Authors: Father Christmas
The Duke of Ware needed some air. He told the porter at the door he was going to blow a cloud, but he didn’t care if the fellow let him back in or not. Leland didn’t smoke. He never had, but he thought he might take it up now. Perhaps the foul odor, yellowed fingers, and stained teeth could discourage some of these harpies, but he doubted it.
Despite the damp chill in the air, the duke was not alone on the outer steps of the marriage mart. At first all he could see in the gloomy night was the glow from a sulphurous cigar. Then another, younger gentleman stepped out of the fog.
“Is that you, Ware? Here at Almack’s? I cannot believe it,” exclaimed Nigel, the scion of the House of Ellerby which, according to rumors, was more than a tad dilapidated. Hence the young baron’s appearance at Almack’s, Leland concluded. “Dash it, I wish I’d been in on the bet.” Which propensity to gamble likely accounted for the Ellerbys’ crumbling coffers.
“Bet? What bet?”
“The one that got you to Almack’s, Duke. By Zeus, it must have been a famous wager! Who challenged you? How long must you stay before you can collect? How much—”
“There was no wager,” Ware quietly inserted into the youth’s enthusiastic litany.
The cigar dropped from Ellerby’s fingers. His mouth fell open. “No wager? You mean…?”
“I came on my own. As a favor to my aunt, if you must know.”
Ellerby added two plus two and, to the duke’s surprise, came up with the correct, dismaying answer. “B’gad, wait till the sharks smell fresh blood in the water.” He jerked his head, weak chin and all, toward the stately portals behind them.
Leland grimaced. “Too late, they’ve already got the scent.”
“Lud, there will be females swooning in your arms and chits falling off horses on your doorstep. I’d get out of town if I were you. Then again, word gets out you’re in the market for a new bride, you won’t be safe anywhere. With all those holiday house parties coming up, you’ll be showered with invitations.”
The duke could only agree. That was the way of the world.
“Please, Your Grace,” Ellerby whined, “don’t accept Lady Carstaire’s invite. I’ll be seated below the salt if you accept.”
No slowtop either, Leland nodded toward the closed doors. “Tell me which one is Miss Carstaire, so I can sidestep the introduction.”
“She’s the one in puce tulle with mouse brown sausage curls and a squint.” At Ware’s look of disbelief, the lordling added, “And ten thousand pounds a year.”
“I think I can manage not to succumb to the lady’s charms,” Ware commented dryly, then had to listen to the coxcomb’s gratitude.
“And I’ll give you fair warning, Duke, if you do accept for any of those house parties, lock your door and never go anywhere alone. The misses and their mamas will be quicker to yell ‘compromise’ than you can say ‘Jack Rabbit.’”
Leland gravely thanked Lord Ellerby for the advice, hoping the baron wasn’t such an expert on compromising situations from trying to nab a rich wife the cad’s way. Fortune-hunting was bad enough. He wished him good luck with Miss Carstaire, but declined Ellerby’s suggestion that they return inside together. His Grace had had enough. And no, he assured the baron, he was not going to accept any of the holiday invitations. The Duke of Ware was going to spend Christmas right where he belonged, at Ware Hold in Warefield, Warwickshire, with his own family: one elderly aunt, two infant cousins.
Before going to bed that night, Leland had another brandy to ease the headache he already had. He sat down to write his agent in Warefield to notify the household of his plans, then he started to write to Tony’s widow, inviting her to the castle. Before he got too far past the salutation, however, Crow Fanshaw’s final, foxed suggestion kept echoing in his mind: The Duke of Ware should get a fair share.
“Of all the outrageous, high-handed, arrogant—”
Vicar Beckwith cleared his throat. “That is enough, Graceanne.”
“No, Papa, it is not nearly enough! That…that bounder thinks he can simply appear in Warefield village and claim Willy! What am I, then, his liege vassal from the feudal days, that some dirty-dish duke can demand my firstborn son? By Heaven, I am not!”
“I said that is enough, Graceanne,” the vicar firmly declared. “I shall not have blasphemy at the dinner table, nor such disrespect for your betters poured into Prudence’s innocent ears.”
Better? Graceanne fumed, but she looked across the table to where her younger sister sat. Pru’s blond head was deferentially lowered, but not enough that Graceanne couldn’t see the smirk on her lips or the malicious gleam in her eye. If there was innocence at this table, the overcooked capon they were about to eat held more of it than seventeen-year-old Prudence.
When Graceanne would have continued to argue—indeed, she was so angry she would have thrown crockery had she still been in Portugal—her mother begged, “Please, dear, my nerves.” Mrs. Beckwith, in her Bath chair at the other end of the sparsely filled table, dabbed at her forehead with a wisp of cloth.
Graceanne subsided, and addressed herself to decapitating a boiled parsnip. She had to choke back her ire when her father smoothed out the embossed page of Ware’s letter—a letter she couldn’t help but notice was addressed to herself, Mrs. Anthony Warrington—and stated, “His Grace’s claim to Wellesley is not entirely out of bounds, daughter. I’ll have to think on it.”
Graceanne put down her knife and fork. She loathed parsnips and the capon tasted like sawdust. As calmly as she could, choking on the urge to scream, she said, “There is nothing to think about, Papa. Wellesley—Willy—is my son the same as Leslie. I shall never let anyone else have the raising of either of them, duke or not.”
“You are being overhasty and emotional, daughter.” The vicar managed to express his disapproval around a mouthful of green beans. Then again, the vicar never had trouble expressing his disapproval. “And selfish. Think of the advantages young Wellesley would have.”
Graceanne knew her father was thinking of the advantages
he
would gain by letting Ware have Willy: the gratitude of a wealthy patron, and one less little boy creating noise and mess and expense in his frugal household. Furthermore, she suspected her father considered the identical twins to be freaks of nature, somehow unholy. He’d be relieved to have the taint of the diabolical removed from his hearth.
Beckwith was warming to his theme: “I shouldn’t have to remind you that what I can provide on a parson’s income can never come close to what Ware can offer. Think of Wellesley’s education, the career opportunities, the chance to better himself in the world.”
“The chance to become a care-for-naught wastrel like his noble benefactor? An opportunity to become a libertine? Or perhaps you think three-year-old Willy needs lessons in arrogance? Is that what you want for your grandson?”
Beckwith paid her objections as much notice as he would have the capon’s protests over being eaten. “I am certain that on reflection you wouldn’t wish to hold the boy back with your foolish prejudices and idle gossip. Think how much further our limited resources could stretch in Leslie’s direction if the duke takes over Wellesley’s upbringing. Yes, a proper mother would set aside her own whims for the best interests of her child.”
“Whims? Why, I—”
“Cook tells me that May Turner is ailing, Graceanne dear,” Mrs. Beckwith interrupted in quavering tones. “Perhaps you would go visit her this afternoon? I would, naturally, but…”
“Of course, Mother.” Graceanne returned to pushing the parsnips around on her dish, despite her father’s glower. At least her twenty-three years, motherhood, and widowed status gave her the privilege of leaving food on her plate. Heaven knew she had to fight for every other right. But her children? No one could steal them from her.
“I agree with Papa, Grace,” Prudence was saying although no one had asked her opinion. “I think you should at least consider the duke’s offer to take Willy. After all, it’s not as if you’ll never see him again. He’ll be just next door at Ware Hold. You can visit anytime.”
“And take my little sister to cheer him up, especially when the duke is in residence, or happens to have guests? In particular, young bachelor guests who are well-to-pass?” Graceanne couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice; Prudence had never had an unselfish motive yet. Willy’s well-being was so far from being Pru’s major consideration that the little baggage had managed to misplace both twins just last week when she found a handsome Irishman to flirt with. Graceanne couldn’t blame her entirely, since Warefield was practically devoid of both personable young men and lively entertainments the vicar deemed suitable for his offspring. Graceanne wished she might brighten the younger girl’s life, sure that would sweeten her disposition, but not at Willy’s expense.
“What’s so wrong with wanting to visit at the castle?” Pru wanted to know. “Why, His Grace might even invite us to stay so Willy doesn’t get homesick.”
Graceanne had to smile at the thought of Willy being consoled by the doting aunt who threatened him with her hairbrush just the previous day for laying jam-sticky fingers on her muslin gown. Graceanne stopped smiling when her father told Prudence to stop her foolish air-dreaming. He’d never allow her to put one foot over Ware’s threshold when the duke had his rakish friends visiting, nor let her stay overnight there no matter how many widowed sisters chaperoned. “Never.”
“Your reputation, dear,” Mrs. Beckwith murmured, hoping to avoid another angry outburst as Prudence pursed her lips. She should have looked at her other daughter.
“What do you mean, Pru cannot stay there?” Graceanne raged. “Ware’s company is fit for your grandson but not your daughter? If her good name cannot survive the rake-hell’s very presence, how can poor little Willy’s moral character?”
“Quiet!” Mr. Beckwith thundered back. “I will not have this brangling at my dinner table. Apologize to your mother, Graceanne, and strive to show more respect for your elders. The discussion is finished.”
“I am sorry, Mother, I did not mean to overset your nerves. Shall I wheel you into the parlor until tea is brought? Perhaps Pru will play for us. You know how that always soothes you.”
Mrs. Beckwith managed to doze off by the fireplace despite Prudence thumping out her discontent on the pianoforte. Graceanne took up her knitting, colorful scarves and mittens for the needy parish children, including her own.
Too short a while later Prudence swiveled on her stool and snarled, “It is not fair,” low enough to let her mother go on sleeping. “I never get to go anywhere or do anything!”
“But Pru, you’re only seventeen.” Graceanne tried to be sympathetic.
“All the other girls get to go to the assemblies and parties. Lucy Maxton is already engaged, and she’s no older than I am! Now the most dashing gentleman in the whole county is coming for the holidays, and I’ll barely get to meet him if Papa has his way. They say Ware is a regular out-and-outer.”
Graceanne looked up from her knitting. “I daresay a dashing out-and-outer is not what careful parents seek for their young daughters.” She scowled at the mittens in her lap. “But you will get to meet him nevertheless. He’s bound to call, the maw worm.”
“And I suppose you’ll give him a regular bear-garden jawing,” Pru said with a giggle. “I hope I’m around to hear it, although I don’t know how you’ll dare. I mean, a real duke, Grace.”
“He’s just a man, Pru, even if he is more pigheaded and obnoxious than most.”
“Nevertheless, I admire your courage. You even stand up to Papa. I remember when he didn’t want you to marry Tony, but you insisted on having the man you loved. It was the most romantical thing I ever heard. Why, all the time you were gone I dreamed of a handsome soldier coming to steal me away.”
“Papa gave in because he is dependent on Tony’s cousin Ware for his living,” Graceanne pointed out. “Besides, my marriage wasn’t all romance. Portugal was awful, and Tony was always miles away in danger.”
“Still, you had your grand passion despite Papa.” She sighed and went back to plunking at the keys. “He won’t even let me invite Liam to tea.”
“Mr. Hallorahan is Irish, Pru. You know Papa won’t approve.”
“But that’s so unreasonable! Why, Papa calls Liam a jumped-up groom just because he’s helping Squire set up a stable. Papa won’t even listen when I tell him that Liam’s father owns one of the finest racehorse breeding farms in all of Ireland.”
“Pru, racehorses are for gambling, and you know Papa doesn’t approve of that any more than he does of heretics.”
“Liam isn’t a heretic!” Prudence insisted. “Besides, Papa doesn’t approve of anything! Did you know that ours is the only house in the whole village without a single Christmas decoration? The vicarage! We’re like the cobbler’s children going barefoot. Even the poorest cottage has a sprig of holly on the door!”
“Papa says that’s a pagan tradition to ward off evil, and has nothing to do with the real Christmas celebration, no more than wassailing does or wishing on a Christmas pudding.”
“Oh, I know all that,” Prudence complained. “Yule logs are from Roman Saturnalia, and mistletoe is just an excuse for loose morals,” she recited in her father’s stentorian tones.
Neither girl heard their father’s approach over their laughter until he slammed his hand down on the side table. “I shall have respect in this house!” he shouted, startling his wife awake to ask if it was teatime yet.
“Yes, Papa.” Prudence jumped up and bobbed a hasty curtsy. “I’ll go help Cook with the tray.”
And “Yes, Papa,” Graceanne murmured. “I’ll go check on the boys.”
* * *
“Yes, Papa.” How many times in her life had Graceanne said those same two words, tiny words that yet robbed her of her opinions, her desires, her very selfhood?
She stood in her sons’ bedroom, the tiny room under the eaves next to the servants’ quarters, where the children’s play couldn’t disturb the vicar or his delicate wife. The boys were tumbled together on their mattress like puppies, flushed with sleep, their dark curls still damp from their bath. Even asleep in their identical nightshirts with her identical embroidery on both collars, Graceanne could tell them apart. No one else in the household could. No one else in the household had made an effort to try in the three months they’d been back from the Peninsula. Mrs. Beckwith was too sickly, Pru was too self-absorbed, the servants were too overworked, and the vicar thought they were an abomination. Graceanne thought they were the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Sometimes just looking at them brought tears to her eyes and made her throat close, they were so perfect. If she never got to see a heavenly angel, she could rest content. If she never had another blessing in life, Willy and Leslie were enough. They were hers. Never, ever, would she say “Yes, Papa” and let him take them away.
Graceanne’d had her one other moment of rebellion almost six years before, when she was seventeen, Pru’s age, when she met Tony. She’d threatened to run off with him if her father did not give them his permission to marry. She always suspected the vicar relented more to gain the ducal connection than for fear of losing her. Then again, she’d come to suspect that she’d insisted so hard more to get out of the house and into the world than for love of Anthony Warrington. Oh, Tony was charming and so handsome in his new scarlet regimentals, so full of life and dreams for after he defeated Napoleon. How could any inexperienced, overprotected girl not fall in love? The fact that he was shipping out in six weeks only added to the high drama of the forbidden romance.
The banns were read, Reverend Beckwith performed the ceremony, and Mama cried. Pru was adorable as bridesmaid, and the nonesuch duke himself stood as his cousin’s best man. The entire village turned out to witness little Miss Beckwith’s grand match.
The rosy glow faded quickly when Tony’s orders came before he’d had time to arrange Graceanne’s passage to the Peninsula. She couldn’t sail safely with the troop ships, couldn’t travel properly by herself, and couldn’t arrive officially at headquarters at all, in fact, until Tony got permission from his commanding officer, who was known to dislike officers’ wives. They distracted his men, he believed. The younger and prettier, the more distraction.
So Tony left his new bride with his sickly mother in a small rented house outside Cheltenham, where the ailing woman could partake of the waters. Graceanne never lost the niggling doubt that Tony’d married her for just that reason, to provide company for his febrile mother so he could traipse off to war with a clear conscience. She spent a year in that dreary locale of antiquated invalids, the unpaid companion to a dying woman. Mrs. Warrington’s worsening condition kept Graceanne even more isolated than she’d been in Warefield, where at least she had parish duties and her little sister. Tony’s letters were sporadic, his homeward leaves always postponed. He did manage to return to England for the funeral. With no excuse to leave her behind, and no one to leave her with, Tony finally agreed to take Graceanne with him when he returned to the Peninsula.
This time he placed her in the care of the British ambassador’s wife in Portugal, miles from his front-line position. Sometimes days or weeks away, Graceanne couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm for battle with her fretting.
He did like to show her off to his fellow officers, though, and he did visit her between engagements when he could. Graceanne provided hot baths, good food, had clean clothes whenever he arrived. After a day or two Tony would kiss her forehead and call her the best wife an officer could have, before he departed. He was undoubtedly fond of her, but Tony loved the war. He thrived on danger, laughed at the risks, reveled in the companionship of his fellow officers and his loyal troops. Graceanne hated everything about the war: the dirt, the heat, the wounded men passing through, the friends made and lost so quickly. She hated the confines of the headquarters, the rigid, narrow society of officers’ wives. Mostly she hated the endless, encompassing fear for her reckless husband. She almost came to hate Tony for the chances he took.