Under The Mistletoe (33 page)

“Listen to me, Lilias,” the marquess said fiercely, turning to her. But he stopped talking and looked at her in exasperation. He reached out and took one of her hands in a firm clasp. “No, don't listen to me. Come with me.”

He did not take her far, only to the middle of the parlor. She looked up at him in mute inquiry.

“You will not even be able to slap my face,” he said, drawing her against him with his free arm. He glanced upward at the mistletoe. “It is a Christmas tradition, you see.” He bent his head and kissed her.

She stood still, rigid with shock. It was a hard and fierce kiss.

“Don't,” he said against her lips. His very blue eyes were gazing into hers. “Don't, Lilias. Don't shut me out.”

And then she could only cling to him and sag against him and eventually reach up to hold him more firmly by the shoulders and about the neck. He was no longer a slender boy, kissing her with the eager kisses of a very young man. He had a man's body, hard and firmly muscled. And his kisses were a man's kisses, deep and experienced and full of a knee-weakening promise.

But he was the same, nonetheless. He was Stephen as she remembered him, as she had dreamed of him and cried for him, and as she had consigned to the most treasured memories of her young life. He was Stephen as she had longed for him and yearned for him through
six years when she might have married any of several other worthy men. Stephen, whom she had loved at the age of fifteen, and whom she would love at the age of ninety, if she lived that long.

She did as he asked. She did not shut him out. At long last, she lowered her guard and did not shut him out.

“Lilias.” He held her head against his shoulder and looked down into her face. “I said it all wrong. I did it all wrong. Right from the start. Six years ago. How could I ever have left you? After Claude died, my father impressed upon me that I was now his heir, that I must put behind me all that was humble and beneath the dignity of a future marquess. And when he died soon after, I was dazzled by my own importance and popularity. I forgot you. I married Lorraine.”

“I understood,” she said, reaching up a hand and touching his cheek with her fingertips. “I did not expect any different. Even before you left, I never expected more from you. Only friendship and an innocent romance. I was very young. Too young to have any expectations of anything beyond the moment.”

“I never allowed myself to think of you,” he said. “You just became part of the dream of a perfect childhood and boyhood.”

“I know,” she said. “You became my dream, too.”

“I did only one good and worthy thing in all those years,” he said, “and had only one claim to happiness: I begot Dora.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

“I have had her only since last spring,” he said. “And as Christmas approached, I knew I had to bring her here. I remembered that Christmases here were always perfect. I thought it was the snow and the sledding and skating. Memory can sometimes be so defective. I was wrong about that. But not wrong in the main. Christmas
was
always perfect here, and it has been perfect this year, even though the snow has only just come. It was because of you, Lilias. Because you were always there. And because you were here this year.”

She turned her face to his shoulder. “I wanted Christmas for the children,” she said. “I did not know how I was to do it. But when I heard that you had come, I knew that you would be able to provide it. Not just with money, though that is what I ended up asking for and remembering that ridiculous incident of the Latin lessons. I just felt that I had to go to you and that you would make everything all right. But you had changed. I was frightened when I saw you.”

“Lilias,” he said, and held her head more firmly against his shoulder. “How can I say it this time without saying quite the wrong words again? If not for your own sake and your brother's and sister's, will you do it for mine? Marry me, I mean. Though I don't deserve it. I left
you without a word. For Dora's, then? She needs a mother. You would not believe what a sullen and bad-tempered child she was when I first took her, and how petulant she can still be when she does not have her way. And I cannot say no to her, though I know I must learn how. She needs you, Lilias. And she loves you already. Have you seen that? I want you to be her mother. Will you? Will you marry me?”

She pulled her head free of his hand and looked up into a face that was anxious and vulnerable.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not for Dora's sake, Stephen. It would not be enough. And not for Andrew's and Megan's. That would not be enough either. And not for my need. Somehow I will survive as a governess.”

He opened his mouth to protest. She set one finger lightly over his lips.

“For one reason only,” she said. “For the only reason that would make it work. Only if we love each other. Both of us.”

Wide blue eyes looked down into hers. “You have been there for six long and unhappy years,” he said. “The dream of you. I brought my child to you this Christmas, though I did not realize when we left London quite why I was bringing her here. The dream has come alive again. Like a greedy child, I have Christmas and want to keep it forever here in my arms. I don't want it to disappear tomorrow or the next day. I don't want that dreary world back, Lilias. I don't want to live without you. Yes, I love you. I always have, but like a fool, I have repressed the knowledge for six years. Will you have me?”

“So many times,” she said, “I have told myself how foolish I was not to let go the memory of you. I had the well-being of two children to see to, and my own, and I have had two offers since Papa died. We could have been comfortable, the three of us. But I could not let you go, even though I was so very young when you left. Now I know I was not foolish, after all. For whether you marry me or leave me forever tomorrow, Stephen, you will always be a part of me. I will never love any other man. There is only you.”

He was quite the old Stephen suddenly, his eyes dancing, his mouth curved into a grin. “Now, let me get this straight,” he said. “Was that yes or no?”

She laughed back into his eyes. “It was yes,” she said.

“Was it?” He stooped down suddenly and she found herself swung up into his arms. He carried her over to the fire and sat down on a chair with her. “God, Lilias, you weigh no more than a feather. The first thing I am going to do with you, my girl, is fatten you up.”

She clung to his neck and laughed.

“And the next thing I am going to do,” he said, “is take you to London and buy you so many clothes it will take you a year to wear them all. And so many jewels that it will take two footmen to lift you from the ground.”

Her laughter turned to giggles.

“But there,” he said, shrugging his shoulder so that her face was turned to his again, “I was always a fool, wasn't I, love? The costliest gown in London could not look lovelier on you than this blue silk. And anyway, those things are going to have to come second and third. A very distant second and third. There is something else I must do first.”

“What?” she asked, reaching up to touch the silver hairs at his temples.

“I'll show you in just a moment,” he said. “But first you had better tell me what time you are planning to kick me out of here.”

“Mm,” she said. “Give me time to think about it. What were you going to show me, Stephen?”

He rubbed his nose against hers. “How to play house properly,” he said, grinning at her once more before seeking her mouth with his own again.

 

T
he White Hart Inn, somewhere in Wiltshire—it had never been important enough for anyone to map its exact location on any fashionable map or in any guidebook, fashionable or otherwise—was neither large nor picturesque nor thriving. It was not a posting inn and had no compensating claim to fame—not its location, nor the quality of its ale or cuisine, nor the geniality of its host, nor anything, in short. It was certainly not the type of place in which one would wish to be stranded unexpectedly for any length of time.

Especially at Christmastime.

And more especially when the cause was not a heavy snowfall, which might have added beauty to the surroundings and romance to the adventure, but rain. Torrential, incessant rain, which poured down from a leaden sky and made a quagmire of even the best-kept roads. The road past the White Hart was not one of the best-kept.

The inn presented a picture of squatness and ugliness and gloom to those who were forced to put up there rather than slither on along the road and risk bogging down completely and having to spend Christmas inside a damp and chill carriage—or risk overturning and celebrating the festive season amidst mud and injuries and even possibly death.

None of the travelers who arrived at the inn during the course of the late afternoon of the day preceding Christmas Eve did so by design. None of them did so with any pleasure. Most of them were in low spirits, and that was an optimistic description of the mood of a few of them. Even the landlord and his good lady were not as ecstatic as one might have expected them to be under the circumstances that they had rarely had more than one of their rooms filled during any one night for the past two years and more. Before nightfall all six of
their rooms were occupied, and it was altogether possible that someone else might arrive after dark.

“What are we going to give 'em to eat?” Letty Palmer asked her husband, frowning at the thought of the modest-size goose and the even more modest ham on which the two of them had planned to feast on Christmas Day. “And what are we going to give 'em to drink, Joe? There is only ale, and all of 'em are quality. Not to mention the coachmen what brought 'em 'ere.”

“It'll 'ave to be ale or the rainwater outside,” Joseph Palmer said, a note of belligerence in his voice, as if his guests had already begun to complain about the plain fare at the White Hart. “And as far as vittles is concerned, they'll 'ave to eat what we 'as and be thankful for it, too.”

But the guests had not yet begun to complain about the food and drink, perhaps because they had not yet had an opportunity to sample the fare on which it seemed likely they would have to celebrate Christmas.

 

Edward Riddings, Marquess of Lytton, cursed his luck. He had been fully intending to spend the holiday season in London as he usually did, entertaining himself by moving from party to party. The ladies were always at their most amorous at Christmastime, he had found from experience. Yes, even the ladies. There was always pleasure to be derived from a sampling of their charms.

But this year he had been persuaded to accept one of the invitations that he always received in abundance to a private party in the country. Lady Frazer, the delectable widow, was to be at the Whittakers' and had given him an unmistakable signal that at last she would be his there. He had been laying determined siege to her heart, or rather to her body, since she had emerged from her year of mourning during the previous spring. She had the sort of body for which a man would be willing to traverse England.

Yet now it was evident that he was neither to reach that body in time for Christmas nor to return to London in time to console himself with the more numerous but perhaps less enticing pleasures of town. Even if the rain were to stop at this very instant, he thought, looking out of the low window of the small and shabby room to which he had been assigned at the White Hart, it was doubtful that the road would be passable before Christmas Day at the earliest. And there were still twenty miles to go.

The rain showed no sign of abating. If anything it was pounding down with greater enthusiasm than ever.

If he were fortunate—but events were not shaping up to bring any good fortune with them—there would be a beautiful and unattached lady of not quite impeccable virtue also stranded at this infernal inn. But he would not allow himself to hope. There could not be more than five or six guest rooms, and he had already seen five or six of his fellow strandees, none of whom appeared even remotely bedworthy.

It was going to be some Christmas, he thought, gritting his teeth and pounding one fist against the windowsill.

 

Miss Pamela Wilder gazed from the window of her room and felt all the misery of utter despair. She could not even cry. She could not even feel all the awkwardness of her situation, stranded as she was at a public inn without either maid or chaperon. It did not matter. Nothing mattered except that her first holiday in more than a year was to be spent here at this inn, alone. She thought of her parents and of her brothers and sisters, and she thought of Christmas as she had always known it—except last year—at the rectory and in the small church next to it. There was warmth and light and wonder in the thought, until nostalgia stabbed at her so painfully that the memories could no longer bring any comfort.

They did not know she was coming. It was to be a surprise. Lawrence, one of Sir Howard Raven's coachmen, had been given a few days off for Christmas and had even been granted permission to take the old and shabby carriage that was scheduled for destruction as soon as the new one was delivered. And his home was not ten miles from the rectory where Mama and Papa lived. Pamela had broached the subject very tentatively and quite without hope, first with Lawrence and then with Lady Raven, and wonder of wonders, no one had raised any objection. It seemed that a governess was not particularly needed at Christmastime, when young Hortense would have cousins with whom to play and greater freedom to mingle with the adults.

Pamela was free until two days after Christmas. Free to go home. Free to be with her family and spend that most wonderful time of the year with them. Free to see Wesley and hope that finally he felt himself well enough established on his farm to offer for her. Free to hope that perhaps he would at least ask her to betroth herself to him even if the wedding must be postponed for a long time. Having an unspoken understanding with him had not soothed her loneliness since she had been forced to take her present post more than a year before. She craved some more definite hope for the future.

Yet now she was to spend Christmas at the White Hart, eight miles—eight impossible miles—from home. Even if the rain were to stop now, there seemed little chance that she would make it home for Christmas Day. But the rain was not going to stop now or before the night was over at the very earliest. There was no point in even hoping otherwise.

She was hungry, Pamela realized suddenly, even though she was not at all sure she would be able to eat. How could she do so, anyway? How could she go downstairs alone to the dining room? And yet she must. She was not of any importance at all. There seemed little hope of persuading anyone to bring up her dinner on a tray.

What a Christmas it was going to be, she thought. Even last year had been better—that dreadful Christmas, her first away from home, her first in the status of a servant and yet not quite a servant. She had been able to celebrate the coming of Christ with neither the family nor the servants. Perhaps after all she would be no more alone this year than last, she thought in a final effort to console herself.

 

Lord Birkin stood at the window of his room, his lips compressed, his hands clasped behind him and beating a rhythmic tattoo against his back. What a confounded turn of events.

“We should have come a week ago, like everyone else,” Lady Birkin said, “instead of staying in London until the last possible minute.”

She was seated on the edge of the bed behind him. He knew that if he turned and looked at her, he would see her the picture of dejection, all her beauty and animation marred by the rain and the poverty of her surroundings. She would hate having to spend Christmas here when they had been on their way to spend it with the Middletons and more than twenty of their relatives and friends.

“You would have missed the opera and the Stebbins' ball,” he said without turning.

“And you would have missed a few days at your club,” she said, a note of bitterness in her voice.

“We could not have predicted the rain,” he said. “Not in this quantity anyway. I am sorry that you will miss all the Christmas entertainments, Sally.”

“And you will miss the shooting,” she said, that edge still in her voice. “And the billiards.”

He turned to look at her at last, broodingly. Marriage had turned out to be nothing like what he had expected. They were two people
living their separate lives, he and Sally, with the encumbrance of the fact that they were legally bound together for life.

Were things quite as bad as that? They had been fond of each other when they had married, even though their parents on both sides had urged the match on them. He still was fond of her, wasn't he? Yes, he was still fond of her. But somehow marriage had not drawn them closer together. The occasional couplings, now no more frequent than once or twice a month, though they had not been married much longer than three years, brought with them no emotional bond. They both behaved on the mornings after the couplings as if they had never happened.

“I am sorry about the sparsity of rooms,” he said. “I am sorry we must share.”

His wife flushed and looked about the room rather than at him. It was going to be dreadful, she thought. Dreadful to be alone with him for what would probably be several days. Dreadful to have to share a room with him and a bed for that time. They had never shared a bed for longer than ten minutes at a time, and even those occasions had become rarer during the past year.

She had married him because she loved him and because she had thought he loved her, though he had never said so.
Foolish girl.
She must have appeared quite mousy to such a blond and beautiful man. He had married her because it was expected of him, because the connection was an eligible one. She knew now that she had never attracted him and never could. He rarely spent time with her. Their marital encounters were a bitter disappointment, and so rare that she did not even have the consolation of having conceived his child.

She knew about his mistresses, though he did not know that she knew. She had even seen his latest one, a creature of exquisite beauty and voluptuous charms. She herself had come to feel quite without beauty or charm or allure.

Except that she had not allowed herself to give in to self-pity. She had had a choice early in her marriage. Either she could retreat into herself and become the mousy, uninteresting thing he saw her as, or she could put her unhappiness and disappointment behind her and live a life of busy gaiety, as so many married ladies of her acquaintance did. She had chosen the latter course. He would never know for what foolish reason she had married him or what foolish hopes had been dashed early in their marriage.

“There is no point in apologizing for what cannot be helped, Henry,” she said. “Under the circumstances I suppose we are
fortunate to have a roof over our heads. Though I could wish that it had happened at some other time of the year. It is going to be an unimaginably dull Christmas.”

She wondered what it would be like to lie all night in the large and rather lumpy bed with him beside her. Her breathing quickened at the thought, and she looked up at him with an unreasonable resentment.

“Yes,” he said. “Whoever heard of Christmas spent at an inn?”

“It would not have happened,” she said, hearing the irritability in her voice and knowing that she was being unfair, “if we had come a week ago, like everyone else.”

“As you keep reminding me,” he said. “Next year we will do things differently, Sally. Next year we will see to it that you are surrounded by friends and admirers well before Christmas itself comes along.”

“And that you have plenty of other gentlemen and gentlemen's sports with which to amuse yourself,” she said. “Perhaps there will be some gentlemen here, Henry. Perhaps you will find some congenial companions with whom to talk the night away and forget the inconvenience of such congested quarters.”

“I can sleep in the taproom if you so wish,” he said, his voice cold.

They did not often quarrel. One or other of them usually left the room when a disagreement was imminent, as it was now.

“That would be foolish,” she said.

He was leaving the room now. He paused, with his hand on the doorknob. “I doubt there is such a luxury as a private parlor in this apology for an inn,” he said. “We will have to eat in the public dining room, Sally. I shall go and see when dinner will be ready.”

An excuse to get away from her, Lady Birkin thought as the door closed behind him. She concentrated on not crying and succeeded. She had perfected the skill over the years.

It was an excuse to get away from her, Lord Birkin thought as he descended the stairs. Away from her accusing voice and the knowledge that the worst aspect of the situation for her was being forced to spend a few days in his dull company. She did not sleep with any of her numerous admirers. He did not know quite how he could be sure of that, since he had never spied on her, but he did know it. She was faithful to him, or to their marriage, at least, as he was not. But he knew equally that she would prefer the company of any one of her admirers to his.