A Homespun Regency Christmas

On Christmas morning, Elizabeth gave herself the ultimate luxury and stayed in bed past seven. Then, after a quick and chilly wash, she donned the one wool dress, the soft green, she possessed that had neither stains nor mended spots, and headed downstairs.

The Lily Room was empty, but breakfast was laid out on the sideboard. There was chocolate this morning, a rare treat, and Lizzie stood for a moment, steaming cup held to her face so she could breathe in the rich aroma. She noted with a smile that someone had replaced the mistletoe. It might have been a silly gesture, but it was a charming one.

‘‘Happy Christmas, miss.’’ Kelly poked his face into the room. ‘‘Is there anything I can fetch for you?’’

‘‘No, Kelly. Thank you. Happy . . .’’ But he had already gone. ‘‘Well,’’ Lizzie said to the empty doorway. There would be no knight, shining or otherwise, on this day, she thought, and resolutely pushed the image of aquamarine eyes and a poet’s mouth in a warrior’s face from her mind. She would settle for old friends.

She took her time with breakfast, doing her best to savor what would be her last Christmas in her beloved home. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem to be working. It was, she decided, being alone that was dampening her festive mood.

She nearly sighed with relief when Andrew bounded in a half hour later. Seeing the mistletoe, he grinned and blew her a saucy kiss from the doorway. He had a sprig of holly tucked into his lapel and a winning smile on his handsome face. He stopped at her side and bowed with a charming flourish. ‘‘Good morning, Elizabeth, and a very happy Christmas to you!’’

Yes, Lizzie had stood at the window, drinking in the sight. But the glimmer had dimmed. ‘‘Captain Jones will not be joining us for church, then?’’

‘‘Unlikely.’’ Andrew tucked cheerfully into his sliced ham. ‘‘I, however, am very much looking forward to it. When do we leave? And can we walk?’’

She always had, but had assumed they would take the dog cart. ‘‘If you don’t mind a mile in the cold.’’

‘‘Mind? On the contrary.’’ Both glanced up as O’Reilly stomped into view. ‘‘Ah. Good morning, O’Reilly, and a happy Christmas.’’

‘‘Happy Christmas, Miss Lizzie. And to you, young sir.’’ The butler appeared to wink. But no, Lizzie thought. He never winked. She worried that the poor man might be developing a palsy. No one knew precisely how old O’Reilly was, but he certainly would not see sixty again. ‘‘We’ll be off to Mass, miss. Is there anything you’ll be needing afore we go?’’

Andrew shoved a last forkful of eggs into his mouth, then jumped to his feet. ‘‘Shall we be off, then?’’

‘‘Splendid. Now you go fetch yourself something warm to wear. It’s frightfully chilly out there. I felt it right to my toes.’’

Lizzie couldn’t imagine what he had been doing outside, but didn’t have the chance to ask. Andrew was hustling her out of the room and into the hall. A few minutes later, booted and cloaked, Lizzie joined him on the front steps. A distinct crunching sound caught her attention. Andrew didn’t seem to notice.

‘‘What is that noise?’’ she asked. It seemed to be coming from behind the house. But when she started toward it, Andrew grasped her hand and tucked her arm through his. ‘‘Oh, Kelly puttering about before they go,’’ he commented cheerily. ‘‘Come along now, before I freeze on the spot.’’

He whistled a tune as they headed down the drive. Lizzie recognized it. ‘‘That is the ‘Wexford Carol.’ ’’

‘‘Indeed. Lovely piece. Now, do tell me, will I be allowed to sing very loudly in church this morning . . . ?’’

He did, much to the disapproval of Aunt Gregoria and to the vast delight of most of the congregation. Lizzie was grateful for his genial presence by her side as she said her fervent prayers. And when she, along with the rest, chose a wisp of straw from the manger—a symbol of blessing and luck that she so needed—Andrew tucked one of his own into his pocket.

When the service was over, he did a charming social circuit, pumping the hand of a bemused but delighted Reverend Clark, chatting with Josiah Lambe, tickling the Kinahans’ baby under the chin, and sending pretty young Ann Dermott into a blush with his cheeky grin.

He even offered his hand and merry greetings to Percy, who was sporting a truly ridiculous combination of purple-striped waistcoat and green coat. ‘‘And may I say that is a very fetching hat, ma’am,’’ he complimented Gregoria on her storm-gray bonnet. Whether because the milliner had sewn it on too tightly to remove or in honor of the day, the thing sported a rather prickly looking collection of black feathers.

To Lizzie’s astonishment, Gregoria actually grunted a thank-you. Followed, not surprisingly by, ‘‘I trust you have managed to obtain something potable to serve with dinner, girl.’’

It was only more Burgundy, actually, but Lizzie smiled and replied, ‘‘Of course, Aunt.’’ In truth, she hadn’t been expecting her relatives for dinner, but she probably should have. They always came when they were least wanted. O’Reilly could be counted upon to prepare more food than was necessary on Christmas. With luck, Percy would leave some for the rest of the party. ‘‘We shall see you this afternoon, then?’’

‘‘Not a bit of it.’’ Percy thrust his familiar snuff up his nose and sneezed onto Andrew’s coat. ‘‘Coming now, of course.’’

‘‘Walked?’’ was the disbelieving response. ‘‘Good heavens, why? Has that good-for-nothing groom of yours driven the cart into the ground?’’

‘‘We walked,’’ Andrew cut in with his winning smile, ‘‘for the sheer pleasure of it. I would be honored if you would take my arm, madam, or I will certainly run and have your carriage readied.’’

Lizzie could almost see the wheels turning behind her aunt’s eyes. To subject her ancient carriage to the winter roads . . . ‘‘Give me your arm, young man,’’ the lady said imperiously. ‘‘We shall walk.’’

It was not a particularly merry group who arrived at Hollymore an hour later. Gregoria had carped about the state of the roads, the wear on her shoes, and the paucity of the fires at Hollymore. Percy, for his part, had snorted and sneezed, and spent the entire walk trying to slip an arm around Lizzie and suggesting various dates for a spring wedding. Through it all, Andrew maintained his goodwill and charm. Lizzie wanted to cry.

Nuala greeted them just inside the door. She cheerfully accepted coats and cloaks, not so much as batting an eyelash when Gregoria snapped, ‘‘And don’t you be going through my pockets! I know precisely what is there.’’

Nuala nodded. ‘‘And up again. Now, Kelly’s got a fire going in the blue parlor, and there’s cider and eggnog ready. You just go have a nice sit, miss, ’til he’s ready.’’

Percy got a grip on her arm just as Kelly appeared briefly in the facing hall door. Elizabeth knew she was mistaken, but the objects in his arms looked just like champagne bottles. That was quickly forgotten when Meggie scuttled through a far archway, a steaming basin in her hands and what appeared to be the medicine basket tucked precariously under her arm. She disappeared through the door leading to the back stairs.

‘‘Really must insist on speaking with you, Lizzie,’’ Percy insisted, casting a nervous glance toward the grand stairway. ‘‘Matters to be settled, y’know.’’

‘‘Oh, Percy!’’ Lizzie blew out an exasperated breath. ‘‘There is nothing to be settled. Now, if you would let go of me . . .’’

He didn’t, and tried to pull her right past the parlor door. Sighing, she tugged her arm free of his grasp and followed Andrew and Gregoria into the room. The holly decorations seemed to have multiplied overnight. There were bunches and garlands and little wreaths with bright candles in them on every surface. There was a large fire burning merrily in the grate and, as promised, mulled cider and eggnog on the side table.

‘‘Eggnog.’’ Gregoria plunked herself down in the seat closest to the fire. ‘‘And don’t be stingy, young man!’’ she commanded as Andrew hurried to fill a cup for her.

‘‘No later than April, Lizzie.’’ Percy rubbed his rib cage as he made his own quick way to the refreshments. Lizzie closed her eyes for a weary moment, then smiled as Andrew pressed a warm cup into her hands.

‘‘Have a little faith in this blessed day,’’ he murmured, then was off again to refill Gregoria’s waving cup.

A long quarter hour later, footsteps sounded outside the door. Kelly opened it with a flourish and stepped aside to admit Captain Jones. Lizzie’s heart, heeding no message her brain was sending, gave a cheery little thump at the sight of him. His coat shone richly in the light, his boots gleamed with new polish, and he’d combed his hair back so it gleamed like ebony above his brow. Where, Lizzie noticed, he had several angry-looking scratches.

His eyes met hers, warm blue, and he smiled. It was a smile like his nephew’s: swift and startling in its power. This time, Lizzie’s heart did a dizzying flip.

‘‘Happy Christmas,’’ he announced huskily. ‘‘I think, Elizabeth, that you should come with me. You need to hear the decisions I have come to regarding Hollymore.’’

He held out an arm, over which was draped her cloak. His hand, she noticed as she rose a bit shakily to her feet, bore more scratches. Confused, pulse skittering, Lizzie met him halfway and allowed him to help her into her cloak. ‘‘Where are we going?’’

‘‘Now, see here’’—Percy hauled himself to his feet—‘‘Can’t just be taking m’fiancée off like th—’’

She did not protest as he guided her out the door. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all as they left the house. Rhys kept his eyes on her as they reached the terrace steps. He wanted to see her expression every step of the way. His determination almost had him going tip over tail when he stepped on a loose slate. But it was worth it, worth the stumble and every painful scratch on his body, when she saw the maze.

‘‘What . . . ? Who . . . ?’’ Her eyes were wide, brilliant as she surveyed the dramatically if not particularly neatly trimmed hedge. ‘‘Did you do this?’’

‘‘I had help.’’ And he had. Every member of the staff had pitched in, working by his side. ‘‘When were you last inside?’’

‘‘Trust me.’’ Tucking her arm firmly through his, not feeling a single one of the deep holly scratches that the little maid had carefully bandaged, he walked until they met the first turn. ‘‘Now, first, you must allow me to introduce myself before we go any farther.’’

She stared at him, brow furrowed. Damn, but she was beautiful. It was all Rhys could do to keep from hauling her into his arms there and then. ‘‘But I know who you are,’’ she insisted.

He smiled and stepped away. Bowing low before her, he said, ‘‘Captain Lord Rhys Edward-Jones at your service, Miss Fitzhollis.’’

‘‘Never mind that.’’ Rhys took her arm again and guided her to the next turn. ‘‘My brother is the Duke of Llans.’’

She pondered this for a moment. Rhys half expected her to rail at him. Instead, she sighed. ‘‘So Andrew . . .’’

‘‘Andrew is Viscount Tallasey. He will someday be the Duke of Llans.’’ Before she could speak again, he changed the subject and demanded, ‘‘Why on earth would you even think of marrying Percy Fitzhollis?’’

Once more, to his surprise, Elizabeth did not rail. Instead, she sighed again. ‘‘Yes, I rather thought so.’’

‘‘So, I was never going to marry Percy. Not even for Hollymore. I am selfish, perhaps, Captain . . . er, I beg your pardon. Lord Rhys.’’

‘‘Rhys,’’ he said gruffly. ‘‘And you are not selfish. You are a splendid, brave, clever woman.’’ They walked to the next turn.

‘‘Now this.’’ He reached into his pocket and withdrew the sprig of mistletoe that Andrew had pushed into his hand early that morning. All four members of Elizabeth’s staff had had spares on hand in the last hour.

He gently tucked the mistletoe into Elizabeth’s braided coronet. And finally, at last, not a moment too soon for his liking, he hauled her into his arms, up onto her toes, and kissed her. She gave a small, surprised squeak. Then she was kissing him back, sweetly, sensually, and every inch of his taut body went to flame. ‘‘God,’’ he murmured against her lips. ‘‘Dear God, Elizabeth.’’

It seemed an aeon later, yet far too soon, when he gently held her away from his chest—where, he noted, his heart was pounding strongly enough to burst free. ‘‘I have a gift for you.’’

‘‘Trust me.’’ He satisfied himself by holding her hand this time. ‘‘Now, this isn’t really from me. I would say it is a gift from Hollymore. I am hoping, of course, that you’ll allow me to take care of the matter of the house, but if you’d rather, this ought to more than pay for all you wish.’’

He’d had Kelly build makeshift easels for the paintings. It had occurred to him that a half hour in the winter air wouldn’t precisely be good for a Rembrandt, but he’d needed to have things just this way. There were blankets to cover the paintings as soon as Elizabeth had seen them, and no doubt all of her staff was lurking nearby. They could haul off the art. He intended to have his hands full of Elizabeth.

‘‘Hush.’’ He guided her into the center of the maze and directly in front of the paintings. ‘‘Miss Fitzhollis, allow me to present Hollymore’s salvation: Misters Gainsborough, El Greco, Rembrandt, and Holbein. Happy, happy Christmas, Elizabeth.’’

Elizabeth stared. ‘‘Oh. Oh, my.’’ He heard her breath catch. ‘‘Where on earth did you find these?’’

‘‘Andrew discovered them, actually, behind a secret panel in one of the bedchambers. I assume one of your ancestors tucked them away for some reason, and they’ve been waiting for you to find them.’’

‘‘ ‘The Wexford Carol.’ ’’ Elizabeth reached up and stroked her hand quickly down his cheek. Then she stepped forward to the Holbein queen and gently touched a fingertip to the face that was so much like hers. ‘‘Oh. Oh, Rhys.’’

To his utter amazement, she began to laugh. It started as the light, lovely, silvery sound he knew. A minute later she was gasping and holding her sides. In the end, as he watched slack-jawed, she was forced to grope for the broken stone bench in the center and perch precariously on the edge.

‘‘I am very glad to hear that,’’ he muttered, ‘‘as I am rather alarmingly in love with you, too. But perhaps you will tell me just what is so funny.’’

She drew an audible breath and wiped at her eyes with the hem of her cloak. ‘‘Those.’’ She pointed to the paintings.

‘‘And not worth a penny.’’ Elizabeth rose and waved at the Gainsborough. ‘‘Don’t you recognize her?’’

Rhys made the calculations in his head. He supposed a young Gregoria could have sat for the famous painter. He didn’t know precisely when the family’s fortunes had turned.

‘‘My mother.’’ Her eyes were soft when they met his. ‘‘My great-uncle Clarence painted these. All of them.’’

‘‘The very same. He was a very skilled copyist, you see, but it never gave him half the satisfaction of letting his creative impulses run wild. And you thought . . . Oh, dear.’’ Shoulders shaking again, she returned to the bench. Rhys lowered himself to sit beside her. ‘‘Are you very angry?’’

‘‘To be honest . . .’’ He lifted her chin and stared sternly down into her heartbreakingly beautiful face. ‘‘I am bloody delighted.’’

‘‘Deliriously so.’’ He kissed her again, a quick, light touch, and grinned when she hummed with pleasure. ‘‘You see, I cannot imagine you having me otherwise.

‘‘I would have you,’’ she said softly against his lips, ‘‘if you hadn’t a shilling to your altogether too-grand name.’’

There was a rustling and shushing. ‘‘Get yourself off my shoulder, you daft eejit,’’ O’Reilly muttered. ‘‘Are you after flattening me?’’

There was a loud scuffling and a yelp from the other side. ‘‘Ouch. Can’t go this way.’’ Percy. ‘‘Lizzie? Won’t wait forever for your answer, y’know.’’

‘‘Oh, shut up, boy!’’ Gregoria snapped. ‘‘Just push through. And stop whining. It’s only a little scratch. Lizzie? You come out right now! Do you hear me? Oh, give me your flask, Percy. I feel faint . . .’’

Just then, Andrew’s grinning face appeared around the corner. ‘‘Well?’’ he demanded. ‘‘Did you kiss her?’’

‘‘That’s the spirit!’’ Andrew crowed, coming to give Elizabeth a resounding kiss on her cheek. Then he poked Rhys solidly in the chest. ‘‘There’s the spirit. And merry well about time, too. Now come and have some champagne. Mr. Lambe’s finest.’’

‘‘Champagne?’’ Gregoria’s voice carried stridently through the hedge. ‘‘Washed up on the beach, no doubt. For God’s sake, Lizzie, when are you going to have some decent spirits in this hovel? Oh, do stop sniveling, Percy. It is merely a scratch . . .’’

Call me the worst of meddlers, but I have a scheme brewing in my head and, as it will not go away and I cannot figure how to manage it myself, I am appealing to your sense of friendship and your brotherly devotion.

The enclosed is an advert from yesterday’s paper. As you will see, it is for a Wexford estate. It belongs to a family I knew in my youth. The daughter, Elizabeth Fitzhollis, lives there now. She is a lovely girl; I fancied her madly for a bit in my much younger days. I have only recently learned that her father died several years ago and, due to the typical nasty legalities, left her virtually nothing at all. Everything—lock, stock, and her beloved, crumbling pile of a house—went to a perfectly awful cousin who is advertising it for sale.

I would offer my assistance in a heartbeat, but it would look rather dodgy and Elizabeth wouldn’t accept it anyway. She is proud and lionhearted and, I have learned, so determined to keep her moldering Hollymore standing that she shores and mends and digs herself. A mule shouldn’t have to work so hard.

Now, generous a soul as I know you are, still let 141 me assure you that there is something for your family in this as well. I know how fond you are of your brother, as are we all of Rhys, despite his damnable starchy deportment. I also know that you, Susan, and the rest of the realm have despaired of his ever finding a woman to suit him. I think Elizabeth Fitzhollis just might be that woman.

Buy the pile; send Rhys to look at it. If all goes as I expect it will, not only will you have a lovely sister-in-law and a happy brother, but he’ll insist on taking said pile off your hands quicker than you can say ‘‘felicitations.’’

If all does not go as I expect, and that is a very rare occurrence indeed—oh, cease with the guffaws, sir—I will buy Hollymore from you at a profit. If Rhys does not come back with Elizabeth, perhaps he will come back with some Christmas spirit. Heaven knows he could do with a bit.

Ailis sends her love to you and Susan, and thanks you again for the marvelous Welsh hospitality during our honeymoon. She cannot abide England and is vastly relieved whenever I reveal a close acquaintance in a Celtic clime. She also bids me inform you that if you do not bring your sorry selves to Dublin in the new year, she will feature you prominently in her next set of caricatures. Trust me, my friend, you do not want that.