A Homespun Regency Christmas

The Honorable Elizabeth Fitzhollis had dirt beneath her fingernails. She also had a bruise on her chin and bits of dried plaster in her hair. She didn’t think Mr. Dunn, the family’s aged solicitor, had noticed. He was glancing nearsightedly at the paper in his hand, beaky nose nearly against it. Lizzie did, however, believe he had noticed the not very pleasant smell emanating from her person. He’d wrinkled his nose upon entering the room, squinted at her, then emptied the contents of his bulging leather satchel onto the already concave desktop.

There hadn’t been much Elizabeth could do about the smell. She had been knee-deep in a clogged drainage ditch when Dunn had arrived unexpectedly. She’d only had time to clamber inelegantly from the hole and bolt upstairs to don a worn but appropriate dress before joining him in her father’s study. A bath had been out of the question. There hadn’t been time. And she was just going back into her discarded clothing and the ditch, shovel in hand, within ten minutes of his departure anyway.

The bruise was from the pantry door. It had been sticking for months, but fixing it hadn’t been anywhere near the top of Lizzie’s list. Having yanked it open into her own face the day before, she’d moved it up a few notches. The collapsing ceiling in the Lily Room had been much more pressing, hence the plaster in her hair. Had it been the ballroom ceiling, she could simply have closed the door and forgotten about it for the time being. But the Lily Room was where she spent what scant quiet time she had, usually battling with monetary figures that wouldn’t budge no matter how many times she rearranged them.

Lizzie dragged her attention away from the crumbling roof tiles to what Mr. Dunn was saying. He did tend to prattle on about debts—nothing of which Lizzie was not well aware, so she tended to listen with only half an ear. ‘‘Who will be arriving, sir?’’

Oh, no. Please, God, no. Lizzie’s stomach did a dizzying flip. She’d been waiting for this day, dreading it, but never quite believing that Cousin Percy would actually sell her home, her beloved Hollymore.

‘‘Captain Lawrence Edward Jones,’’ Mr. Dunn read, squinting at the missive, ‘‘representing the Duke of Llans. His Grace plans to set up a hunting estate here, and Captain Jones will be supervising the demolition and subsequent development.’’

‘‘Mmm. He has no use for the house. Far too large and’’—Mr. Dunn cleared his throat apologetically—‘‘er . . . not, shall we say, in the best of repair. He will replace it with a smaller lodge. Now, Captain Jones will expect a room . . .’’

Lizzie had stopped listening. Replace Hollymore. Knock down stones built upon the stones that had sheltered Henry II in 1171, break out the stained-glass windows in the Long Gallery that had been a gift from King Charles mere months before he lost his head. Rip out the wooden paneling in the dining hall that bore the carved names of the twenty-two Fitzhollis men who had died at the Battle of the Boyne.

Yes, the house was tumbling down around her ears. Yes, her father had died without a son to inherit or anything to leave his only daughter. Yes, as the new baron, Percy had every legal right to sell the house. Lizzie simply hadn’t expected him to do it. All in all, she thought miserably now, she shouldn’t have been surprised.

Oh, yes. A home in pinch-faced Aunt Gregoria’s overwarm little cottage that smelled of cats. A home where each morsel of food was weighed before it went onto a plate and candles were only used for a half hour each evening.

‘‘Well, then.’’ Dunn began to gather up his belongings. Several papers stuck to the decaying leather blotter, still more had been impaled on the decidedly ugly sculpture of a hedgehog that squatted atop the desk. Lizzie gave the thing a careful pat as she freed the papers. The bronze hedgehog had been part of her great-uncle Clarence’s ‘‘natural’’ period. Not one of his more successful sculpting endeavors. But it remained in its place of honor because both Lizzie and her father had been very fond of Uncle Clarence. And because it couldn’t be sold as nearly everything else in the house had been. No one in their right mind would buy it.

Lizzie herself retrieved Mr. Dunn’s hat and stick from the coatroom. O’Reilly, the ancient butler, was busy replacing the paper stuffing in the first-floor windows, and both maids were doing their best to rescue the parlor furniture. Lizzie peered carefully into the solicitor’s hat before handing it over. The coatroom was a bit dark and cobwebby, and the Reverend Mr. Clark had been understandably unhappy on his last visit when he’d donned a very large spider along with his hat. Pity, she’d thought at the time, that it hadn’t been her cousin. But Percy kept all of his belongings near to hand when he paid his unwelcome visits.

After a quick check to make certain he wasn’t standing on a crumbling bit, Lizzie left Mr. Dunn on the front steps and went off to summon his carriage. Kelly, the groom, was still trying to capture the pair of owls that had flown into the Gallery two nights before. So far, they had been impressively clever at avoiding his net.

Eventually, she got Mr. Dunn into his carriage and waved him down the weedy drive. Only when he was out of sight did she allow her shoulders to slump. It was a brief break, though. She knew the staff would gather at teatime—they always did after his visits—and would want the report. Usually, it was merely the news that their wages would be delayed again. Since none of them had been paid in more than six months, they left those meetings cheerful. This time would be so very different.

And so Lizzie found herself in the warm kitchen two hours later, bathed and better-smelling but exhausted from her moderately successful second round with the ditch, facing her loyal staff over their tea. She studied the beloved faces as they sipped the strong, sweet tea or gnawed on O’Reilly’s biscuits. The butler-cook-general factotum was cheerful as ever, eyes bright in his seamed face. But Lizzie knew his rheumatism was acting up again. As hard as he’d tried to hide it, she had seen his grimace as he sat down at the table. Meggie, the ginger-haired maid, had plaster dusting her young face; black-haired, motherly Nuala had a bigger bruise than Lizzie’s on her right cheek. And Kelly, who tended the single horse and overgrown gardens as best he could, as well as being resident house wildlife trapper, had a face so red from his exertions with the net that it rivaled the brilliant hair he shared with his sister Meg.

‘‘It isn’t good,’’ she began, and determinedly kept her voice from cracking as she repeated the solicitor’s news. That done, she assured them, ‘‘I’ll find you better posts elsewhere before I leave. I promise you that.’’

No one spoke for a long moment when she’d finished. Then O’Reilly, undisputed leader of the pack, growled, ‘‘Don’t you be worrying about us, missy. We’ll be just fine.’’ There was a chorus of nods and ayes around the table. ‘‘We’ve all places t’go. ’Tis you who needs the caring for. Stuffed away wi’ that bitter old bat. ’Tisn’t right, no more than you slaving away at this old pile. Beautiful young girl needs beaux and balls and a house wi’out falling walls.’’

Lizzie smiled. ‘‘You know you love this old pile as much as I do.’’ And they all did. O’Reilly’s father and grandfather had been in service to the Fitzhollises before him, as had Nuala’s mother and both of Kelly and Meggie’s parents. ‘‘Besides that, it has been so long since I attended a ball that I wouldn’t know where to put my feet, at present all the walls are standing splendidly, and if I wanted a beau, there is always Persistent Percy.’’

It had its desired effect. There were snorts and smiles all around. Lizzie was grateful for the unbending support. Grateful, too, if amused, by the familiar compliments. She supposed she was young enough; six and twenty was hardly an advanced age. And enough men had called her beautiful. She had inherited her father’s rich gold hair and Irish-green, thickly lashed eyes. Along with her mother’s heart-shaped, high-boned face, willowy frame—a bit hardened, perhaps, by all the shoring and shoveling and plastering—and quick, wide smile, it was a pleasant enough picture. But her beauty had, for good or ill, not been quite enough to surpass her want of fortune. One after the next, her youthful swains had taken themselves off to wealthier climes. Lizzie suspected that her forthright nature and frank intelligence had something to do with the matter as well, but for whatever reason, no man had come courting in the two years since her father had died. Except Percy, of course, and she would marry his horse before she would have him.

‘‘I will manage perfectly well with Aunt Gregoria,’’ she announced to her staff now. ‘‘I will still be close to the good company of the area. And, if I am very well behaved, and manage to remember the names of all eight cats, she will take me to Dublin with her when she performs her good works.’’

There were more snorts and smiles. Gregoria Fitzhollis’s idea of good works consisted of distributing scratchy woolen gloves and sermons on resisting the drink to Dublin’s unsuspecting poor. That she herself was rather partial to sweet sherry was a source of wry amusement to her acquaintances. But a weekly half bottle of genteel after-dinner sherry consumed in the presence of her vicar, Gregoria steadfastly asserted, was as different from whiskey in a tavern as orange and green. She’d never commented on the other five half bottles she consumed during every sennight.

‘‘I still don’t like it,’’ Kelly muttered, hunching and bristling in the protective mien he’d always used for Lizzie despite the fact that she was several years older. ‘‘Sure, and this captain’s a dog for coming to shove you out of your rightful home.’’

‘‘And just after Christmas, too!’’ was Meggie’s indignant addition. ‘‘Couldn’t be bothered to wait ’til the holidays had well passed. They’re all just the same, they are, the fancy. Sensitive as turf bricks.’’ She gave Lizzie a sweet smile. ‘‘We don’t count you among them, o’ course, Miss Lizzie.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’ Lizzie took the compliment with a smile of her own. With the exception of her beloved if ineffectual sire and the gentle mother she’d barely known, her opinions of the aristocracy were much the same. Most she’d met were just like Percy. ‘‘But I do not suppose we can blame Captain Jones. I imagine he comes and goes at the duke’s bidding.’’

‘‘You’re too kind, cailin,’’ Nuala scolded. ‘‘ ’Tisn’t this captain having his heart broke during what should be the kindest time o’ the year. Bad business for holy days, I say, and may they know it.’’

Silently Lizzie agreed. It was a sorry thing indeed to conduct such business just after Christmas week. But despite the fact that both Captain Jones’s name and the duke’s title were Welsh, it was likely that the duke at least was more English than anything and, like members of the English High Society in which he no doubt lived, just didn’t care whose holidays were inconvenienced as long as they weren’t his own.

‘‘Oh, Nuala.’’ Lizzie gripped her chipped earthenware mug tightly and willed her lips not to tremble. ‘‘I’m afraid not. Even if he hadn’t already sold Hollymore to the duke, it would only be a matter of time before he took the next man’s gold.’’

Lizzie fully agreed with both. But any time spent thinking of Percy was wasted time. She had something else in mind. ‘‘There’s nothing to be done for my future here,’’ she said firmly, ‘‘but I’ve had an idea to save Hollymore.’’

‘‘We’ve at least a sennight before Captain Jones arrives, perhaps more. I know we’ve had quiet Christmases here since Papa died . . .’’ The first had been spent in mourning, the next two in the sort of penury that precludes all but the most modest of celebration. ‘‘. . . but this year can be different.’’

‘‘Well, yes, that. But there’s more.’’ Lizzie took a deep breath. She didn’t want to sound too hopeful. Didn’t want to feel too hopeful. ‘‘Perhaps, just perhaps if we can show Hollymore at its best . . . Yes, yes, I know,’’ she murmured when four sets of eyebrows lifted. ‘‘The best it can be in its present condition. Perhaps then Captain Jones will see how very wonderful a house it is and will persuade the duke to keep it, to restore it rather than raze it. His Grace could use it as a hunting lodge. At least then . . . well, at least then it will still be here, and there might well be places for all of you in it.’’

‘‘I won’t have you even considering making any such foolishly noble stand for me,’’ Lizzie said fiercely. ‘‘But you can do this: Help me save my house. Here is how I think we should begin . . .’’

Later that afternoon, garbed in an old pair of her father’s wool trousers and one of his warm coats, Lizzie stood on the sweep of rear lawn that was more crabgrass than anything, surveying the holly maze below that had been planted in honor of her family name. Dense and glossy green with red berries, the branches growing thickly from ground to top, the holly was a cheery sight. The shrubs had been planted among the maze hedge and, when left untended, made navigating the maze a prickly business. Needless to say, they had been left untended.

Lizzie planned to go at them herself with hedge shears. If she and Kelly put their minds and backs to it, they could make the maze passable—if not perfect—and supply the house with ample decoration all in one day. The problem, of course, was which day. The parlor ceiling wasn’t finished, Kelly still hadn’t captured the second owl . . .

She shrugged off the hand and turned to face her cousin. It was difficult at times to reconcile the character with the appearance. Short, round-faced, with the blond curls and pink cheeks of a cherub, Percy Fitzhollis—Baron Fitzhollis now—could have modeled for Raphael, and done service to Lucifer.

He was garbed as always in his idea of London fashion. Today it was an azure jacket over an orange-spotted waistcoat and white pantaloons. To Lizzie’s eye he looked like a tubby bullfinch. In her mind, she thought of him as more of a reptile.

Percy had never met the Earl of Clane, either. Lizzie had. They had danced together at several balls, even had a moonlit walk in Phoenix Park once. Lizzie had liked him, even indulged in a few romantic reveries. But she’d been so young, barely seventeen at the time. Then Clane had gone off to serve in the army, and by the time he had returned, Lizzie’s father had died and she had been long gone from Dublin Society events. Clane was married now, she’d heard. He’d probably thought the same of her when he’d seen that Hollymore was for sale.

Yes, he’d told her more than once, usually when he was foxed on second-rate Madeira. Even had Percy not been a fool, not been a reptile, and not always spoken in half-formed sentences—only to be expected, Lizzie thought, for someone with half a brain—she wouldn’t have had him. Only now, with Hollymore at stake . . . She shuddered at the thought of seeing Percy’s face first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

Had Lizzie seen it coming, she would have been ready with knees, nails, and teeth. But she only had time to gasp in surprise as Percy grabbed her by the upper arms and thumped her into his orange-spotted chest. Her sharp protest was lost to his soft lips and jabbing tongue.

No deferential lackey this, Lizzie thought. From the top of his towering dark head to the soles of his booted feet, he exuded arrogance and command. He wasn’t a handsome man; the blue eyes were too cold, the jutting nose and jaw too hard, but he was certainly an impressive figure in his naval uniform coat.

Everyone present jumped as metal clanged loud and hard against the stone terrace. A piece of the gutter had come loose. It wasn’t the first. Lizzie gave the two-foot-long section a mournful look. It had shattered the slate tile beneath it.

Captain Jones, when she turned to address him again, was scowling fiercely enough to frighten what stone gargoyles remained on the ramparts. Lizzie sighed. ‘‘Forgive me for saying so, sir, but your arrival really is atrociously timed.’’