An Enchanted Christmas Read online

  Salter listened to the tolling bells. “Why, I suppose, my lord, that you’ll find her at church. It is Christmas morning, after all.”

  *

  Lord Worth strode down the center aisle of the old church, his boot heels tapping on the stone floor. The small building was filled, and the vicar was reading the Gospel, so Nick had no choice but to take his seat in the empty family pew, all the way at the front of the church. The vicar stumbled over his words when he saw the late arrival, and the black-clad woman in the pew behind Nick gasped. The baron did not need to turn his head to know that Lady Rostend’s Christmas was now as miserable as his own. He kept his eyes forward, willing the reverend to hurry through the benedictions so he could find Mrs. Merriot and flee, before he had to confront Gregory’s mother in public.

  At last the vicar was intoning, “Go in peace, my friends. Happy Christmas.”

  Nick stood up and turned to address the congregation. “Before you leave, I must beg a moment of your time. There has been an accident at Worth Keep.” He could hear the muttering, the word “curse” growing louder and louder.

  “Miss Charlotte and Miss Henrietta Mundy have been injured, and are now resting at the castle. Mr. Bidlaw is unable to care for them, and I need assistance. Anyone wishing a position of employment will be considered. A Mrs. Merriot has been recommended to me as a healer, but I am not acquainted with the lady. If she is here, I beg—”

  “Never!” Lady Rostend got to her feet and shook her prayer book at Nick. “My niece will never cross your doorstep, you murderer.”

  “Your niece?”

  “Amelia Merriot, nee Rostend, as if you did not know, sirrah.”

  “Little Amy?”

  “Amelia, and she is a decent, God-fearing young widow now, and you shall not sully her with your notice.”

  Everyone in the congregation was noticing. No one had made a move to return home for their Christmas feast, not with this juicy morsel laid out at church. The vicar was wringing his hands, and his wife was hustling the Sunday-school children out the side door, lest anyone think she ought to attend the Mundy sisters.

  No other female would meet his eye. Not a single one was willing to come to Worth Keep, not to save a hundred impoverished gentlewomen. So much for the spirit of the season.

  “Is this how you celebrate Jesus’ birthday?” Nick spoke quietly, but with enough force to be heard in the last pew. “By turning your back on neighbors in need? Is this what you learn from your prayer books? What happened to His teachings, to doing unto others as you would be done to?” Everyone looked at their feet, except Lady Rostend, who was gathering her fur muff and her ermine tippet. Nick started to walk back down that aisle, saying, “May you never find yourselves in dire straits, and God have mercy on you if you do. For certain your friends and neighbors won’t.” Before he reached the third row of seats, a woman next to Lady Rostend stood. She was dressed in gray, and Nick had thought her a servant or a companion. Now she pushed back the hood of her drab cloak to reveal fair curls and a well-remembered, heart-shaped face. “I will go with you, my lord.”

  Lady Rostend pulled on her arm, hissing, “No. You cannot go with him, Amelia. The dastard killed my son. He’ll try to destroy you, too.”

  “Nonsense, Aunt Viveca, the French killed Gregory. I will be perfectly safe with his lordship.”

  “Think of your reputation, girl! You cannot go into that place alone.”

  “You are right, Aunt. You’ll have to accompany me.”

  Lady Rostend sank back against the seat, her mouth opening and shutting like a landed trout’s.

  Amelia patted her hand. “Never fear, I will take my maid. She can help make the ladies comfortable. And I’ll take Sir Digby, too, for protection.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow as he led Gregory’s cousin Amy out of the church past the gawking parishioners. “Sir Digby?”

  She giggled, the loveliest sound he’d heard in ages. Church bells ought to chime with such sweetness. She smiled up at him, her blue eyes alight with laughter, and said, “My dog.”

  Nick drove Mrs. Merriot back to Rostend Hall to gather her things, while he described the Mundy ladies’ conditions so she would know what to bring.

  “Yes, I have been making an infusion of the foxglove for Miss Charlotte, but I should think she’ll need a soothing draught first. Probably chamomile. Willow bark tea for Miss Henrietta, and rose water to bathe her head. Lavender is always a comfort. Laudanum for the driver if the pain grows too bad.”

  Following the young widow through the entry of Rostend Hall, Nick could not help noting the difference between this manor house and his own castle. Not just the cleanliness and general air of elegance as opposed to mere antiquity, but Rostend Hall was swathed in pine boughs and ribbons, gold bells and pine cones, clove-studded orange balls and holly wreaths. Even the air here smelled of Christmas, full of gingerbread and greenery and spice-scented candles.

  “I am sorry to be taking you from your celebrations, ma’am. I fear we cannot offer half the comfort and festive fare you’d be enjoying here.”

  “Of course, you were not expecting company. Think nothing of it, my lord. I’ll have Cook prepare a hamper so we can be quite merry.”

  “Mrs. Salter is preparing a goose, I understand.” She smiled again, that enchanting grin that was half girlish and half goddess. “In that case, I’ll have Cook pack two hampers.”

  The quartermaster’s office could have used Mrs. Merriot, Nick decided, watching the slight figure efficiently direct Lady Rostend’s servants in ten different directions, for food and clothes and medicines and books and a hundred things she thought might be necessary. The way the servants hurried to respond, with fond respect and smiles, said much for the lady’s standing in the household, and her own character. She’d always been a winsome little minx, he recalled, wrapping her cousin around her tiny fingers. She had turned into a charming young woman, from all appearances. She must be, what? Five and twenty? Too bad she’d been widowed at such a young age, he thought, wondering about the departed Mr. Merriot, the poor clod. Nick wished he’d asked Salter more questions.

  While her maid packed a valise, Mrs. Merriot bid Nick follow her to the stillroom, where she quickly packed jars and labeled packets into covered baskets. When one was filled, she handed it to him and started on the next. She would have passed that one to him also, but Nick had to hold up his injured hand. Trying to sound nonchalant, he said, “Sorry. It’s not good for much but matched gloves.”

  Without the least bit of missishness, Mrs. Merriot took his hand in her own. She bent the fingers, flexed the wrist. “Bad doctoring, I suppose, but at least they saved it for you.” Then she went back to collecting her concoctions.

  Nick marveled at her. The few young ladies of the ton whom he’d encountered had cringed from his disfigured face. They would have swooned at the sight of his ungloved hand with its gnarled ridges and crooked fingers, had he ever given them the opportunity to view the mangled limb. Not even the women he paid for companionship saw his uncovered hand by light of day. Mrs. Merriot, however, might have been selecting wools for her embroidery, for all the notice she paid the hideous scars. What a stalwart little soul she was, he told himself, just what he needed at Worth Keep. He’d make another donation to the church in thanks for sending him such a trooper.

  “You’re not afraid of anything, are you?” Nick asked now, knowing he was going beyond the line of prior acquaintance.

  Rosy color washed across Amelia’s fair cheeks. “Aunt Viveca finds me forward, if not an outright hoyden. I beg your pardon if I have given offense.”

  “Lud, I meant it as a compliment. No mealy-mouthed milk-and-water chit could help me now. If she would, which is highly unlikely. But tell me, ma’am, are you not the least bit anxious about the Christmas Curse on Worth Keep?”

  “Fustian. If there were such a thing, which I sorely doubt, the curse would have been used up for the year on the unfortunate Mundy sisters, although I am certain t
hat the care you give them will far exceed any discomfort they might suffer.”

  Nick bowed his head in acknowledgment of the high expectations Mrs. Merriot held. Her aunt, he supposed, most likely believed him capable of tossing the two old ladies back in the roadway, if not the river. “But what of the ghosts who are supposed to walk the halls at Yuletide?” he felt compelled to ask, giving his rescuer a last chance to back out of an awkward, perhaps awful, situation.

  The gray-clad female drew herself up to her full height, about the level of his chin. “Ghosts?” she echoed. “You think I should turn craven at the silly notion of ghosts? I’ll have you know, my lord baron, that I am made of sterner stuff than that.” Then she flashed him that grin again. “Nothing so paltry as a disembodied demon can faze me, Lord Worth, not after living with Aunt Viveca for three years.”

  Chapter Four

  “A Rostend? You brought a Rostend descendant to my home? That base-born churl caused this whole mingle-mangle, or have you forgotten that small detail, husband?”

  “How could I forget, my jewel, with you reminding me at every turn?” Sir Olnic was in a fine mood, fencing with the shadows on the walls, lunging, feinting, parrying imaginary sword thrusts. “Ah, what I would not give for a worthy foe.”

  “What I would not give for a rational thought from you. You are out of practice, sir, out of your mind, and out of your armor.”

  The old warrior looked down. “Why, so I am, my dear. I suppose I’ll have to don my mail. Wouldn’t want to give the Mundy sisters lewd thoughts, now, would we?”

  Lady Edryth made a rude noise and turned her back. “’Tis more likely the sight of your hairy loins would give them a disordered spleen. ’Struth, it fair turns my stomach.”

  “Ah, ’twas a different song you sang that last Christmas. By the saints, ’twas not your gut aching for me, my lady.”

  If ghosts could blush. Lady Edryth would be a fiery red. “Fie on your memories, you old rasher of wind. What are you going to do about the widow? If you think to install her here as mistress, I vow I will lay another curse on you. I will not have that whoreson’s whelp take my place as chatelaine.” She peeked a glance over her shoulder at her bare-assed beloved, sighing. “I will not have that benighted man’s blood mixed with ours. I will not, I say.”

  “Forget about the female, my lady. Mrs. Merriot is of no account. It’s the dog we want.”

  *

  Mrs. Merriot took over the Keep. She could do nothing about the missing servants, but she and her maid Stoffard, a stout, dour woman who held no truck with phantoms, or with flibbertigibbets who took any excuse to avoid an honest day’s work, had the sickroom in hand within hours of their arrival. Then they started on the rest of the castle. Amelia Merriot was not about to take up residence in a pigsty. Ghosts were bad enough, but dust balls were beyond the pale. Furthermore, she’d declared to the bemused baron, sending Nick out to care for the horses, dirt was unhealthful for the invalids. Mrs. Merriot, it seemed, considered shoveling manure a chore well suited for a titled gentleman, freeing up the few stable hands for moving ladders and turning mattresses.

  The wellborn widow was not above helping in the kitchens or carrying cans of water herself, shaming the lily-livered footmen back from the gatehouse. She even had the baron’s valet, Hopkins, performing tasks the gentleman’s gentleman had considered well beneath his dignity. Soon the smells of beeswax and lemon oil replaced the odor of mold and mildew. Arrangements of evergreens and holly appeared on occasional tables, and Nick could actually see out the window of his book room, where he escaped with the estate’s ledgers, nursing his blisters.

  When not directing her small army of servants, Mrs. Merriot was in the sickroom suite, two bedchambers connected by a small parlor. Her presence seemed to reassure the ladies of their safety, so they could expend their energies on regaining their strength—and gossiping. Miss Charlotte’s color was better, Miss Henrietta no longer saw double, and Amelia learned more about the Nicholson family history than she ever wished to.

  The Mundy ladies were in no hurry to return to their own cottage. What, with no servants to bring them tea or lemonade or a drop of sherry? No fires in the minuscule bedrooms, nothing but bread and butter for supper, no one to talk to but each other, no one to gently bathe their foreheads with lavender water? No, thank you. They were far too weak to undertake the journey home.

  Amelia was in no great rush to return to Rostend Hall, either. Here she felt needed, and could see the fruits of her labors in the wondrous old castle. Why, she half expected to see unicorns around every corner, the place was so filled with magic. In addition, no one was giving her orders, for a change. When Lord Worth protested that he had not invited her to his home to be a menial, she just laughed.

  “What, did you think I was a lady of leisure at my aunt’s house? Aunt Viveca has quite firm opinions on the place of a poor relation. This is a vacation, I assure you. Besides, I enjoy keeping busy, and love uncovering the treasures you own, as Mrs. Salter and I remove the Holland covers. And Miss Charlotte and Miss Henrietta are dears, so appreciative of every small favor.” Unlike her aunt, although Amelia did not say so. “I should be thanking you for the holiday.”

  They were having dinner together, at Nick’s insistence. “I would not see you growing sickly yourself, ma’am, eating beef broth and cow’s foot jelly in the sickroom.”

  “No fear of that,” she laughingly declared, helping herself to another serving of pork cutlets from the tray Salter proffered. “I am no fragile hothouse blossom that will easily wilt, my lord.”

  “No, but you are the rose in my garden of thorns, so I need to assure myself of your well-being. Lud knows how we would have managed without you and your maid.” He raised his wineglass to her in a toast, and Salter seconded, “Here, here,” before backing out of the room.

  One dark eyebrow raised, Nick told her, “You see? Even old Salter recognizes the debt we owe you.”

  Embarrassed, Amelia addressed her plate, but the warmth she felt had more to do with his words than the wine.

  After dinner, Mrs. Merriot had to walk her dog, an undistinguished, scruffy-looking brown terrier, with a bushy beard and comical eyebrows. Sir Digby was longer than he was tall, and as fat around as an overstuffed sausage.

  “Named after some country squire, I presume?” Nick asked, following the widow and her dog about the walled garden, where they were sheltered from the winter wind.

  “Um, not precisely,” she replied, tugging on the small terrier’s lead when he would have stopped by a bare-branched rosebush, pulling him behind a rhododendron for privacy. “Here is a better spot, Sir Digby.”

  The little dog immediately returned to the rosebush, stub of a tail wagging, nose pressed to the ground.

  “No, sir, we are walking, not investigating where some rabbit might have passed. Come, Digby.”

  But the terrier had other ideas, and started pawing at the earth.

  Nick stepped back, not quite before his trousers were covered in loose flying dirt. “Ah, now I understand where he got his name.”

  Embarrassed, Amelia quickly scooped up the animal, dirty feet and all. “We are guests here, you bad dog. You cannot go excavating the rosebushes! My apologies, Lord Worth. I will keep him—”

  A crash of thunder boomed through the still night. Nick took her arm. “Did you hear that? We’d better go in before the storm hits.”

  *

  Mrs. Merriot and her maid took turns sitting up with the patients during the nights. Nick was not happy with the arrangement, not with both women working so hard during the days. They needed their rest, but he had no alternative, since the castle was still without housemaids. On the second night, he offered to keep Mrs. Merriot company on her vigil. “That way I could fetch more hot water or broth if you needed it, so you would not have to leave the ladies or rouse the servants. My man Hopkins can be on call during Stoffard’s watch.”

  “Oh, no, I am sure that won’t be necessary. Miss Hen
rietta’s headaches are almost gone now, and Miss Charlotte has not suffered a nervous paroxysm since yesterday. There is no need for you to lose your sleep, too.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “There is no reason for you to sit up there alone, either, when I am offering. Unless you find my company burdensome?”

  “Of course not, my lord. You have been everything accommodating. But I fear…that is, my aunt…”

  “You are worried about your reputation?”

  Amelia studied the fringe on her shawl. “I have to live in this neighborhood, my lord.”

  Nick had to laugh at that. Mrs. Merriot was more intimidated by gossipmongers than ghosts. “Destroying your reputation would be a poor reward for your assistance, wouldn’t it? I assure you, though, that none of the servants except Hopkins venture above stairs after dark, and he is as loyal as your Stoffard, so no one needs to know. Except the Mundy sisters, if they should happen to awaken, of course, but I think you could not ask for better chaperones than those two. We will leave the door open, naturally.”

  She was still unsure, so Nick added, “Truly, ma’am, I have no designs on your virtue, just your comfort.” Lord Worth’s graciousness was making her uncomfortable, and a trifle disappointed, if Amelia was honest with herself. She nodded, though. “Then, I accept your generous offer.”

  He read aloud while she sat with her mending, then they played a game of chess and a round of piquet. Nick went down to the kitchen and fixed a tray of tea and biscuits. Mostly, they talked. The cozy warmth of the small sitting room and their necessarily lowered voices seemed to inspire companionable conversation, shared memories, and confidences. Soon they were calling each other Worth and Amelia, then Nick and Amy. Eventually, the baron felt they were well acquainted—re-acquainted—enough that he could ask, “Why ever did you agree to come here, to this Godforsaken old place?”