A Homespun Regency Christmas

Dinner was awful. The leek soup was cold, the roasted chicken singed to crispy. O’Reilly had done his best, Lizzie knew, but the fates had been working against him. The Joneses had not been expected, his rheumatism was giving him the devil of a time, and his help had been slightly incapacitated.

In the absence of holly boughs to decorate the mantels, Meggie and Nuala had rushed out in search of an alternative. The pine and yew they’d gathered were certainly attractive, bringing a lovely green scent into the rooms. But they’d inadvertently brought home an army of tiny spiders as well. Both women had been bitten from wrist to neck, necessitating salves and compresses and, in Meggie’s case, a large glass of restorative wine. The poor girl had still looked a fright as she moved wide-eyed and ointment-spotted around the table to remove the plates.

Beyond all that, Percy had returned, and he had brought Aunt Gregoria with him. The two had not even taken their seats in the drawing room before they proceeded to do untold damage to Lizzie’s plan.

‘‘We nearly had our necks broken as we were coming up the drive,’’ Gregoria had snapped as she’d stalked into the drawing room, trailing yards of graying crocheted shawl and pinched disapproval. ‘‘Disgraceful, the state of it, all hillocks and holes!’’

Scarcely had all the introductions been made when the lady continued sourly, ‘‘Honestly, Lizzie, your staff is robbing you blind and doing not a jot of the work for which you pay them their exorbitant wages!’’

Nuala, to her vast credit, did not pour the lady’s sherry over her tight gray topknot. Nor did she so much as blink when Gregoria snapped, ‘‘You have barely covered the bottom of the glass, stupid creature! Lizzie might not be aware of her portion going down your throat, but I am on to you!’’

Upon arrival, Percy had promptly settled his rotund bottom onto the settee beside Lizzie. ‘‘What are we doing in here?’’ he asked, gesturing around the drawing room with his own glass, and slopping a generous amount of his own sherry onto one of Lizzie’s two semifashionable white dresses. ‘‘Thought you’d closed it up.’’

She had, the winter before. There was no use, after all, in maintaining rooms that were never used. But shabby state aside, the Grand Drawing Room, with its Chinese silk walls and painted ceiling, was one of Hollymore’s gems. In honor of the Joneses, Meggie and Nuala had swept, scrubbed, and dusted, and laid a fire in the pine-festooned hearth. Lizzie tried to be optimistic. No spiders and no chimney fires. She couldn’t recall when last there had been a fire in that grate. Certainly not since last autumn when Kelly had opened the flue and nearly been brained by a pair of falling bricks.

Lizzie listened. All she could hear was Kelly whistling outside the window. ‘‘That,’’ she replied tightly, ‘‘is the ‘Wexford Carol.’ It is one of Ireland’s most famous Christmas tunes.’’

Captain Jones looked down his long nose. His nephew chuckled. ‘‘Christmas, Uncle Lawrence. You know, the season to be jolly. A very pretty tune indeed,’’ he said to Lizzie.

‘‘A nice Burgundy from Lambe’s,’’ Lizzie answered. She’d sent Kelly quietly haring into town with a few precious shillings they could scarce afford to spend on something so frivolous as wine. But the Joneses needed to be impressed.

Gregoria snorted. ‘‘Washed up on the beach, no doubt, and sold at a tidy price by that reprobate of a wine merchant. Nasty, watery stuff, Burgundy,’’ she remarked to Captain Jones. ‘‘Never take it myself, if I can possibly help it.’’ Before the Captain could respond, Gregoria turned on Lizzie again. ‘‘Your father had some very nice claret put by. I cannot imagine why you would not be serving that to your guests. Burgundy,’’ she huffed. ‘‘An insult, I say.’’

The truth of the matter was that the very last of the late baron’s reserve—which really had been no more than several dozen bottles rendered unsalable by the loss of all means of identifying their type or vintage—had been lost three weeks earlier when the ceiling of the wine cellar had collapsed. Lizzie had no intention of revealing that in front of the Joneses.

Percy did it for her. ‘‘Gone under a pile of rubble,’’ he sighed. ‘‘Whole bloody ceiling came tumbling down on m’head. Could’ve done me serious ill.’’

And so it had gone on, Gregoria and Percy doing their best, intentional or not, to reveal the state of all but Lizzie’s undergarments. Captain and young Mr. Jones had sat politely through it all. Even had he been able to get a word in, Captain Jones seemed disinclined to chat. His nephew had made a few charming efforts to engage Lizzie in stories of Hollymore’s less-damaged days. Percy or Gregoria had been there each time to spoil the moment. So the story of the Charles I windows, the mahogany paneling, the Parma marble had gone untold. Instead, the Joneses heard about Percy’s unfortunate encounter with a falling window-sill and the time a trio of mice had scuttled from behind the dining room wall and across Gregoria’s feet.

The picture of the polite gentleman, Captain Jones had waited, stiff and expressionless while the ladies had taken their seats around the table. Lizzie felt a surge of pride at the sight: several chairs had been scavenged from around the house to make five, the remnants of her mother’s china and Kerry lace tablecloth had been laid—with various candlesticks and dishes covering the holes. There were tapers in all the remaining wall sconces and among the pine and yew boughs.

His chair collapsed under him with the speed of a blink. There was a crack, a thump, and there he was, seated perfectly upright against the intact chair back, his own legs straight out in front of him and the four chair legs sticking out from beneath him like the limbs of one of Meggie’s spiders.

He didn’t say a word, merely sat for a long moment, staring stonily in front of him. Then, slowly, he gathered in his long legs and started to lever himself off the floor. At the sound of the crash, Kelly had rushed into the room. He hurried forward to help, and there was a tense minute as he appeared to wrestle with the captain. Then the wooden splat broke away with a crunch, and Captain Jones was flat on his back.

‘‘Thank you,’’ he muttered upward to the hovering Kelly, sharply waving away the younger man’s extended hand, ‘‘but I believe it will be best if I manage this myself.’’

He rose as elegantly as the situation allowed. Kelly, red-faced and wild-haired, rushed off to find another chair. When it arrived, Captain Jones lowered himself rather gingerly. Everyone present held their breath while this chair creaked, shifted, but remained intact. Everyone, that is, except Andrew, who was making faint gasping noises. A quick glimpse in his direction told Lizzie he was making a valiant effort not to laugh. For her own part, she was ready to cry.

Just then, Meggie and Nuala bustled in with the cold soup. Percy and Gregoria started flapping their tongues again. Lizzie felt her heart sinking inch by desolate inch.

It didn’t take long for both Joneses to give up on their meal, the captain with a deepening scowl and his nephew with an apologetic smile in Lizzie’s direction. Then, charming creature that he was, he tried again to engage her in conversation.

Percy let out a braying laugh. ‘‘Not half. Stuff ain’t good for anything but covering the holes in the walls. Good stuff’s all been sold.’’

‘‘I . . . er . . . I see.’’ Poor Andrew really was doing his best, she knew. What could he possibly say? He cleared his throat and turned to Gregoria, who was tapping an irritable finger against her empty glass. ‘‘I understand Miss Fitzhollis will soon be residing under your roof, madam. That must be a comfort to you.’’

Gregoria snorted. ‘‘As if she’ll be with me for any length of time. No, no, off she’ll go to take her place in Percy’s home, leaving me all alone.’’

Lizzie closed her eyes for a weary moment. Gregoria didn’t want her, never had. Nor was she at all in favor of Percy throwing himself away on his cousin. The splendid boy, she’d declared more than once, could do far better. Meaning, of course, that he ought to be wedding a quiet, malleable heiress. But then, his choosing Lizzie would save him having to make any settlements of his own, so Gregoria had grumblingly resigned herself to the match. Which, of course, was not likely to happen if Lizzie had anything to say about it. If he set his feeble mind to it and was very, very fortunate, Percy might be able to find a woman willing to trade her money for his title. Heaven help her.

He had been standing at rigid attention near the door, no doubt waiting to catch the captain should the second chair go the way of the first. He stepped forward. ‘‘Yes, ma’am?’’

Gregoria stared him down fishily, but Kelly stood firm. ‘‘Hmph.’’ She slapped her napkin onto the table. ‘‘Thieves and liars, Lizzie. You are a stupid, stupid girl.’’

Now, with her relatives long gone and her guests abed, Lizzie quietly let herself out the back of the house and onto the terrace. She donned yet another of her father’s worn coats over her dress and pulled it closely around her as she stepped into the cold Wexford night. In the dark, the maze didn’t look quite as overgrown, and it was almost possible to believe that the fountain statue still possessed its head. Almost.

Lizzie crossed the terrace to sit on a cracked step. ‘‘Oh, Papa,’’ she whispered, rubbing her cheek against the soft wool of the coat’s collar. ‘‘I am afraid this is all going very, very badly.’’ Then, unable to stave off the tears any longer, she rested her head on her arms and wept.