A Homespun Regency Christmas

In the daylight, the Hare and Hound was a perfectly ordinary village inn. Cleaner than most, perhaps, with a fine ale and a friendly landlord, but still like dozens of other half-timbered, stone-chimneyed relics of the Tudor era.

On this Christmas Eve evening, though, it was quite transformed. Golden light spilled from every window and doorway onto the innyard, covering everything with a fairy-tale sparkle. Laughter and chatter rose and fell like music from the revelers making their way up to the third-floor assembly rooms. Strains of actual music also floated down from a village orchestra demonstrating little finesse but a rich abundance of enthusiasm. The entire tableau was one of great frivolity and holiday good cheer.

Antoinette began to think that this had not been such a good idea after all. The crowd was large, loud with merriment. What would happen when they saw her here?

She stood on the front steps of the inn behind the Greeleys, who had paused to greet some acquaintances of theirs, staying back in the night shadows for as long as she could. Her hand, encased in her most elegant silk evening glove, was tucked into Mark’s elbow, and, much to her embarrassment, she felt that hand tremble.

He peered down at her, his lips tilted down in a slight frown. He looked very distinguished and quite elegant in his black-and-white evening clothes, a fur-lined cloak tossed back from his shoulders, and a bicorne hat tucked beneath his arm. His hair was brushed back and tied with a black velvet ribbon, shining chestnut-brown in the candlelight. Yet, despite all his handsome looks, he, too, seemed distinctly ill at ease. His face was taut, expressionless as a stone statue.

‘‘Are you certain you want to attend this assembly?’’ he whispered. ‘‘We could go back to my cottage and share some brandy. You could tell me more tales of Jamaica.’’

Of course she didn’t want to attend this assembly! How could she have once thought she did? A nice fire, a snifter of brandy, and some convivial conversation seemed far preferable to staring crowds. Especially now that she was actually faced with that crowd—the farmers and shopkeepers and local gentry who whispered about her. Why had she thought this was a fine idea in the first place? She must have been addled by her head injury.

Antoinette glanced back over her shoulder. They were apparently the last to arrive, for no one waited behind them in the innyard. It would be easy to make their excuses to the Greeleys and depart. . . .

Except that Antoinette’s mother had not raised her to be a coward. She would not become one now. She had wanted a Christmas party, and here it was. She would hold her head up, and laugh and dance and chat. And she would make Mark Payne do it with her.

She gave him a mischievous smile, and tugged again at his arm. ‘‘Certainly not, Captain. You promised me a dance, and I intend to hold you to it. Besides, I have not yet had a chance to show off my ballgown.’’

He laughed, and laid his free hand over hers, briefly squeezing her fingers. ‘‘Quite right, Miss Duvall. I will happily dance with you, if you do not mind ruined slippers. I am not as light on my feet as I used to be.’’

The Greeleys moved forward then, and Antoinette and Mark followed them into the inn’s common room. After surrendering their cloaks to a waiting attendant, they made their way up the stairs to the assembly rooms.

Antoinette paused just outside the door to glance into a mirror. She had only this one ballgown, but she loved it, loved the inky-blue color of the silk, the shimmering gold embroidery on the low-cut bodice, the Elizabethan slashing of the tiny puffed sleeves. Now she only wondered—what did Mark think of the way she looked in it?

Her gaze met his in the glass, and she had her answer. His quicksilver eyes warmed like a summer sky, and his polite smile turned slow, sensual.

Antoinette gave him an answering smile. ‘‘As do you, Captain Payne.’’ She reached up to untangle her long earring from her blue silk turban, and then turned back to clasp his arm again.

Somehow, with his warm, muscled strength beneath her hand, she no longer feared the crowd. She no longer feared anything.

The long, wide assembly room was filled with gaily dressed revelers; young couples joining the dance, matrons watching them, chattering together; old men speculating on sport and the weather. On a table along one wall was arrayed a variety of delicacies, salmon patties, roast goose, mushroom tarts, a large plum pudding, and three punch bowls.

Yet the room did not feel crowded or overly warm. It sent out an atmosphere of holiday cheer and welcome. Even Antoinette felt it, deep inside of herself, and for the first time since their arrival at the Hare and Hound she felt some small flame of—was it excitement?

She gazed around, and noticed that while some people did give Mark and her startled glances, most did not even notice them.

‘‘Miss Duvall!’’ she heard someone call out, and she turned to see Mr. Lewisham, the vicar, hurrying toward them. His plump, cheerful wife followed, artificial holly woven into her pale blond hair in honor of the holiday. ‘‘Miss Duvall, how very charming to see you here. We thought perhaps you had gone off to Bath with the Leightons, until I saw you in the village this morning.’’

‘‘It is good to see you as well, Mr. Lewisham, Mrs. Lewisham,’’ Antoinette answered. ‘‘I stayed behind this year to finish some writing.’’

‘‘Work? At Christmas? I thought only the vicar had to do that!’’ declared Mrs. Lewisham. ‘‘We are glad you had time to join this evening’s revels.’’

‘‘As am I,’’ Antoinette said, and found, rather to her surprise, that it was true. The music, the holly, Mark’s arm beneath her touch, all conspired to give her a rather breathless Christmas warmth she had not felt since childhood. ‘‘I do not believe you have met Captain Payne. Mr. and Mrs. Lewisham, this is a neighbor of mine, Captain Mark Payne, late of His Majesty’s Navy. He came here with the Greeleys and myself this evening. Mr. Lewisham is incumbent of St. Anne’s.’’ She pulled Mark from the shadows into the flickering candlelight, fully to her side.

Mr. Lewisham only gave a welcoming smile, and reached out to shake Mark’s hand, but Mrs. Lewisham’s eyes grew wide at the sight of his face. Her glance darted from Mark to Antoinette and back again.

‘‘Thank you, Mr. Lewisham,’’ Mark answered, not bothering to correct the vicar and say he had actually been in the neighborhood for seven years.

‘‘And, of course, any friend of Miss Duvall’s . . .’’ added Mrs. Lewisham, a sly undercurrent of speculation in her voice. The vicar’s wife fancied herself the village matchmaker, and she had not had a ‘‘victim’’ in quite a long while.

‘‘Perhaps we will have the honor of seeing you at St. Anne’s tomorrow, for Christmas services,’’ said the vicar.

‘‘Thank you,’’ Mark answered slowly. The music changed from a reel to a schottische. ‘‘Ah—a dance I believe I can manage. Miss Duvall, may I have the honor?’’

‘‘Of course, Captain Payne. Please do excuse us, Mr. Lewisham, Mrs. Lewisham.’’ Antoinette gave them a smile, and followed Mark to take their places in the set. She could feel the interested gaze of the vicar and his good wife all the way across the room. As she and Mark took their places in the dance, conversation hushed around them. Ladies whispered behind their fans.

She ignored them as she smiled across at Mark. No gossip could bother her at all this evening—not with the lively tune making her toes tap and Mark’s silver-blue gaze on hers.

They were separated by the patterns of the dance. When they came back together, to promenade the length of the set, Mark leaned closer to her and whispered, ‘‘They were surely only jealous.’’

‘‘Of your beauty, of course. Of how very—special you are.’’ His voice was deep, touched with a sweetly surprised ardor.

Antoinette wanted to kiss him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She wanted to lean over and place her lips on his, to hold on to him and never, ever let him go.

Mark did not know where his words came from. He meant them. By Jove, but he did mean them! She was beautiful, beyond beautiful, and so special. He had realized that the moment he saw her on the cliff. And now, seeing how radiant and glorious she was, laughing in the dance, her deep blue gown flowing around her like the night, he knew she was a veritable goddess. A goddess of the sea and the wind. She made him see the beauty of life again.

No other woman could help but be jealous of her. She was more magnificent than any mortal woman could hope to be. But he hated it—hated it with a rage—that she had been hurt by any ignorance or lack of understanding. And she had been hurt; he could see it in the hidden depths of her eyes.

He did not regret his words, though, even as he was not a man given to poetic sentiment. He meant them—and more. So much more.

The dance ended, and Mark led Antoinette to the edge of the room, his arms already aching to hold her again. ‘‘Would you care for another dance, Miss Duvall?’’

‘‘Later, perhaps,’’ she answered, with a gentle smile. ‘‘Right now, I’m in need of some refreshment. The claret cup looks inviting.’’

They found two chairs in a quiet corner where they sipped in silence at the watery punch. Mark listened to the laughter, the movement around them, and urged himself to speak to her. Speak now.

She turned to him, her eyes wide with expectation, her body leaning slightly toward him. But anything he might have said was drowned out by a burst of music, a rush of voices raised in familiar song.

‘‘The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown.’’

Several of the villagers had joined the musicians on their dais, and sang out the old carol with great enthusiasm and holiday cheer. Antoinette looked to them, her eyes shining with enjoyment of the song.

And Mark knew that whatever he wanted to say could wait, should wait until a quiet moment. A moment when he could clearly decipher his own emotions toward this most unique lady. He sat back in his chair, carefully situated in the shadows, to watch her as she listened. Just—watch. And greedily drink in her beauty.

More voices joined in as the song came to its close. ‘‘The rising of the sun, and the running of the deer, the playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.’’

A half smile touched Antoinette’s rose-pink lips, and she swayed slightly in her chair, whispering the lyrics. She obviously loved music; it seemed to infuse her entire body, lifting her from the dim surroundings into a realm no one else could invade.

As the carol ended, Mrs. Greeley leaned toward Antoinette and said, ‘‘Miss Duvall, why do you not favor us with a song? Lady Royce has told us you have a beautiful voice indeed.’’

The smile faded from Antoinette’s lips, and her shoulders stiffened. ‘‘Oh, no, Mrs. Greeley,’’ she protested. ‘‘I have a mediocre talent at best. And I am sure no one would be interested . . .’’

‘‘Nonsense!’’ Mrs. Greeley interrupted. ‘‘Mr. Greeley and I would so enjoy hearing you, as, I am sure, would Captain Payne. Is that not so, Captain?’’

Mark would more than ‘‘enjoy’’ hearing Antoinette sing—he would pay his last farthing to do so. To hear her voice moving around him, showing him what music, what Christmas, could truly mean. He was only just becoming aware of the truth of so many things.

‘‘Yes, please, Miss Duvall,’’ he said. ‘‘Do favor us with a song. Something from your homeland, perhaps?’’

She stared into his eyes long and hard, her own dark pools unreadable. Finally, she nodded. ‘‘Very well, Captain Payne. To please you. But please do not ask me to go up on the dais!’’

Antoinette slowly rose from her chair, her head held high, hands folded at her waist. The candlelight glittered on the gold embroidery of her gown, and her gaze swept over the swiftly quieting crowd. She looked like a princess, Mark thought. No—a queen. A grand, magnificent queen. Only the slight trembling of her gloved fingers betrayed any nervousness.

‘‘The Virgin Mary had a baby boy . . . and they say that his name was Jesus. He come from the glory, He come from the glorious kingdom, oh, yes, believer! The angels sang when the baby born . . . and proclaim him the Savior Jesus.’’

As she sang words and melodies that were strange, exotic, yet achingly familiar, Mark could not turn his stare away from her face. She sang of love, redemption, transcendence, her eyes closed, a rosy glow on her cheeks. Her hands fluttered, raised in the joy of the song, the season. Her body swayed. She did not look at him, yet the words seemed only for him. They called to him—they told him that he was not alone, that someone else understood the agony of having one’s world torn to bits with nothing to replace it, nothing beautiful to cling to.

And he knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was falling in love with Antoinette Duvall. She was an angel, a goddess, a woman of infinite understanding. She was beyond him—perfection did not mate with a monster, he knew that. But he also knew that he was compelled to tell her what she had brought him. What she meant. He had to try to bring her some surcease from her own loneliness, no matter how meager.

The last jubilant notes died away, echoing into the profound silence of the room. The revelers stared at Antoinette, dumbstruck. Many jaws gaped most inelegantly, and more than a few ladies wiped at damp cheeks. Something had shifted in the crowd, just as something had shifted in Mark’s own soul.

Yet Antoinette clearly did not see that. Her shoulders were stiff, and slowly, painfully, her eyes fluttered open. Her hands twisted together. She appeared ready to flee, like a wounded gazelle.

Then a clapping began, slow at first, growing as it swept across the room, a tidal wave of emotional sound. A tentative smile again touched her lips, and she made a small, elegant curtsy.

Mark stepped up to her and took her gloved hand in his, bowing over it. ‘‘Miss Duvall—Antoinette,’’ he murmured, so no one else could hear. ‘‘I must talk to you—I must tell you something. May I come to your cottage tomorrow? To speak to you privately?’’

She stared at him for a moment, silent. Then something shifted behind her eyes, something that told him she understood his sudden desperation. She nodded, and her fingers tightened on his for a fleeting instant. ‘‘Come to my cottage later tonight,’’ she answered. The last word barely escaped before she was swept away by people demanding another song.