Carola Dunn

CHRISTMAS IN THE COUNTRY

Carola Dunn

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2 Holiday Novellas:

“A Match for the Season”

and

“He Stoops to Conquer”

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A Match for the Season

Chapter 1

 “Well now, poppet, it seems you have done the thing!”

 “Done what, Papa?” Looking up from the note she was reading, Cecily gazed fondly across the breakfast table at the earl.

 A beam on his square, ruddy, country-squire’s face, he waved his letter. “Your mama will be
aux anges
.”

 A flutter in her middle effectively destroyed her appetite for the hot roll she had just spread with damson jam. At present only one occurrence could render her mother ecstatic, and Cecily was not at all sure she was ready for it. “Lord Avon has requested an interview with you?” she asked apprehensively.

 “Near enough. This is an invitation from Pembroke to spend Christmas at Felversham.”

 “But the Duke of Pembroke is a particular friend of yours, is he not? He dined here twice last spring, when he came up to Parliament, and I recall you and Mama were guests at Felversham once, when I was still in the schoolroom.”

 “More than once. However, Pembroke makes a point of including you in the invitation at his son’s request!” said her father in triumph.

 “Oh.” Since her arrival in Town for the Little Season, Lord Avon had certainly been most assiduous in his attentions—hence Mama’s raised hopes. He stood up with her twice at every ball, and generally took her in to supper. He drove her in Hyde Park, escorted her to Hookham’s Library and the opera, bought her ices at Gunter’s.

 Just the other day he had told her about his father’s splendid winter house-parties. After a quiet family Christmas, the Duke of Pembroke always invited a crowd of guests, young and old, to celebrate the New Year and Twelfth Night at Felversham. Though the Duchess’s crippling arthritis prevented the Pembrokes’ spending the Season in London, she enjoyed entertaining friends and relatives. The fortnight was always filled with music, dancing and such outdoor activities as the weather allowed, culminating on Twelfth Night with a masquerade party for guests, servants and tenants.

 It sounded like a great deal of fun, but Cecily could not help wishing her suitor had enquired whether she would like to visit rather than simply asking his parents to invite her. And an invitation for Christmas, which he had described as a family occasion, was alarmingly significant.

 Her less than beatific response dismayed her papa. “You have not taken Avon in dislike, Cecy, have you?” he asked anxiously.

 “Oh no, Papa. He is charming and handsome and conversable and...and amusing...”

 “And wealthy and heir to a duke and son of an old friend. Nor have I heard anything to his detriment, beyond the little peccadilloes excusable in a spirited young fellow. I need not tell you, my dear, that I should be as pleased as your mother to give your hand to the Marquis of Avon.”

 “Yes, Papa. May I go and tell Mama about the invitation?”

 “Certainly, and give her this enclosed letter from the Duchess, but finish your breakfast first. We don’t want any lovesick wasting away,” he teased.

 “Yes, Papa.” Cecily obediently ate the roll and drank a cup of tea before making her way upstairs. She went first to her own lilac and ivory chamber, where she sat down before the dressing-table and stared at herself in the looking-glass.

 Lovesick wasting away? She did not love Lord Avon.

 She liked him as well as any gentleman she had met during her first Season last spring, and better than most. Besides, he was by far the most eligible bachelor presently on the Town, a splendid match for any young lady. To the vast majority of the Beau Monde, that was more than sufficient basis for marriage.

 Did he love her? She inventoried her assets: hair thick and glossy, curling easily into ringlets, though neither blond nor dark but merely a middling brown; eyes of a dark blue which had the more poetically inclined of her admirers in raptures; straight little nose; clear complexion with rose-tinted cheeks; mouth a trifle wider than was strictly fashionable, but only a trifle; chin—did gentlemen care about a lady’s chin? One never read sonnets to a chin!

 Standing up, she cast aside her cashmere shawl and studied her figure. Her height was somewhat above average, but Lord Avon was tall so that would not disturb him. Slim in the right places and rounded in the right places, the whole was enhanced by her morning gown of primrose jaconet, designed by Madame Ernestine, the most exclusive modiste in Town.

 Quite pretty, she thought, though the title of Incomparable was due less to her looks than to her being the only child of the Earl of Flint, with a fortune of fifty thousand pounds.

 Altogether a suitable bride for a duke’s heir looking to set up his nursery. She was a goosecap to wish for love. Mama and Papa went on quite contentedly with no more than habit and a mild fondness for each other. An agreeable husband was the best their daughter dared hope for.

 With a sigh, she picked up her shawl and went to tell her mother the good news.

 Lady Flint, propped against a mound of pillows, glanced up from her post and smiled as Cecily entered her chamber. At forty, she scarcely needed the flattering light cast by ruffled pink bedcurtains on her round face and lacy nightcap.

 “What a fetching headdress, Mama,” said Cecily. “Is that the cap we bought yesterday?”

 “Yes, my love, the one you chose for me. There is nothing like the real Valenciennes.” She pushed aside a pile of papers. “So many hostesses desirous of our company one might suppose it to be the height of the Spring Season instead of the end of November! Come and sit down and let us decide which invitations to accept.”

 “I have brought another.” While her mother perused the Duchess’s letter, Cecily perched on the bed and leafed unseeingly through the heap of cards beside her.

 “Christmas at Felversham!” crowed Lady Flint. “My dearest child, you have brought it off. Not that I supposed for a moment you would not,” she added stoutly. “There’s not a girl in the Ton can hold a candle to mine. A winter wedding, I think. I do not approve of long engagements, and you will enjoy next Season as a married lady.”

 Cecily smiled. “Now, Mama, who is forever telling me not to count my chickens before they hatch?”

 “Nonsense, child. It is very proper in Avon to wish to make you known to his parents before he formally offers for your hand, but the Duchess writes that he informs her you are...ahem! Well, I don’t wish you to grow quite puffed up!”

 “Pray tell, Mama! What did he say?” Cecily asked hopefully. Perhaps he did love her after all.

 “Let it suffice that he has persuaded both her and the Duke you are in every way fitted to be his wife. What is more she especially looks forward to the connection because of your father’s long friendship with her husband. So you see it is perfectly plain. You shall be the next Duchess of Pembroke!”

 In the face of such delighted enthusiasm, Cecily did her best to put aside her doubts. She knew very well all her friends would be green with envy. The world would consider her the most fortunate of creatures; who was she to dissent?

* * * *

 “How are the aches and pains today, ma’am?” Iain Macfarlane took his aunt’s knotted hands in his with the familiar twist of helpless pity. What was the use of being a physician if he could not cure the woman who had been a second mother to him? He bent to kiss her cheek, scented with the faintly astringent sweetness of Cologne water.

 “I do believe the ginger and willow-bark tea has helped, Iain,” the Duchess said cheerfully. Reclining on the blue-brocaded chaise longue by the window in her cosy private sitting-room, she smiled up at him.

 A near cripple before she was fifty, the Duchess of Pembroke bore her affliction with patience and tried without complaint every new remedy Iain prescribed. Reluctant to disappoint him, she had at first avoided telling him when one of his ideas failed to alleviate her symptoms. He had persuaded her to be frank, so now he could be sure the latest medicine really was useful.

 “However,” she continued with a mischievous twinkle, “the improvement may be due to Jasper’s news. You have heard he means at last to do his duty?”

 “He mentioned in a brief note that he had resigned himself to parson’s mousetrap.”

 She laughed. “He told me that if you were in the line of succession nothing should make him toss the handkerchief, but the thought of his cousin Rodney as Duke is more than he can stomach.”

 “He and Rodney were ever at odds.” Iain frowned, vaguely troubled. Cutting out a disliked relative seemed a poor reason for marriage and hardly fair to the young lady in question. On the other hand, in worldly terms no one could deny Jas was a splendid catch for any female. “Tell me about the girl he has offered for, Aunt Lou.”

 “He has not actually offered for Lady Cecily yet, but you will soon see her for yourself. She and her parents will come to Felversham for Christmas.”

 “Jasper wants your approval before he comes up to scratch?”

 “If you ask me,” the Duchess said dryly, “it is sheer delaying tactics. Lady Cecily Barwith is Flint’s daughter, and you know the earl and your uncle have been close friends since their schooldays. Her breeding is impeccable. Her fortune is large, and her expectations larger, for she is the earl’s only child. That is not to be despised though Jasper has no need of it. Add only that he describes her as well-favoured yet no spoilt beauty, well-behaved and modest yet not tongue-tied, and amiable yet conscious of her position in the world. How can we not approve?”

 Temperate praise, Iain thought. Jas was not in love. He had found a suitable bride, one to please his parents, and Lady Cecily, “conscious of her position in the world,” was no doubt delighted with the bargain. A marriage of convenience on both sides, such as Society expected of them.

 “As your doctor, I must approve anything which raises your spirits,” he said with a smile.

 “You will be able to stay over Christmas, will you not, Iain?” his aunt asked.

 “Yes, Cranmer will be my
locum tenens
from Christmas Eve to Twelfth Night in exchange for his summer fortnight as usual.”

 “Splendid!” boomed the tall, lean, grey-haired gentleman in riding dress who strode into the sitting room at that moment. “May I come in, Louisa?” the Duke enquired belatedly, moderating his tone somewhat.

 The Duchess hid a smile. “Well, Edward, I am not sure you ought to intrude on a consultation with my physician...”

 “Gammon, my dear, who better?” Like his nephew before him, he bent to drop a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Besides, you were talking of Christmas, not of pills and potions. Louisa’s been telling you about Jasper’s betrothal, Iain?”

 “Yes, sir, though I gathered he is not quite betrothed yet?”

 “As good as, my boy.” His face, as weathered as any of his tenant farmers’, took on a brooding look. “I shall let her hunt Daystar.”

 “Certainly not,” said her Grace.

 “Not?” asked Pembroke in surprise. “You think the mare is still too young?”

 “Now how should I be able to express an opinion on that, Edward? I have only seen her at a distance, through the window. But I do recall your telling me Daystar is too headstrong for most females though not up to the weight of a man. It will not do, you know, my dear, for Lady Cecily to end up as Iain’s patient before ever she becomes Jasper’s bride.”

 “You are right, as always, Louisa. Daystar is a trifle hard-mouthed, too. Flint’s girl shall have Veleta, at least until I have a chance to judge if she is capable of holding Daystar. It’s a deuced pity, though. Daystar is ready to try a good run.”

 “I suppose,” the Duchess asked gently, “Jasper has told you Lady Cecily hunts?”

 “Good gad, surely my son would not wed a female who does not!”

 “It is possible the question never arose during his courtship, or if it did that the answer would not influence his choice. It is even possible she does not ride.”

 Seeing his uncle stunned into silence, Iain said soothingly, “I daresay my sister will be glad to take Daystar out, if you will trust her, Uncle.”

 The Duke brightened. “Yes, by Jove, Elspeth’s a regular goer. A sensible girl, Elspeth. Married a neck-or-nothing fellow who ain’t afraid of a rasper.”

 “Elspeth and Lord Sutton met on the hunting field,” her Grace pointed out, “not in Town, like Jasper and Lady Cecily.”

 “If she can’t ride, he can teach her.”

 “If she wishes, Edward. You are not to dragoon her into it.”

 “I never dragoon anyone,” he protested, hurt. He eyed his nephew. “I have the very mount for you, Iain, a young hunter I purchased last summer, a fine grey gelding but not up to my weight, nor Jasper’s. Consider him yours.”