Holiday House Parties (3 page)

“If you mean me, ma'am, I'll not deny it. Archie is a saint compared to me.”

“I'm quite inclined to believe you. But
your
sins, my lord, are not my concern. Nor do they lessen my misgivings about Archie's.”

Geordie eyed her curiously. “Is that why ye jilted him? Because he gambles?”

“Not that alone. I think Archie is typical of all your set. You are all gamblers, lechers, and wastrels. Not one of you is capable of holding a serious thought in his head.”

“Ye malign us, ma'am. We may not be able to translate the
Antigone
—”

“
Translate
it?” She gave a scornful laugh. “You can't even
read
it!”

Geordie felt a stab of revulsion. Who was this creature to decide she was superior to half the world? If there was anything the Scotsman could not abide it was a girl who gave herself airs. Why, it was entirely possible that Miss Caroline Woolcott was a bluestocking! “There's many a good man who canna read Greek,” he pointed out mildly, trying not to show his disgust.

“And many a loose fish, too,” she retorted.

“Ye might find, Miss Woolcott, that there's many a loose fish who
can
read Greek. I'd be careful of that sort, if I were ye.”

She looked at him coldly. “I really don't think I need your advice on that head, my lord.”

He ran his fingers through his curls in a gesture of defeat. “It seems I've been wastin' my time and yours, ma'am, if readin' Sophocles is what ye require in a husband.”

“Fortunately, I do not need your approval of my requirements.” She gestured imperiously toward the door. “Good evening, Lord Dunvegan.”

He shrugged and took the two strides necessary to bring him to the doorway. But there he paused and looked back at her. “I wish ye luck in findin' a suitor good enough for ye, Miss Woolcott,” he said with a brusque little bow, “though I dinna ken one man in all London who'd fill the bill. Good evenin', ma'am.”

Back at Geordie's house on Henrietta Street, Archie was anxiously awaiting his return. Geordie found him pacing the marble floor of the entryway. Before the Scotsman could take off his hat, Archie ran to him and grasped the lapels of his coat. “Well? What did she say?” he asked eagerly. “Will she reconsider?”

Geordie loosed himself from Archie's grasp, tossed his hat aside, and fixed his friend with a glare. “Yer Miss Woolcott winna ever reconsider anything,” he declared. “She's the most thrawn—perverse—female I've ever met. I dinna see why ye offered for the lass. Did ye never notice how she puts on airs? She's a sharp-tongued, sour, obstinate, flicherin' bluestocking, that's what she is!”

Archie's shoulders sagged. “Then I suppose I must assume your mission was not a success.”

“A success? It was a damnable soor mishanter!”

“That, I take it, means a disaster?” Archie asked miserably.

“A
complete
disaster. But ye needna look so dour, Archie, laddie. If ye ask me, y're well rid of her.”

3

Despite all of Geordie's efforts to cheer him, Archie remained shrouded in gloom for almost a fortnight. He wallowed in his despair. He kept to his rooms, refusing to go out no matter what amusements Geordie or his other friends devised to distract him, and he fell into bed at night full of brandy and self-pity. “I will never,” he moaned daily, “find another girl like Caroline. I will never, never fall in love again.”

Geordie scoffed at him. “Hasna anyone told ye that never is a long term? Ye'll love again, laddie, as sure as the sun will rise in the morn.”

But Archie was quick to point out that the sun did not rise in the morn. Every day of the thirteen that had passed since that infamous mid-November evening when Caroline had returned his ring had been cold, grey, and miserable. It began to seem that even the weather was conspiring against the hapless lad.

But, amazingly, December began with a burst of sunshine. As soon as Geordie saw the brightness of the sky, he took himself to Archie's rooms and hauled the fellow out of bed. “On your feet, Archie, lad,” he ordered. “Ye need a thocht o' sunshine to drive the gloom from yer spirit.”

The Scotsman had already selected a destination: Covent Garden. He had often found the square a delightful, cheerful place in which to stroll. Although at night the place was the haunt of drunkards and prostitutes, in the daytime, even in December, it was a colorful amalgam of homely delights. On this particular day, the sunshine had drawn out a good number of vendors and farmers selling whatever wares they could still amass. The flower stalls were piled high with holly, evergreen boughs, and mistletoe for Christmas decorations. The vegetable stalls were loaded with late-growing cabbages, radishes, leeks, turnips, and carrots. There were apple sellers in abundance. Bakers carried baskets and trays on their heads containing all sorts of pies and pasties. Booksellers filled their stalls with periodicals of all sorts. And circulating among them were strollers and shoppers ranging from tiny babes to old crones, from ladies and gentlemen of wealth and station to thieves and doxies. The brisk air rang with shouts, laughter, and the music of a hurdy-gurdy. It was just the place, Geordie believed, to shake Archie out of his lethargy, if only for the afternoon.

They were traversing the square toward a baker's stall, drawn by the tantalizing aroma of hot buns, when a large-bosomed, matronly woman, crossing in the opposite direction, stopped, stared at the Scotsman, cried out his name, and threw her arms about his neck. “Geordie,
dearest boy
,” she cried, “what a lucky chance! I have
this very morning
sent a note round to you.”

“Aunt Maud!” Geordie said in red-faced surprise.

Before he could disentangle himself from this unexpected embrace, a young lady tapped the matron's arm. “Mama, you are embarrassing my cousin,” she whispered.

Geordie blinked at the golden-haired girl who'd just emerged from behind her mother. “Is it ye, Bella?” he asked, for he had not seen his cousin for several years. She had become, in the intervening years, a very pretty lass, with apple cheeks, a glowing complexion, lips that formed a bow over an appealing over-bite, huge eyes, and a shape that was nothing if not sonsy. Geordie beamed at her. “'Tis a leesome lass ye've grown to be!”

“There, you see, Bella?” Aunt Maud said triumphantly to her daughter. “He's not a bit embarrassed.”

“No, of course I'm not,” Geordie assured them, kissing his aunt's hand and giving his cousin a brotherly embrace. “But what are ye doin' in London? I thought ye were fixed in Lancashire.”

“We've only come to town for a short stay,” his aunt said. She then launched into a lengthy explanation of the purpose of their trip, a purpose that could have been expressed in one word: shopping.

While she droned on, Archie ogled Cousin Bella with open-mouthed admiration. Then he tugged at Geordie's arm to remind him he was there.

“Oh, sorry,” Geordie muttered, and drew his friend forward. “Aunt Maud, Bella, this is my friend, Sir Archibald Halford. Archie, may I present Lady Teale and her daughter, Miss Isabella Teale?”

“How do you do?” Archie murmured as he bowed over the older woman's hand, while unable to take his eyes from the younger.

Lady Teale did not miss the look in Archie's eyes. Nor did it escape her that her daughter's cheeks turned a pretty pink. “Geordie, my boy,” she said loudly, “come take my arm. I must speak to you. Meanwhile, Bella, dearest, do go and buy me some apples. I have a positive yearning for them. I'm sure Sir Archibald will not object to escorting you.”

Geordie watched in some amusement as Archie tripped over his feet in his eagerness to do Lady Teale's bidding. Then he turned his attention to his aunt. “I say, Aunt, was that a whiddle, or do ye sairly have something to say to me?”

Lady Teale drew herself up in mock offense. “Watch your tongue, Geordie McAusland! I do not ‘whiddle.' Of course I have something to say to you. But first, tell me about your friend. Who is his family? I wonder if they're connected to the Dorset Halfords, who, I hear, are very well to pass. Well, speak up, boy! Are his connections people of … of substance?”

Geordie threw his aunt a look of glinting amusement. “I believe they are, ma'am. But aren't ye being a thocht aforehanded? Yer Bella hasna had a chance to say ten words to the laddie.”

“Don't wag your Scottish tongue at me, boy,” his aunt retorted, turning to look after the pair. “I know what I'm doing. It's best to be ‘aforehanded' in these matters. But if his family is good, then you may bring young Halford with you when you come to me in Lancashire for Christmas.”

Geordie stiffened. “Wheesht, Aunt Maud, I'm nae goin' to ye in Lancashire. I'm goin' home to Kincardine, to spend Christmas with my father.”

“But that's just what I wrote about in the note I sent you this morning. Your father has given you permission to spend the holidays with us at Teale Court. It's all arranged.”

“Arranged?” Geordie felt as if someone had landed him a severe blow to his midsection. “Ye and Father arranged for me to go to Lancashire instead of Scotland? Have I nothin' to say to this?”

“But, Geordie, dear boy, don't you
want
to visit us in Lancashire?” his aunt asked, her face falling.

“Dash it all, Aunt Maud, I've nae been home in six years! I've been lookin' forward to it more than I can tell ye. I've actually been countin' the days.”

His aunt peered at him in surprise. “You can't mean it. What amusement can you find at home, in your father's gloomy Scottish castle amid all that fog and those murky moors?”

“There's amusement there enough for me.”

Her ladyship frowned. “Really, boy, you're more difficult than your father. It's amazing how like you are to him. Oh, dear, how this does bring back memories! I remember how I warned my sister, when she ran off to wed her precious ‘Laird of Dunvegan' thirty years ago, that she'd find the Scots to be a stubborn lot. ‘We English,' I said to her, ‘are a reasonable people, but not the Scots. The Scots,' I said, ‘are intractable.' But off she went to Kincardine anyway.” The memory of her dear, departed sister made Aunt Maud's eyes water. She pulled out a handkerchief from her bosom and sniffed into it before adding in a tremulous voice, “But your mother, bless yer, would never say a word against your father—or Scotland—till the day she died.”

“Ay, my dear Aunt, you were right about the Scots,” Geordie said, not permitting himself to be swayed by her memories or her tears. “We
are
a stubborn lot. Dead thrawn, as we say at home. So I hope ye'll not take it amiss when I tell ye that I winna be goin' to ye in Lancashire. I'm for home.”

“Now, Geordie, there's no need for
you
to be intractable. You
are
half English, you know. And even your Scottish father has agreed that you should come to me. After all, it's only for the holidays. A mere fortnight. What objection can you have to postponing your trip home for a mere fortnight, especially since I need you so badly?”

Geordie was beginning to feel like a trapped rabbit. “Need me, ma'am?”

“Urgently. You see, Bella has invited some of her school friends to spend the holidays with us, and I can't possibly entertain young females without having a man or two about the house for them to flirt with.”

“Dash it, Aunt Maud, is
that
yer urgent need? To have me provide entertainment for a clutch o' maggoty females? And are ye askin' me to believe that my father was willin' to put off my return for such a reason as that?”

“Of course you must believe it. Read his letter, if you won't take my word.” She rummaged through her reticule, and pulled out the crushed and folded document. “Here. You'll find all you need right there on the very first page.”

Geordie scanned the missive scrawled in his father's unmistakable, barely legible handwriting, his disbelief gradually weakening as his disappointment strengthened. His father had agreed with his sister-in-law that Geordie deserved a holiday in the company of lively young people rather than in the lonely dullness of Scotland. He also agreed that after waiting six years for the boy's return, he could certainly wait another fortnight. Geordie began to see defeat looming up ahead of him. His father wanted him to go to Teale Court, that much was clear.

But it was the second page that really raised his ire.
But I count on you, Maud
, his father had written,
to do for the boy what you did for me thirty years ago—find him a proper English lass to wed
.

“So
that's
the real reason for all this,” Geordie growled, waving the paper in front of his aunt's nose accusingly. “You want to play matchmaker for me!”

“You weren't supposed to read that part,” she said, snatching the letter from his hand.

“Meddlesome gowks, the pair of ye!” Geordie muttered.

To his surprise, his aunt burst into tears. “You're breaking my heart, Geordie McAusland, just b-breaking my old heart! S-six years you've b-been in England and not once have you come to s-see me at Teale Court. Often and often I've b-begged you to visit, but have I ever c-complained at being so s-sadly neglected? No! Not once have I thrown it up to you! But this time I really counted on you. And now, with my heart s-so s-set on it, you're letting me d-down!” And she pulled out her handkerchief again and blubbered into it.

Geordie winced. “Aunt Maud, I dinna mean—” Awkwardly, he put an arm about her and patted her shoulder guiltily. “Wheesht, lass, dinna weep! I'll do as ye ask. If ye and my father insist, I'll come to ye at Christmas.” He groaned inwardly at his weak-kneed capitulation to his aunt's tears, but if his father could be patient a while longer, he supposed he could too.