Authors: Father Christmas
Even more depressed, Graceanne headed Posy back the way they had come. On the homeward trip she had to pass the hill from which Ware Hold commanded the surrounding countryside. It looked dark and forbidding, just like the old fortress it was, with its crenellated towers and arrow slots instead of windows. From this direction Graceanne couldn’t see the lake or the gardens or the modern addition that had been built out of the torn-down curtain wall. All she saw was an impregnable stronghold that had been there forever. She’d be lucky not to land in the dungeons.
Graceanne entered the vicarage through the kitchen, after seeing to Posy. Cook was asleep in the corner, a half-empty bottle of cooking wine in her hand. Meg, the village girl who acted as nursery maid, was up to her eyebrows in flour.
“The master ordered me to help Cook this afternoon, ma’am. We’re to make something special for tea. Vicar says as how His Grace is sure to visit and we’re to be prepared.”
If they were to be prepared, Graceanne thought, they’d bar the windows and doors and borrow Squire’s hunting rifles. Out loud she said, “I’m certain you’re doing your best. Are the boys with my sister?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Miss Prudence was that excited the duke was coming to call, she had to go ask her friend Lucy what she should wear. But don’t fret yourself, I set the nippers to help make some Christmas decorations. Just for the nursery, you know, where the reverend can’t mind. I taught the darlings to make paper chains.” Meg wiped her nose on the back of her hand before going back to her kneading. “I found that colored paper and the glue you were using to make the costumes for the pageant. And some bits of feathers and that glittery paint you used on the angel’s wings.”
Graceanne clutched the side of the table. “You left three-year-old boys alone with that stuff?”
“Don’t you go worrying, ma’am, I took the scissors away.”
It took Graceanne two days to clean up the nursery, hallway, and servants’ bedrooms from her darlings’ handiwork.
It took Ware two days to recover from her. Since the constable, the magistrate, and the home guard didn’t storm the little vicarage to arrest her, at least Graceanne knew she hadn’t killed him. The
on-dit
in the village of Warefield was that His Grace was recovering from his latest London revels; that he was suffering from the French pox, and who could wonder why; that he’d been wounded by highwaymen on his journey north.
Graceanne offered no opinions on the gossip. She did snap at Prudence that all the idle chatter was a waste of time that could be better spent rehearsing the Christmas pageant or preparing the fancy teacakes their father suddenly insisted upon. The rebuke was enough to send Prudence fleeing the kitchen in a flood of tears, straight to Lucy’s house to try out new hairstyles. Discounting Cook and Meg, this left Graceanne alone to assemble baskets of foodstuffs for the poor, make Christmas treats for the children, and bake for a guest who never arrived.
Meg’s muffins were fed to the chickens—no one in the parish was
that
poor—and the maid was sternly admonished to keep a closer eye on the twins. Graceanne wanted Meg to keep the boys presentable at all times in case their regal relation came to inspect.
“I’m nobbut a maid, Mrs. Warrington, ma’am, not a magician.”
“Try.”
She went back to work, making sugarplums and macaroons, honeyed ginger nuts and marzipan angels. Graceanne also turned out small mince pies, which were supposed to bring luck. Lots and lots of small mince pies. With enough luck, or enough mince pies, perhaps the duke would never come at all.
He came on the third day, looking far more elegant than Graceanne recalled, and totally out of place in the shabby parlor. He brought pineapples from the Hold’s forcing houses for her mother and a leather-bound volume of sermons for her father. They invited him to tea, of course.
Of course he accepted. There was no hope he wouldn’t, the perverse man, not with Graceanne laboring in the kitchen, her hair damp with perspiration, her fustiest gown spotted and stained. For spite, before she went to change, she piled Cook’s scones on a plate with the tea service instead of her own fresh raspberry tarts.
Upstairs in her shabby bedroom, glancing in the small mirror, Graceanne decided a different dress wasn’t going to help matters. She also needed a bath, a hairwash, and a nap to get rid of the dark shadows under her eyes put there by worry over the dastard’s machinations. More crucial than her vanity, however, was keeping the scoundrel away from her father. Besides, her other gowns might be cleaner, but they were all black, and not a one of them was any more attractive than the sacklike garment she wore. Graceanne hurriedly scrubbed her hands and face in the washbasin’s lukewarm water, swiped at the telltale cooking debris on her skirts, and shoved her stringy hair under a voluminous black cap.
She raced down the stairs, then paused outside the parlor door to catch her breath. Heaven forfend the repulsive rake think she was hurrying to see him!
The duke was sitting at ease on the threadbare sofa, looking like he’d just stepped out of Bond Street. His snowy neckcloth was a marvel of starched perfection, his charcoal pantaloons hadn’t the slightest hint of a crease, and his mirror-shined boots reflected every worn spot on the carpet. Ware looked to her jaundiced eyes like a tailor’s dummy, someone who had never worked a day in his life.
Sitting next to the parasitic paragon was Prudence. The minx had no business taking tea with the company, much less sharing the narrow couch with an established libertine. Prudence was all pink muslin, lace ribbons, and blond ringlets—and rouged cheeks, unless Graceanne missed her guess. The little hoyden was sitting much too close to Ware, hanging on his every word, looking up at him through thicker, darker eyelashes than she’d possessed that very morning. No matter what commonplace the duke uttered, Pru’s tinkling laugh chimed out and her dimples flashed. Graceanne looked for her mother’s frowning reprimand at Pru’s coming manners, but instead she saw a new lace cap on Mrs. Beckwith, rouged cheeks, and fluttering eyelashes. Goodness, no wonder he expected every female to fall at his feet! Thanking Heaven she was made of sterner stuff, Graceanne pursed her lips and stepped into the room.
There she was at last, hanging in the doorway like an untrained footman. Leland had been wondering how many more of the little sister’s blatant lures he could shrug off before he uttered a crushing setdown. The baggage was an adorable bit of fluff, bachelor fare if he ever saw it, not that he was in the market for an unfledged bird of paradise. Even if Miss Prudence weren’t a vicar’s daughter, he’d always preferred his flirts to have some experience of the world. Virgins were the very devil. She’d make some man a cozy armful, though, if they didn’t marry her off soon. Too bad Miss Prudence had been too young that summer Tony spent in Warwick; she’d be a great deal easier to turn up sweet than the prickly female Tony did marry.
Mrs. Warrington was already pokering up as she came into the room, and he hadn’t even said hello. Leland sighed. He knew he owed the starchy woman an apology, perhaps two or three. He also knew she hated and distrusted him, perhaps with cause. The curst widow wasn’t going to make this easy for him. He sighed again as he stood and made his bow, then accepted the hand she offered, but cautiously kept his distance.
“I never offered my proper condolences, Cousin,” he said, trying not to wince at the sight of another awful gown and hideous cap. “I am sure you must miss Tony, especially at this holiday season. He was a fine man, a good soldier, a wonderful friend.”
The vicar interrupted over her murmured expression of gratitude. “Yes, yes, but as you say, this is the season of joy, no time to mourn.” Leland couldn’t spot a single token of the season, much less of joy, in the dreary room, but he returned to his seat after the widow quietly excused herself to go help Cook with tea.
Prudence immediately took up the conversation: “And it is a special season of celebration for Warefield, with Your Grace in residence after so long. Shall you be making a lengthy stay? If so, perhaps you’d consider holding a ball at the castle. My friend Lucy says her sister remembers when there were parties all the time at Ware Hold.”
“That is enough, Prudence. His Grace did not come to be importuned with your girlish nonsense,” the vicar scolded. Then, “Have you had a chance to look over my report about the church steps, Duke? I’m sure you’ll see I was correct about the dry rot.”
Leland let the small talk flow around him with an occasional nod or a noncommittal comment. He could make social chitchat in his sleep. Meanwhile, whilst the object of his call made herself scarce, he looked around again. No, there were no ornaments, not even a sprig of holly. The furnishings were sparse and worn, the drapery faded, the wallpaper peeling. There were no servants to speak of, and he was the only one to come to Mrs. Warrington’s assistance when she returned with the heavy tray. There was meager fare for refreshment, scones that were as hard as rocks and tasted as appetizing, and poor quality tea. Leland noticed how Mrs. Beckwith was quick to turn a cup so the chipped handle didn’t show. Her clothes and Prudence’s were more fashionable than the widow’s, but decidedly village-made and of inferior materials.
Ware knew to a shilling what the vicar earned. Despite his reputation as a man-about-town, the duke was cognizant of every detail of his country holdings, too. His domain was decidedly not populated with impoverished preachers. Reverend Beckwith was not spending his generous stipend on his family, that was clear. Perhaps the man gambled or had another secret vice. But why the devil was Tony’s widow pretending poverty? There she sat, like the colorless little mouse he knew she wasn’t, humbly knitting in the corner. He couldn’t imagine what kind of game they all were playing, unless it was a scheme to get more money out of him. They’d catch cold at that!
“I’ll send my head carpenter to inspect the church steps,” he offered while taking a bank draft out of his pocket. “Meantime I did bring my annual donation to the poor box. ’Tis the season to give, after all. You must be a charitable man yourself, Reverend.” That was a fairly broad hint to find out where all the money went, and wide of the mark at that.
“To a point, Your Grace,” Beckwith answered. “My daughter makes gloves and mittens for the needy, as you can see. And no one goes hungry. We send baskets around at Christmas and Easter.”
“From the poor box money, Papa,” Graceanne said from her corner. “His Grace should know where his offering goes.” And where Beckwith’s didn’t. So the mouse still had teeth after all, and she wasn’t protecting Beckwith’s cheese. Curious.
“To be sure, to be sure. After that, I believe God helps those who help themselves.” This pronouncement must have sounded harsh for a man of the cloth even to Beckwith, for he changed the subject instantly. “But come, Duke, perhaps you’d like to see my collection.”
“I’m sure His Lordship has more important things to do, Papa. We mustn’t delay him.” Graceanne was determined to keep the two men apart. Her father was just as bent on having a private talk with the nobleman.
“This will take but a moment. A man of His Grace’s discernment will surely be interested in the historical significance.”
Ware looked around the room. Mrs. Beckwith was smiling vaguely, Prudence was pouting, and Mrs. Warrington was mangling her wools into a regular mare’s nest. Why in blazes was she frowning at him again? He didn’t want to appear toplofty as she’d accused, so said he could spare some time, to the vicar’s satisfaction.
Beckwith led him down the hall and through a locked door, the first locked door Ware had ever seen in a parsonage, even in London’s stews when he made his charity calls. If a minister doesn’t have faith in humankind, he wondered, who will?
Catching his guest’s bemusement over the keys, Beckwith explained, “The imps of Satan are everywhere.”
Lud, Leland thought, the fellow was always a religious fanatic, but now a page or two of Beckwith’s prayerbook was missing.
But the man did know his Bibles. Beckwith’s collection of religious texts was extensive. Some volumes were ancient, most were valuable. The duke wouldn’t want to read many of them, but he could recognize their worth. There was even an illuminated manuscript, in another locked cabinet, that he’d be proud to have in his own library of rare editions. No wonder the household was on short rations if Beckwith was as compulsive a collector as the accumulation of books indicated. If that was how the cleric chose to spend his money, Ware had no complaints as long as the man got the locals baptized and buried. And as long as Tony’s children weren’t on bread and water to support the man’s hobby. He cut short the vicar’s lecture.
“Perhaps I can see the children now?” he asked after they’d returned to the parlor. He might have announced he had smallpox, the way Mrs. Warrington lost what little color she had and everyone else found something better to do. Mrs. Beckwith announced the knickknacks needed washing before the holidays, so she filled her lap with china shepherdesses before being wheeled out of the room. The reverend recalled his Christmas sermon needed polishing. Oddly, he took with him a pewter mug, a bowl of nuts, and a carved wood tobacco humidor. He also took two framed miniatures from a piecrust table. “My parents” was all he said.
Even Prudence was willing to peel herself from Ware’s side. “If you are going to entertain the little beasts in the parlor, I’ll go memorize my lines for the Nativity. You are coming, aren’t you, Your Grace? I am Mary again this year.” She tossed her curls for effect. “Of course I am too old for the children’s play, but Papa insists that if we are going to have the pageant in church on Christmas Eve, it must be dignified. He wants no little girls who giggle and get tongue-tied, so I volunteered.”
“And I’m sure you’ll be everything saintly and demure.” Actually, Leland was sure the little tart would be thrilled to be treading the boards, even in church.
Before she left, Prudence put her magazines and her mother’s workbasket on the mantel, and the lid down on the pianoforte. She took two needlepoint pillows with her, saying, “I’ll ask Meg to bring them down now.”
Leland thought they were all as queer as Dick’s hatband, especially when Mrs. Warrington, whom he thought was the only sane one of the bunch, moved the fireplace screen. Then she started putting out the few candles and lifting an oil lamp to the already crowded mantelpiece. She moved the screen again, wedging it in the hearth. At least she finally had some color in her cheeks, he noted admiringly, even if it was from blushing at the peculiarities of this household. Or exertion, as she moved the blasted screen again. At least the rosy tinge wasn’t from the rouge pot.
All of Graceanne’s improved color fled her face, though, when Prudence returned a moment later. The younger girl curtsied uncertainly to Ware, then whispered in her sister’s ear. He could hear Mrs. Warrington gasp, then whisper back, “But when I told them I wanted everything neat for the company, I didn’t mean the nursery fireplace!”