine called from the window seat. “Beatrice adores unwrapping gifts—the faster the better! And she’s forever poking, prying, and trying to figure out her gifts by shape, beforehand.”
“You were the exact same way,” the duchess observed fondly. “And so was Madeline. Juliana was the only one of my girls patient enough to wait until the actual day.”
“That’s because I love surprises,” Juliana chimed in from where she and Alicia were arranging a pile of parcels under the tree. “Although I’m sure Harry will love his rocking horse even if he does guess what it is,” she added, smiling at Hugo, who grinned back.
“Next year, a pony,” he predicted. “And I won’t need to worry about wrapping that.” He got to his feet and with Reg’s help, carried the rocking horse over to the tree.
A footman entered the Hall and approached Reg, holding out a silver salver. “Two letters in the afternoon post for you, Lord Reginald.”
Accepting his mail, Reg frowned briefly at one letter, slipping it into his breast pocket, but opened the second with alacrity. His face darkened almost at once. “Damnation!” he snarled, balling up the letter in his fist.
Everyone turned to stare at him, save for the footman, who made a strategic retreat.
“Mon cher, whatever is the matter?” the duchess asked, all concern.
“The Melton man has accepted a higher offer on the horse I wished to purchase,” Reg replied, not quite through clenched teeth.
“Oh, that is too bad!” the duchess exclaimed, amid a chorus of commiserations from Reg’s sisters and brothers-in-law. “Could you wire him back with a better offer?”
“No.” Reg bit off the word. “According to him, the buyer was insistent on having the hunter delivered to its new home by Christmas Day.”
“Bad luck, old boy!” Hugo remarked. “But you still have that splendid black of yours.”
“Indeed,” the duchess added with another sympathetic moue. “And I am certain you will find another hunter just as fine once you start looking again.”
Reg’s face remained stony, his mouth set in a hard line. “Except that I wanted this one, to ride in the St. Stephen’s Day hunt!”
His mother laid a hand against his cheek. “You wouldn’t be the first to be disappointed at Christmas, chéri. I feel for you, but pray don’t sulk. It makes you look like a petulant schoolboy, which becomes you not at all.”
Margaret looked away, hiding a smile at the astringent note in the duchess’s voice. Doubtless it was her own vexation with Reg that made her relish the spectacle of his mother, usually so indulgent of his moods and tempers, treating him like a spoiled child, pouting over a denied sweet.
“It’s Christmas Eve, mon fils,” the duchess continued, her expression softening. “Far too magical a time to waste dwelling on regrets, instead of blessings. Now, come and taste the champagne I’ve chosen for tonight. Our guests should have only the finest reward for their efforts, and you know how I rely upon your palate.”
Reg grunted, but allowed himself to be led from the room by Her Grace.
Margaret dropped her gaze to her plate and bit savagely into her jam tart. Reg showed more passion over that damned horse than he did over Alicia! The thought sent a pang through her and she glanced over at her sister, who had left the tree and was adjusting the garland of holly and ivy draped over the mantelpiece. She’d tried to make peace over breakfast that morning, but while Alicia had not exactly snubbed her, neither had she seemed overly receptive to the olive branch. Indeed, she’d avoided Margaret for most of the day, and even now, she clearly preferred anyone else’s company to her sister’s.
Don’t force the issue, Gervase had advised. And as painful as Margaret found this distance between Alicia and herself, she knew that he was right. She had to give her sister time—and hope that they’d be speaking again long before New Year’s Eve!
And she still had to find a way to stop the wedding. Or perhaps Reg would come to his senses and see how wrong this was. He’d said Alicia would have every opportunity to change her mind... and, despite being furious with him, she knew him to be a man of his word.
“Good heavens, what are they carrying?” Elaine’s voice broke into her thoughts.
Margaret followed her friend’s gaze to see Gervase and Jason entering the Great Hall, bearing a huge, gaily wrapped box between them. As they proceeded further into the room, Gervase happened to glance up at the chandelier and changed course immediately, skirting the dangling bunch of mistletoe en route to the Christmas tree.
“Gerry!” Juliana protested, glowering at him reproachfully.
“You’ll have more than your share of unwary fellows falling victim to that later,” he pointed out, as he and Jason set down the box with an air of relief.
“Spoilsport!” she accused.
He bowed, not bothering to deny it. “At your service, brat.”
Elaine chuckled, polished off her mince tart, and left the window seat, heading for the tree. Margaret followed, as curious as her friend.
“Whatever is that, Ger?” Elaine asked, gesturing at the box.
“Richenda’s Christmas present. And one of my better inspirations, if I do say so myself,” he added with a dimpled smile of satisfaction.
“Is it a dollhouse?” Margaret asked. She’d owned a fine one herself when she was Richenda’s age, filled with cunning, beautifully made miniature furnishings.
He shook his head. “She has one of those already. No, it’s a toy theater, complete with stage, props, costumes, and actors. According to Madeline, Richenda’s growing as partial to plays and performing as she ever was.”
“It sounds marvelous!” Elaine declared. “Although,” she glanced at their older sister, presently filling a plate at the sideboard, “I suspect Madeline will want to play with it too, once she sees it!”
“I suspect we all will.” Margaret smiled as she remembered the countless plays and amateur theatricals that had enlivened their childhood.
“Ger’s presents aren’t half-bad,” Jason remarked, with the air of one making a great concession. “Almost as good as Father’s, sometimes.”
“High praise indeed—thank you, Jason,” his brother said dryly.
Impervious to irony, the boy went on, “I still have the pearl-handled pocketknife you gave me when I was twelve. It’s better than anything I ever got from Hal or Reg.”
“Talking of Brother Reg, we passed him on our way in, looking like a veritable thundercloud,” Gervase observed. “Dare I ask what we missed?”
Margaret shrugged. “Just a bit of bad news for him. He got a letter saying that the horse he’d offered for was sold to another buyer.”
“Someone else bought the horse Reg wanted?” Jason’s eyes were bright with interest—and more than a touch of malice. “Ha! Do him good not to get everything he wants for once!”
“Keep your satisfaction to yourself, whelp,” Gervase advised, eyeing him sternly. “Unless you want Reg taking it out of your hide the next time you see him.”
Jason jutted out a defiant chin. “I’m not afraid of Reg!”
“Well, you should be, as he’s got height, weight, and reach on you—as well as the devil’s own temper when roused,” Gervase pointed out.
“A temper that you seem to delight in rousing,” Elaine chimed in, quite tartly for her. “Really, Jason, must you both be such children about things? Why can’t we all just have a peaceful Christmas for a change?”
Jason ignored her. “I’d like to see Reg try anything with Father there to stop him!”
“Who says Father will be anywhere near, when it happens?” Gervase countered, and nodded in grim satisfaction when the boy blanched visibly. “Act your age, Jason. Gloat if you must, but have the sense to do so in private.”
Jason hunched a sulky shoulder, but made no further argument.
“Mama took Reg off to taste the champagne she wishes to serve tonight,” Elaine reported. “I think she hopes to put him in a better mood.”
“Inspired of her,” Gervase remarked. “When all else fails, try liquor.”
“Or food,” Elaine suggested, nodding towards the sideboard. “Why don’t we all go and have something to eat? I’ve heard we’re to have only a light dinner, because of the play tonight. Though there will be a supper to follow.”
“Are there mince tarts?” Jason inquired eagerly.
His sister dimpled at him. “Need you ask? A whole platter of them. But you’d best hurry before Hugo and Alasdair finish the lot!’
Jason strode off with alacrity, and Elaine prepared to follow, glancing over her shoulder at the other two. “Ger, Margaret—are you coming?”
“Oh, in a minute,” Margaret replied a trifle vaguely, as—unseen by Elaine—Gervase’s hand came to rest at the small of her back. An unspoken message she had no difficulty interpreting: Stay.
“I need to check something under the tree, first,” Gervase added, smooth as ever.
Elaine eyed them with speculation, then gave a light shrug as she turned away. “Well, I’ll see you presently, I suppose.”
Elaine was halfway across the room when Margaret felt Gervase’s hand at her elbow, guiding her around the Christmas tree, until they were shielded from view. Before she could venture a single question, he’d pulled her into his arms and into a kiss that made the room whirl around her. Relieved, she twined her arms about his neck and kissed him back.
“Mmm,” she sighed against his mouth. “Who needs mistletoe?”
“My thoughts exactly. I hope I don’t require the presence of holiday greenery in order to kiss you, belle amie,” he murmured.
Margaret shivered, feeling his presence through every inch of her skin. Intimacy with Alex had been wholly satisfying, but with Gervase... she felt as though she’d stumbled onto some undiscovered country where everything seemed sharper, brighter, and far more intense than she was accustomed to. And yet, within that country, she felt more keenly alive than perhaps she ever had.
By night Gervase was a passionate, attentive lover. By day, he was much as he always was: her friend, confidant, and occasional sparring partner. Their love affair was a delicious secret, known only to themselves, although judging from Elaine’s expression just now, Margaret wasn’t sure how much longer it could remain so.
The prospect of discovery daunted her more than a little. Although, on reflection, she thought Gervase’s siblings would have the least difficulty accepting the situation. His parents’ reaction was less easy to predict—especially that of the duke, with his distressing tendency to meddle in his children’s personal lives. Like his scheme to match her with Reg after Hal’s death, which had sent her fleeing from Denforth five Christmases ago. What a disaster that would have been—even worse, perhaps, than Reg and Alicia’s impending marriage was likely to be!
“Margaret.” Gervase’s fingers ghosted over her cheek. “Where did you go?”
She smiled up at him, leaned into his embrace. “Nowhere important, I assure you. In fact, I couldn’t possibly improve upon where I am just now.”
“Flattery will get you—somewhere.” He stole another kiss.
“I was hoping it might,” she whispered back. They already had plans to tryst tonight, after the play, and the prospect of seeing in Christmas morning together secretly thrilled her.
Approaching footsteps on the other side of the tree had them quickly drawing apart, smoothing their clothes, and assuming positions of complete decorum.
“Right over there, James,” Augustus’s voice ordered crisply.
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Margaret exchanged a glance with Gervase before peering around the tree. Her brother, looking every inch the duke, was supervising the placement of several parcels. No doubt he felt it beneath his aristocratic dignity to handle Christmas gifts himself when there were servants in plenty to do it for him!
He glanced in her direction and that moment, nodded a greeting. “Good evening, Margaret. I hope you are enjoying Christmas Eve.”
“Yes, very much.” Margaret wondered when they’d grown so formal with each other. Had her younger brother always been so difficult to know, or had he merely become so, over the years? “I hope you are as well,” she added, trying to lessen the constraint between them.
“Indeed.” He favored her with a slight smile. “And looking forward to the play tonight.”
“I believe we all are, Langdale,” Gervase said, emerging from behind the tree in turn. “According to Madeline, Mr. and Mrs. Brand head a very talented company of actors, which includes three of their children.”
Augustus’s face became smooth and impassive once more. “I don’t doubt their quality. Nothing but the best for Whitborough, after all.”
Was there an edge to his voice? Margaret slid a glance at Gervase and saw from his narrowed eyes and his suddenly guarded expression that he’d registered the same thing.
“Well, I certainly hope they’re the best!” she said brightly, trying to defuse the situation. “Madeline said the company spent the whole day rehearsing in the duke’s private theater.”
“Any word on what they will be performing?” Augustus inquired.
“Not a one,” Gervase replied. “The production is shrouded in secrecy, despite numerous attempts by my sisters to discover more. Although as near as I can tell, it won’t be a pantomime or a Nativity piece. Not tonight, anyway.”
A peal of feminine laughter rang out just then, followed by a triumphant cry of “Caught!” from Juliana.
Reg was standing under the chandelier, the mistletoe almost brushing the crown of his head. Tipping his head back, he regarded the beribboned spray with mingled amusement and annoyance. “Are you serious, infant?”
“It’s tradition, Reg,” Juliana insisted. “And since you’re the first man to pass under the mistletoe this afternoon—”
“An engaged man,” he pointed out, and Margaret saw Alicia duck her head self-consciously. “Surely a bachelor would be a more appropriate choice for this.”
Juliana shook her head, smiling. “No exceptions, Reg! If you’re caught beneath the mistletoe, the forfeit is a kiss!”
“What forfeit could be sweeter?” Augustus spoke up, his voice silky. “And what could be more fitting than a mistletoe kiss between an affianced pair? Would you not agree, Major?”
Margaret tensed, hearing the challenge beneath her brother’s words. “Augustus,” she began in a low voice, but all his attention was fixed on their sister’s betrothed.
Reg stood very still, but Margaret thought she saw his moustache twitch like the whiskers of an irascible tiger, as his gaze and Augustus’s met and clashed. For a moment, the air between them seemed to crackle with barely suppressed hostility. Then, surprisingly, Reg glanced aside first and held out his hand to Alicia, whose fiery blush was visible even from across the room. “Well, my lady, shall we uphold tradition?”
Cheeks still scarlet, Alicia came forward and Margaret’s heart twisted when she saw the hope in her sister’s eyes. “Of course, Reg,” she said, a trifle breathlessly, joining him under the mistletoe and turning her face up to him in happy expectation.
They were a striking couple, Margaret had to admit, despite or perhaps even because of their similar coloring. But Reg’s tall, powerful build made Alicia’s dainty figure appear slighter and more delicate.
Without a word, Reg lowered his head and kissed Alicia on the mouth—the first time Margaret could remember him doing so. And Alicia reached out, seeking, desiring more, her small hands coming to rest over her intended’s heart.
As abruptly as he’d initiated the kiss, Reg ended it and stepped back, opening the distance between himself and his affianced bride. He did not push Alicia’s hands away but they hovered uncertainly in the air for a moment, before—flushing for an entirely different reason now—she lowered them once more to her sides.
Margaret’s own hands fisted, the world going sharp-edged and red-tinged around her. At that moment, she could not have said with whom she was angriest: Reg, Augustus, even Juliana with her innocent mistletoe gambit. Because surely everyone in the Great Hall must see it now: the extent of Reg’s indifference. She could tell by the uncomfortable silence that succeeded the kiss, which might otherwise have been followed by laughter and cheers... if both halves of the couple had shown any enthusiasm for what they were doing. The only satisfaction she could sense was radiating from Augustus—in the form of a smirk she longed to wipe from his face!
Incensed, Margaret opened her mouth to deliver a stinging remark, when Gervase gave her elbow a warning squeeze that recalled her to her senses just in time. It would be Alicia, not Augustus, who would be hurt most by her outburst, who did not deserve further humiliation. With difficulty, she swallowed her anger, though the unspoken words seemed to burn under her tongue like hot coals, and tried to think of a way to dispel the tension that shrouded the room.
Fortunately, distraction arrived just then in the form of the duke and duchess, entering the Great Hall together—side by side, if not hand in hand.
“My children,” the duke began in his most commanding tone, smiling about the room, “if I may have your attention?”
He hardly needed to ask: such was the Whitboroughs’ combined presence that all eyes turned to them at once.
Smiling, the duke stepped aside and beckoned to a phalanx of footmen, who now entered, dragging behind them a sled bearing an enormous piece of wood—big enough to burn throughout the next twelve days, as tradition decreed.
Striking a pose, Whitborough recited with great dramatic flair: “Come, bring with a noise / My merry, merry boys, / The Christmas log to the firing; /While my good dame, she,” he gestured towards his wife, “Bids ye all be free, / And drink to your heart’s desiring.”
More than one person exclaimed in delight at the sight of the log, and Juliana hurried to fetch the tinderbox, along with a remnant of the previous year’s log, retained for the very purpose of igniting this year’s blaze.
In the excitement of readying the log for the fire, the lingering awkwardness of Reg and Alicia’s perfunctory mistletoe kiss dissipated, though Margaret knew her sister would not forget, any more than she would. But it was still Christmas Eve, a time of hope and magic, so she held her tongue and helped the other women drape sweet-scented evergreens over the log, watched as the duchess doused it in brandy, and stood back as the duke strode up to the fireplace. Looking as majestic as Prospero, he turned to face them and recited the last verse of Herrick’s poem:
“With the last year’s brand
Light the new block, and
For good success in his spending,
On your Psaltries play,
That sweet luck may
Come while the log is a-tending.”
He nodded to Jason, who, aglow with his own importance, came forward to light the fire. And with a great roar, the log flared up, sending bright flames leaping toward the chimney. Margaret caught her breath at the sight—and in spite of everything, felt a glimmer of the joy and anticipation that was Christmas take root in her soul. Glancing at Gervase, she saw that same enchantment reflected in his eyes.
Unseen, her hand crept into his, felt the warmth of his answering clasp. Together, along with the others, they stood in silence, watching the Yule log burn.
The apricot brocade, with its pattern of formal flowers in flame and gold, was the most brightly colored gown Margaret owned, and she almost lost the nerve to wear it after Tilda laid it out across the bed where it blazed like a bonfire against the counterpane. But gaslight would soften it, and she knew the vivid color flattered her more than pastels would. She decided to keep her jewels simple by comparison, choosing a delicate necklace of gold filigree and matching earrings. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she felt a glow of satisfaction that warmed her to her toes.
“You look lovely, my lady,” Tilda said, draping a gold tissue shawl about her shoulders.
“Thank you, Tilda.” Margaret looped her gilt reticule about her wrist and started for the door. “Well, I shall certainly be difficult to misplace in a crowd! By the way, I don’t know when I’ll be back tonight, so please just go to bed! I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Very good, my lady.”
To Margaret’s surprise and pleasure, Gervase was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. His eyes widened most gratifyingly, and she barely resisted the urge to preen.
“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright.” His smile was as brilliant as the torches he spoke of.
Margaret blushed. “Too flattering, dear friend! I might not dare to wear this color if we weren’t spending the next three hours or so sitting in the dark!”
Gervase shook his head. “Don’t hide your light under a bushel, ma belle. Take pride in it—I certainly intend to,” he added, the wicked glint in his eyes promising all manner of delights to come.
Smiling, Margaret took his arm, and they made their way over to Denforth’s private theater in the east wing. The room had been freshly painted since Margaret had seen it last, but otherwise it was as she remembered: a handsome salon furnished with rows of padded seats surrounding a stage shielded from view by a red velvet curtain. While not nearly as large as Drury Lane’s or Covent Garden’s, the stage was wider than it looked, as Margaret knew from experience. Hadn’t Madeline commandeered this theater countless times for their productions?
Several family members were already present, including the Saxbys, who’d seated themselves in the front row. Not surprising, given Madeline’s keen interest in the theater.“Where would you like to sit?” Gervase inquired.
“Second row,” Margaret decided. The Whitboroughs would almost certainly be occupying the first row, and she would just as soon avoid their scrutiny for now. And judging from Gervase’s contemplative expression, she suspected he was thinking along the same lines.
So, in perfect accord, they chose seats in the middle of the second row and sat down together. A few minutes later, the two youngest Lyons children approached, Juliana radiant in her favorite turquoise, with a strand of aquamarines about her milky throat.
“What a lovely gown, Margaret!” she exclaimed. “And such a striking color!”
“Thank you—as long as it’s striking, rather than blinding!” Margaret laughed, smoothing her skirt self-consciously.
“It’s beautiful. Alas, I’d look like a lighted torch in apricot!” Juliana added ruefully, tugging at a lock of coppery hair. “Mind if we sit here?”
“Not at all,” Margaret assured her, smiling.
“Found out which play they’ll be performing?” Gervase asked his sister, as she took the seat on his right.
She shook her head. “Not yet. Papa says it’s a secret, but it will be one we all enjoy.”
“It’s bound to be Shakespeare,” Jason said, affecting an air of resignation.
Juliana smiled at him. “Remember the first time we went to the theater, Jason? We weren’t old enough for Shakespeare, so we got taken to the pantomime instead. What was it—Ali Baba? I know it had an Arabian Nights theme.”
“Aladdin,” Jason corrected, breaking into a reminiscent smile. “I remember, because I wanted to be Aladdin! And have a flying carpet and a genie to grant all my wishes!”
“Was one of them to be an only child?” Gervase inquired dryly
Jason widened innocent eyes. “How ever did you guess, big brother?”
“Oh, the merest shot in the dark, I assure you.”
They exchanged a smirk, younger sons sharing a moment of perfect understanding.
Juliana rolled her eyes, but laughed. “Well, Aladdin was great fun, as I recall! Perhaps we can persuade the Brands to put on something a bit lighter tomorrow for the children, since Shakespeare is a bit over their heads just now.”
More people were filing into the room—including Alicia, Margaret observed with a start of surprise at her sister’s appearance. Tonight Alicia had eschewed the softer colors that she usually chose, and now wore a dashing gown of deep scarlet, trimmed with gold accents. A compliment to Reg’s dress uniform, perhaps?
Margaret tried to catch her sister’s eye and send her a smile, but Alicia’s gaze was sweeping the room—seeking Reg, no doubt. Wishing her sister were less transparent, Margaret looked as well, and finally located him sitting on the aisle seat of the front row, a little apart from the rest, wearing somber black and white evening dress like the rest of the men. Alicia had spotted him as well, if the wistful longing on her face was any indication. For a moment, she stood where she was, then with a lift of her chin, she glided forward.
Margaret held her breath as Reg’s head turned towards her sister, but he rose at her approach, a tacit acceptance of her presence beside him. Lowering her gaze, Margaret exhaled with relief. Much as she opposed Reg and Alicia’s wedding, she could not bear to see her sister snubbed by her own fiancé. Fortunately, Reg was being courteous to her in public—perhaps a way to atone for that less than impassioned mistletoe kiss?
“Gerry.” Juliana’s low murmur reached Margaret’s ears as well, and she glanced over in time to see Juliana nudge Gervase and nod significantly towards the doorway. Margaret followed the line of his gaze as well.
Their Graces had just come in together, the duchess resplendent in her favorite deep wine, with priceless rubies at her throat, while the duke was elegant in black and white. Arm in arm, they made their way to the seats left vacant for them and sat down, side by side.
Once everyone was seated, the lights flickered and all eyes turned toward the stage to see Mr. Brand, splendid in a fur-trimmed velvet robe, emerge from behind the curtain.
“Your Grace,” the actor bowed profoundly towards the duke, “Thank you for engaging our company to perform at Denforth. We are deeply honored by the invitation, and we hope tonight’s performance will please you. Lords and ladies all, we present The Winter’s Tale.”
Goodness, now there was one that wasn’t performed every day! Glancing at Gervase, Margaret saw a similar look of surprise on his face. Well, at least this play had a happy ending, she mused, though there was considerable tragedy to be got through first. And it was certainly appropriate to the season.
One of the junior members of the company, a boy dressed as a page—or perhaps as the young Prince Mamilius—made a circuit about the room, handing programmes to the audience before disappearing into the wings. A few minutes later, the lights dimmed completely and the curtains parted with a sigh. Two men, kings and friends, clad in royal robes, and a beautiful woman, just as richly arrayed, but with a significant swell to her middle, entered from stage right. One of the men stepped forward and declaimed, “Nine changes of the watery star hath been / The shepherd’s note since we have left our throne...”
Margaret leaned back in her chair and let the stately dialogue carry her away.
The company was a skilled one, speaking the verse with lyricism and intelligence. Even better, they were audible—Madeline had spoken scathingly of actors who mumbled and otherwise mangled their lines. And like his sister, Gervase tended to watch plays with a more critical eye. The Winter’s Tale was by no means an easy play, made all the more difficult by Leontes’s lightning-fast shift from devoted friend to insanely jealous husband. But when performed well, it could be sublime—a truly satisfying evening of theater.
Hermione, played by Mrs. Brand herself, had an open, smiling warmth that reminded him a bit of Margaret, the sort of warmth men were drawn to—as he himself had cause to know. And Polixenes played that angle most effectively, as a man charmed by his hostess’s wit and hospitality, and willing to let himself be persuaded. Gervase watched Leontes closely, knowing that the success of the drama often hinged on how convincingly the king swung from acceptance to jealous rage. Fortunately, Leontes showed with a range of subtle expressions the deepening disquiet when Hermione succeeded where he had failed, convincing Polixenes to extend his visit.
Gervase wasn’t sure when he began to feel uneasy. Around the time that Leontes and Hermione’s marriage truly began to disintegrate, perhaps, and a growing sense of familiarity began to gnaw at him. A once-harmonious union strained by jealousy and suspicion, and later the tragic loss of a child... surely he wasn’t the only one to notice the parallels?
And as the sad news of Mamilius’s death rang through the room, Gervase found himself glancing towards where his parents sat—and saw his father take his mother’s hand. Even more significantly, his mother let him, keeping her hand in his throughout that tense, dramatic scene.
Staring at their linked hands, Gervase felt a suspicion gradually take hold in his mind, but it seemed so outlandish that he did not quite dare to put it into words. Then he heard a soft rustle beside him and slid his gaze toward the sound: Margaret, surreptitiously reaching for a handkerchief. Granted this was possibly the saddest moment in the play, but he did not doubt that her own lost child had crossed her mind. Tentatively, he reached for her free hand, felt a rush of exultation when her fingers twined with his.
They sat that way for the remainder of the act.
As applause thundered through the theater, Margaret dabbed at her eyes, not for the first time that evening. The end of The Winter’s Tale might strain credibility, but there could be no denying that, when done right, it was powerful and moving. The presumed-dead queen stepping down from her pedestal and into her penitent husband’s embrace, then turning to welcome the daughter she had lost. Glancing at Gervase, she saw that his expression was quite soft, for him, and a faint smile played about his lips. Except that his eyes were not turned towards the stage and the reunited royal family but towards the couple sitting almost directly in front of them.
Intrigued, she followed the direction of his gaze—and barely kept her mouth from dropping open in shock. Their Graces’ hands were linked, the duchess’s eyes shining with the brilliance of what looked suspiciously like unshed tears. And the duke, looking not at the stage but at his wife, wore an expression of almost ineffable tenderness. Margaret could not remember the last time she had sensed such accord between them.
Consumed with curiosity, she gave Gervase a gentle nudge, then tilted her head inquiringly in his parents’ direction once she had his attention.
He smiled crookedly, one dimple deepening in his cheek, and shrugged. “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,” he murmured under cover of the continuing applause.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. Well, that was certainly true of the Whitboroughs’ contentious relationship, Margaret reflected.
“Let’s see how long it lasts,” he added, then turned back to applaud the actors as they came to take their bows.
In the supper room, a sumptuous buffet had been laid out, while champagne flowed like a river to toast the company’s thespian efforts. Gervase’s parents, apparently still in harmony, were lavish in their compliments and eager to discuss tomorrow’s production.
Gervase offered his own compliments to the actors, especially the senior Brands, who had brought so much passion and pain to their portrayals of Leontes and Hermione. Then he made his way over to the buffet to fetch supper for Margaret and himself. Mrs. Hill had surpassed herself with a wide selection of French and English delicacies that included petit fours, lobster puffs, pâté de foie gras, smoked oysters, and several kinds of cheese.
Heading back towards the corner where he’d left his lady, he spied her in conversation with Alicia and quickly changed course for the nearest alcove. If the sisters were on the point of resolving their differences, far be it from him to interrupt that.
The alcove turned out to be already occupied by his elder sister, sipping champagne and looking unusually abstracted. She looked up as he entered, one elegant brow arching inquiringly.
“Good evening, Madeline,” he greeted her. “Mind if I join you for a moment or two?”
“Not at all.” She gestured towards the vacant chair beside her. “Make yourself at home. Hugo just left to get us some supper.”
He sat down, balancing the laden plate on his lap. “Enjoy the performance?”
“The one onstage—or the one off?”
Gervase stilled. Needle-witted Madeline. All his sisters were intelligent, but Madeline’s mind was as sharp and incisive as their mother’s. And like their mother, she did not suffer fools gladly. If anyone could be counted on to notice what he had noticed...
“If you’re referring to the play, I found it very pleasing,” she continued. “Although Polixenes turned a little bombastic in the second half, and Camillo remains a largely thankless role. If, however, you mean our Aged P.’s not so secretly holding hands and doing their best impressions of Darby and Joan... and if you failed to notice, I shall be seriously disappointed in your waning powers of observation.”
Gervase exhaled. “I noticed. I just—wasn’t sure how much emphasis to put on it.”
“Understandable.” Madeline stared into the depths of her champagne flute. “Well, then, I shall go out on a limb and express my own theory. Which is that Father doesn’t merely want Reg to come home and take up his duties as heir. And he doesn’t just want all of us together for this sentimental family Christmas. I think he wants Mother back—permanently.”
Gervase opened his mouth, and closed it again, frowning. “Are you sure about the ‘permanently’? Their truces seldom last beyond a few weeks at most.”
“True enough. And I have doubts myself whether they could sustain a long-term reconciliation. But I suspect tonight’s play was chosen quite deliberately.” She swirled the last of the champagne in her flute. “An estranged couple torn apart by jealousy and the death of a child. Who finally reconcile years later, when ‘what is lost is found.’ Shakespeare meant Perdita, as we all know—but I suppose, speaking figuratively, this Christmas could be considered Father’s attempt to recoup his losses. Starting with Mother.”
“Even supposing you’re right,” Gervase began slowly, his frown deepening, “he’s playing a dangerous game. The tactics he’s using are as likely to fail spectacularly as to succeed. He could end up driving her away instead. To say nothing of what he’s doing to Reg.”
“But I think that’s part of it. He knows how Mama favors Reg—and always has.” Madeline’s lips quirked. “What else would bring her from France or the ends of the earth, for that matter, but a threat to his interests?”
Gervase shifted in his chair, thinking of their father’s current scheme against their brother, but Madeline was continuing. “Everything changed when we lost Hal, and Reg is to be the next duke, no question of that. But I know that Father’s broached the subject of Mother making... someone else the heir to her French properties now.”
“No need, I suppose, to guess whom he had in mind,” Gervase interposed.
“No need whatsoever. Nor does it seem to have crossed his mind that Mama could just as easily name you, me, or either of our sisters as her heir. She’s unlikely to do so, but that’s more probable than her choosing Jason.”
“Thanks for the mention,” Gervase said, a touch dryly. Although if truth were told, he’d never coveted Reg’s French inheritance all that much. His mother had been training her favored son in the management of the family winery for more than fifteen years, so Gervase could readily understand her reluctance to supplant him with his baby brother, who was a stranger to her in so many ways. “I should have thought Father would be providing Jason with all he needs.”
“No doubt he will—as Jason himself enjoys pointing out. But it’s a point of pride with our father to manipulate our mother into yielding more than he does.” Madeline’s changeable eyes glinted with wintry humor. “And heaven forbid that he should ever just come out and simply confess that he misses her and wishes to live as husband and wife again.”
“The Lyons pride,” Gervase murmured, aware of both meanings. “God, what a family.”
They traded a glance of wry understanding, but any further conversation was cut short by the arrival of Hugo, bearing a plate of “Maddie’s favorites,” as he fondly informed his wife. Gervase excused himself and went in search of Margaret, whom he found standing close to where he’d last seen her but alone.
“You’ve been quite an age coming back,” she observed as he joined her.
“I saw you with Alicia, and thought I’d give you some time to talk.” He held out the plate of supper to her. “Is everything all right there?”
“A little better, perhaps. We talked mostly of the play.”
He scanned the crowd but saw no sign of a scarlet and gold gown. “Where is she now?”
“She pleaded a headache, and thought she’d retire early,” Margaret replied, helping herself to a lobster puff. “I offered to escort her to her chamber, but she said there was no need.”
“At least you’re speaking again,” Gervase pointed out, snagging champagne flutes for them both from a passing footman’s tray.
She managed a smile. “Yes—thank heavens for small mercies! I’d have hated it if we were still estranged on Christmas morning.”
They found a quiet corner—no small feat, given the number of people still milling about the room—and shared the supper he’d brought. Margaret did look a little happier, now that she and Alicia had taken a step towards mending fences. Gervase only hoped that their sisterhood could survive Margaret’s continued opposition to Reg and Alicia’s wedding.
He glanced towards where he’d last seen his brother, in conversation with Juliana, but there was no sign of him. Indeed, the crowd in the supper room had thinned out considerably; even some of the actors appeared to have retired to their guest chambers.
Leaning forward, Gervase murmured in Margaret’s ear, “Ready to go, darling?”
“I thought you’d never ask. Would anyone notice if we just slipped away?”
“Not at this point, I believe. Besides, Elaine’s already left with Alasdair, and Reg seems to have departed as well.”
She set aside her empty glass and stood up, smiling. “Then, by all means, let us go.”
Free of scrutiny, they made their way back towards the west wing, walking hand in hand through the Long Gallery and stealing the occasional kiss as they went.
They’d just entered the passage, when they heard what sounded like a cry issuing from one of the chambers. Alarmed, Gervase halted in his tracks, feeling Margaret stiffen beside him. But before either of them could react further, a door ahead of them burst open, and Reg strode out, carrying Alicia, clad only in a sheet and her long golden hair.
Even in the dim light of the passage, Gervase could see that his brother’s face was set like stone. Without a word, Reg deposited his trembling fiancée none too gently on the floor, then turned on his heel and disappeared into his room. Seconds later, Alicia’s gown, undergarments, and slippers hurtled through the open doorway before the door itself slammed shut.