The Heart Of Christmas: A Handful Of Gold / The Season for Suitors / This Wicked Gift

“Oh, the poor things!” Blanche exclaimed, pushing away from the tree and striding houseward through the snow. “What has been done for their comfort, Mr. Bloggs? Two children, did you say? Are they very young? Was anyone hurt? Have you…”

Her voice faded into the distance. Strange, Julian thought before following her with Bertie and Debbie. Most women who had had elocution lessons spoke well except when they were not concentrating. Then they tended to lapse into regionalism and worse. Why did the opposite seem to happen with Blanche? Bloggs was trotting after her like a well-trained henchman, just as if she were some grand duchess ruling over her undisputed domain.

Funnily enough, she had just sounded rather like a duchess.

Chapter Five

THE REVEREND HENRY MOFFATT had been given unexpected leave from the parish at which he was a curate in order to spend Christmas at the home of his wife’s family thirty miles distant. Rashly—by his own admission—he had made the decision to begin the journey that morning despite the fact that the snow had already begun to fall and he had the safety of two young children to concern himself with, not to mention that of his wife, who was in imminent expectation of another interesting event.

He was contrite over his own foolishness. He was distressed over the near disaster to which he had brought his family when his carriage had almost overturned into the ditch. He was apologetic about foisting himself and his family upon strangers on Christmas Eve of all days. Perhaps there was an inn close by?

“In the village three miles away,” Verity told him. “But you would not get there in this weather, sir. You must, of course, stay here. Mr. Hollander will insist upon it, you may be sure.”

“Mr. Hollander is your husband, ma’am?” the Reverend Moffatt asked.

“No.” She smiled. “I am a guest here, too, sir. Mrs. Moffatt, do come into the sitting room so that you may warm yourself by the fire and take the weight off your feet. Mr. Bloggs, would you be so kind as to go down to the kitchen and request that a tea tray be sent up? Oh, and something for the children, as well. And something to eat.” She smiled at the two little boys, who were gazing about with open curiosity. The younger one, a mere infant of three or four years, was unwinding a long scarf from his neck. She reached out a hand to each of them. “Are you hungry? But that is a foolish question, I know. In my experience little boys are always hungry. Come into the sitting room with your mama and we will see what Cook sends up.”

It was at that moment that Mr. Hollander came inside the house with Debbie and Viscount Folingsby close behind him. The Reverend Moffatt introduced himself again and made his explanations and his apologies once more.

“Bertrand Hollander,” that young gentleman said, extending his right hand to his unexpected guest. “And, er, my wife, Mrs. Hollander. And Viscount Folingsby.”

Verity was leading Mrs. Moffatt and the children in the direction of the sitting room, but she stopped so that the curate could introduce them to his host.

“You have met my wife, the viscountess?” Julian asked, his eyes locking with Verity’s.

“Yes, indeed.” The Reverend Moffatt made her a bow. “Her ladyship has been most kind.”

One more lie to add to all the others, Verity thought. Her new husband, having divested himself of his outdoor garments, followed her into the sitting room, where she directed the very pregnant Mrs. Moffatt and the little boys to chairs close to the fire. The viscount stood beside Verity, one hand against the back of her waist. But during the bustle of the next few minutes, she felt her left hand being taken in a firm grasp and bent up behind her back. While Julian smiled genially about him as the tea tray arrived and cups and plates were passed around and everyone made small talk, he slid something onto Verity’s ring finger.

It was the signet ring he normally wore on the little finger of his right hand, she saw when she withdrew the hand from her back and looked down at it. The ring was a little loose on her, but with some care she would be able to see that it did not fall off. It was a very tolerable substitute for a wedding ring. A glance across the room at Debbie assured her that that young woman’s left hand was similarly adorned.

One could only conclude that Viscount Folingsby and Mr. Hollander were born conspirators and had had a great deal of practice at being devious.

“I will hear no more protests, sir, if you please,” Mr. Hollander was saying with all his customary good humor and one raised hand. “Mrs. Hollander and I will be delighted to have your company over Christmas. Much as we have been enjoying that of our two friends, we have been regretting, have we not, my love, that we did not invite more guests for the holiday. Especially those with children. Christmas does not seem quite Christmas without them.”

“How kind of you to say so, sir,” Mrs. Moffatt said, one hand resting over the mound of her pregnancy.

“Ee,” Debbie said, “it is going to be right good fun to hear the patter of little feet about the house and the chatter of little voices. You sit down, too, Rev, and make yourself at home. Set your cup and saucer down on that table there. It must have been a right nasty fright to land in the ditch like that.”

“We tipped up like this,” the older of the little boys said, listing over sharply to one side, his arms outspread. “I thought we were going to turn over and over in a tumble-toss. It was ever so exciting.”

“I was not scared,” the younger boy said, gazing up at Verity before depositing his thumb in his mouth and then snatching it determinedly out again. “I am not scared of anything.”

“That will do, Rupert,” their father said. “And, David. You will speak when spoken to, if you please.”

But Rupert was pulling at his father’s sleeve. “May we go out to play?” he whispered.

“Children!” Mrs. Moffatt laughed. “One would think they would be glad enough to be safe indoors after that narrow escape, would you not? And on such a cold, stormy day. But they love the outdoors.”

“Then I have just the answer for them,” Julian said, raising his eyebrows and fingering the handle of his quizzing glass. “There is a pile of Christmas greenery out behind the house in dire need of hands and arms to carry it inside. We will never be able to celebrate Christmas with it if it remains out there, will we?” He leveled his glass at each of the boys in turn, a frown on his face. “I wonder if those hands and arms are strong enough, though. What do you think, Bertie?”

Two pairs of eyes turned anxiously Mr. Hollander’s way. Please yes, please yes, those eyes begged while both children sat with buttoned lips in obedience to their father’s command.

“What do I think, Jule?” Mr. Hollander pursed his lips. “I think—But wait a minute. Is that a muscle I spy bulging out your coat sleeve, lad?”

The elder boy looked down with desperate hope at his arm.

“It is a muscle,” Mr. Hollander decided.

“And have you ever seen more capable fingers than this other lad’s, Bertie?” Julian asked, magnifying them with the aid of his glass. “I believe these brothers have been sent us for a purpose. You will need to put your scarves and hats and gloves back on, of course, and secure your mama’s permission. But once that has been accomplished, you may follow me.”

Verity watched in wonder as two rather bored and jaded rakes were transformed into kindly, indulgent uncles before her eyes. The two boys were jumping up and down before their mother’s chair in an agony of suspense lest she withhold her permission.

“You are too kind, my lord,” she said with a weary smile. “They will wear you out.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” he assured her. “It is a sizable pile.”

“Oh,” Verity said, beaming down at the children, “and after you have it all inside and dried off, you may help decorate the house with it. There are mistletoe and holly and pine boughs. And Mrs. Simpkins has found ribbons and bows and bells in the attic. Deb—Mrs. Hollander and I will sort through them and decide what can be used. Before Christmas comes tomorrow, this house is going to be bursting at the seams with good cheer. I daresay we will have one of the best Christmases anyone ever had.”

Her eyes met Viscount Folingsby’s as she spoke. He regarded her with one raised eyebrow and a slightly mocking smile. But she was no longer fooled by such an expression. She had seen him without his mask of bored cynicism. Not just here with the two little boys. She had seen him climb a tree like a schoolboy, not just because she had asked him to do so, but because the tree was there and therefore to be climbed. She had seen him with a twinkle in his eye and a laugh on his lips.

And she had—oh, dear, yes—she had felt his kiss. It was not one she could censure even if it had occurred to her to do so. He had earned it, not with five hundred pounds, but with the acquisition of mistletoe. The mistletoe had sanctified the kiss, deep and carnal as it had been.

“It seems,” the Reverend Moffatt said as the other two gentlemen left the room with the exuberant children, “that we are to be guests here at least until tomorrow. It warms my heart to have been stranded at a place where we have already been made to feel welcome. Sometimes it seems almost as if a divine hand is at play in guiding our movements, taking us where we had no intention of going to meet people we had no thought of meeting. How wonderful that you are all preparing with such enthusiasm to celebrate the birth of our Lord.”

“I am going to make a kissing bough,” Debbie announced, looking almost animated. “We had kissing boughs to half fill the kitchen ceiling when I was a girl. Nobody escaped a few good bussings in our house. I had almost forgotten. Christmas was always a right grand time.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hollander,” Mrs. Moffatt said with a smile. “It is always a grand time, even when we are forced to spend it away from part of our families as I assume we are all doing this year. Your husband is being very kind to our boys. And yours, too, my lady.” She turned her smile on Verity. “They have been in the carriage all day and have a great deal of excess energy.”

“There will be no going into the village tonight or tomorrow morning if what you said is true, Lady Folingsby,” the Reverend Moffatt said. “You will be unable to attend church as I daresay you intended to do. I shall repay a small part of my debt to you, then. I shall conduct the Christmas service here. We will all take communion here together. With Mr. Hollander’s permission, of course.”

“What a splendid idea, Henry,” his wife said.

“Ee,” Debbie said, awed into near-silence.

Verity clasped her hands to her bosom and closed her eyes. She had a sudden image of the church at home on the evening before Christmas, the bells pealing out the news of the Christ child’s birth, the candles all ablaze, the carved Nativity scene carefully arranged before the altar, her father in his best vestments smiling down at the congregation. Christmas had always been his favorite time of the liturgical year.

“Oh, sir,” she said, opening her eyes again, “it is we who will be in your debt. Deeply in your debt.” She blinked away tears. “I would like it of all things. I am sure Mr. Hollander and Vi—and my husband will agree.”

“It is going to be a grand Christmas, Blanche,” Debbie said. “I did not expect it, lass. Not in this way, any road.”

“Sometimes we come to grace by unexpected paths,” the Reverend Moffatt commented.

“DO YOU EVER have the impression that events have galloped along somewhat out of your control, Jule?” Bertie asked his friend just before dinner was served and they stood together in the sitting room waiting for everyone else to join them. They were surrounded by the sights and smells of Christmas. There was greenery everywhere, artfully draped and colorfully decorated with red bows and streamers and silver bells. There was a huge and elaborate kissing bough suspended over the alcove to one side of the fireplace. There was a strong smell of pine, more powerful for the moment than the tantalizing aromas wafting up from the kitchen.

“And do you ever have the impression,” Julian asked without answering the question, which was doubtless rhetorical anyway, “that you ought not to simply label a woman as a certain type and expect her to behave accordingly?” Blanche, changing for dinner a few minutes before in the dressing room while he made do with the bedchamber, had informed him with bright enthusiasm that the Reverend Moffatt was planning to conduct a Christmas service in this very room sometime after dinner. And that the servants had asked to attend. And that they were going to have to see to it on the morrow that the little boys had a wonderful Christmas. If there was still plenty of snow, they could…

He had not listened to all the details. But Miss Blanche Heyward, opera dancer, would have made a superlative drill sergeant if she had just been a man, he had thought. Consider as a point in fact the way she had organized them all—all of them—over the decorations. They had rushed about and climbed and teetered and adjusted angles at her every bidding. She had been flushed and bright-eyed and beautiful.