Once Upon a Christmas Read online

  Once Upon A Christmas

  by Diane Farr

  A Regency Romance

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright © 2000, 2008, 2011 by Diane Farr Golling

  All rights reserved.

  To my wonderful family

  God bless us, every one!

  Chapter 1

  The vicarage was small and shabby, and so was the girl. But when Her Grace placed an imperious finger beneath the girl’s chin and tilted her face toward the light, the better to see her features, a certain something flashed in the child’s expression—a look of astonished reproach—that slightly altered Her Grace’s opinion. The girl met the duchess’s eyes fearlessly, almost haughtily. Just so, thought the duchess, a faint, grim smile briefly disrupting the impassivity of her countenance. This milk-and-water miss may be a true Delacourt after all.

  The duchess dropped her hand then, remarking idly, “You are offended by my examination. Do not be. A woman in my position must be careful. I am forever at risk of being imposed upon.”

  Ah, there it was again. The flash of swiftly-suppressed anger, the unconscious stiffening of the spine. She had spirit, this unknown grandchild of the duke’s Uncle Richie.

  She spoke then. Her voice was sweet and musical. At the moment, however, it was also crisp with annoyance.

  “I am sorry, Your Grace, that I must contradict you, but there is little risk of your being imposed upon by me. I have not sought you out in any way. You have come to my home, ostensibly on a visit of condolence, and asked me the most extraordinary questions—scrutinized me as if I were some sort of insect—all but placed me under a microscope—”

  Her Grace’s brows lifted. “Not sought me out? What can you mean?”

  Miss Delacourt’s brows also lifted. “I mean what I say. I have not pursued your acquaintance. You came to me. How, then, can you suspect I wish to impose upon you? Forgive me, but the notion is absurd!”

  The duchess gazed thoughtfully at the girl. Her confusion seemed sincere. An interesting development.

  Her Grace sank, with rustling skirts, onto a nearby chair. “We have evidently been speaking at cross-purposes,” she said calmly. “I received a letter, begging me to interest myself in your fate. Were you not its author?”

  Miss Delacourt appeared amazed. “A letter! No. No, Your Grace, I have never written to you. I would never presume to—Good Heavens! A letter! And it begged you to—what was it? Interest yourself in—in—” She seemed wholly overcome; her voice faltered to a halt as she struggled to suppress her agitation.

  The duchess lifted her hand, knowing that Hubbard would be anticipating her need. Sure enough, Hubbard immediately glided forward to place the letter in her mistress’s palm, then noiselessly returned to her place near the door. “This is the letter I received,” said Her Grace. “Someone has been busy on your behalf, it seems.”

  She handed the folded sheet to Miss Delacourt and observed the girl closely as she sat and spread the paper open with trembling fingers. Miss Delacourt then bent over the letter, cheating the duchess of a view of her face. Only the top of her head, crowned with a mass of dark brown curls, remained visible.

  The duchess took the opportunity to look more closely at the girl’s person. Although she lacked height, her figure was pleasing. Her fingers were smooth and finely-tapered, the hands of a lady of quality. And the child kept her back straight and her ankles neatly crossed, even in an extremity of emotion. Despite the ill-fitting black dress, the cheap shawl and the frayed ribbons on her slippers, there were marks of breeding in the girl. Given enough time, the right surroundings, the right company—and, naturally, the right wardrobe—she might yet prove adequate.

  Given enough time. But how much time would be given? These days, the duchess tried not to think about time in general, and the future in particular. Would there be enough time? The thought was disquieting, but Her Grace had a lifelong habit of steely self-control. This rigidity of mind enabled her to banish unpleasant thoughts—a skill which was proving useful of late.

  She turned her thoughts away from the fearsome future, therefore, and studied the room about her. She required information about Miss Delacourt. Obtaining it first-hand was the whole purpose of her visit. What might the vicarage tell her about its occupant?

  One assumed that a person of rank would be entertained in the best room in the house. If this was the best room in the house, it spoke volumes for what the other rooms must be like. The parlor, or whatever this was, was spotless, but oppressively small and low-ceilinged. Blackened plaster over the fireplace gave mute testimony that the chimney smoked. Those old-fashioned casement windows were completely inadequate; it was growing quite dark in here as the afternoon closed in. The single candle that was burning was tallow, not wax. And the furniture! Someone had polished all the wood until it gleamed, but the duchess’s sharp eyes were not deceived. All of it was old, most of it fairly worn, and several pieces were visibly scarred.

  Quite a come-down, for a branch of the illustrious Delacourt family! Her Grace wished for a moment that her sole surviving son could see it. It might give him pause. This, this is what lies in store for those who defy the head of the house and indulge themselves in foolish rebellion! Poverty and ostracism, banishment from all the elegancies of life—not only for oneself but for one’s descendants. It was a lesson in filial obedience just to see the place.

  But the girl’s face was lifting from her perusal of the letter. It seemed to the duchess that she had turned quite pale. “Do I understand you correctly, Your Grace? You have come here in answer to this?”

  “Certainly I have. Quite an affecting letter, I thought. Do not be offended by my arrival so many weeks after its date. I am sure you will understand that the assertions it contained required investigation before I permitted myself to reply in any way. In my position, I receive appeals of this nature on a regular basis. One grows quite tired of them. But this one contained the ring of truth. I thought it my duty, as a Christian and a Delacourt, to investigate—and eventually, as you see, to respond. Our connection may be distant, but it is not so distant that I could, in good conscience, ignore it. The tale related in that missive is factual, is it not?”

  Miss Delacourt pressed her fingertips against her forehead, as if trying to make sense of all this by main force. “Yes. But—why did you think I sent this letter? It is written entirely in the third person.”

  “I assumed, naturally, that that was merely a convention on your part.”

  Miss Delacourt gave a shaky laugh. “Oh! Naturally. As if I had my secretary write it! You will be astonished to learn, ma’am, that I have no secretary in my employ. I suppose that must seem strange to you.”

  “On the contrary, I did not expect that a girl enduring the circumstances described in that letter would keep a staff of any kind.” The duchess glanced fleetingly at the nondescript female who was trying to make herself invisible in the darkest corner of the room. “It is not unheard of, however, for the author of such a letter—which is, if you will pardon my frankness, nothing more than a bald appeal for charity—to phrase the message in such a way that it gives the impression it has come from a third party when it has not. The signature is quite illegible.”

  The girl glanced briefly back at the letter in her hand. “Yes, I suppose it is
. I recognize it, however. It is Dr. Hinshaw’s signature.” She sighed, rubbing her forehead again. “I am sure he meant well. His conscience must have pricked him when he engaged the new vicar. I don’t know why it should. What else could he do? He had a duty to the parish. It was kind of him to allow me to stay so long, in a house that does not belong to me.”

  The girl’s eyes traveled round the ugly room, her expression one of naked sorrow. She even seemed to be fighting back tears. Was it possible she was mourning the loss of this insignificant little house?

  Her Grace devoutly hoped that Miss Delacourt did not suffer from an excess of sensibility. There were few things more tiresome than to be subjected to continual displays of sentiment, particularly the sentiments of one’s inferiors. True, the child had just suffered a series of tragic misfortunes, but it was high time she recovered the tone of her mind. Her Grace did not approve of persons who unduly indulged their emotions.

  The duchess was not, by nature, playful, but in an attempt to lighten Miss Delacourt’s mood she offered her a thin smile. “I am glad to hear that you are accustomed to dwelling in a house that is not your own. You will not find it objectionable, I trust, to remove to another house that is not your own.”

  The girl did not laugh, but Her Grace did not resent Miss Delacourt’s lack of comprehension. She, herself, frequently misunderstood when those around her were joking. Miss Delacourt would understand the duchess’s modest jest when she saw her new home. The humor arose from the absurdity of calling such a drastic change for the better objectionable.

  The duchess rose, shaking out her cloak. “I shall send members of my personal staff to assist you in packing. You will find them most efficient. I expect, therefore, to receive you at Delacourt this Thursday week. Henceforward, you may address me as Aunt Gladys, and I shall address you as Celia. I am neither your aunt nor your great-aunt, of course; I am the wife of your father’s cousin, but that is neither here nor there. The disparity in our rank renders it disrespectful for you to address me as ‘cousin.’”

  Silence greeted this pronouncement. The duchess glanced at Celia, her brows lifting in frosty disapproval. “Well? Have you some objection?”

  Celia had automatically risen when the duchess did, but she appeared to have lost the power of speech. Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before she managed to say, “I’m afraid I do not understand you, Your Grace. Are you really inviting me to Delacourt? What of the bad blood that existed between—between my grandfather and his family?”

  The duchess waved a hand in languid dismissal. “You need not consider that. We shall be pleased to let bygones be bygones. The present duke has no interest in prolonging the estrangement. In fact, I am told that your grandfather was quite my husband’s favorite uncle before the…unpleasantness. Do not fear that he will object to your presence. I can promise you that he will not.”

  Celia flushed prettily. “Why, then, I suppose I—I have to thank you. Pray do not think me ungrateful, ma’am! I am just so surprised that I—I suppose I was taken aback for a moment. My grandfather always spoke of Delacourt with great affection, but I never thought to see it with my own eyes. Thank you! I shall look forward to my visit with pleasure.”

  The duchess eyed Celia for a moment, considering whether she ought to correct the child. She decided against it. Let the girl think she was coming for a visit. Once she saw Delacourt, she would naturally be loath to leave. It would be an easy matter, once she was actually on the premises, to extend Celia an invitation to make her home there—and once she had seen Delacourt, Celia would understand the enormity of the gesture and be properly grateful.

  It was extremely important that Celia be properly grateful. Nothing could be accomplished unless Celia was properly grateful. She seemed to have little understanding, at the moment, of the generosity being extended to her, nor any appreciation of Her Grace’s condescension. Her Grace found this vaguely irritating, and had to remind herself that Celia’s ingratitude arose from ignorance. That was easily mended. All in good time, she promised herself.

  Time. There was that word again. The ghastly specter she must face, and face soon, immediately clamored for her attention. It was, again, swiftly banished. Pish-tosh! She would cross the bridge when she came to it, and not an instant before.

  She bade Celia Delacourt a gracious farewell and was pleased to see the degree of deference in the girl’s curtsey. She may have sprung from the black sheep of the family, and she might be ignorant of the glories in store for her, but at least she was not one of those brass-faced young women one encountered so lamentably often these days.

  The nondescript female who had admitted them emerged from the shadows, showed Hubbard and the duchess to the door, and quickly effaced herself. Hubbard adjusted Her Grace’s cloak and tightened the wrap round her throat. The duchess avoided Hubbard’s sharp, worried eyes, and placidly smoothed the creases on her gloves.

  But the more devoted one’s servants were, the more impossible it was to hide anything from them. As usual, Hubbard read her thoughts. “Will she do, Your Grace?” she asked gruffly.

  It was a fortunate circumstance that Hubbard was so completely loyal. Her uncanny percipience would be embarrassing otherwise.

  The duchess smiled serenely. “Oh, I think so. She seems a trifle strong-minded, of course, but I daresay that’s the Delacourt in her.” Her smile faded as she voiced the unpleasant fact possessing both their minds. “She’ll have to do. There’s no time to find another.”

  ………

  When Celia heard the door closing behind her visitors, she let her breath go in a whooshing sigh of relief and collapsed nervelessly onto the settee. “What a terrifying woman!” she exclaimed. “Why do you suppose she asked me all those impertinent questions? My heart is hammering as if I have just run a race.”

  Elizabeth Floyd emerged from the shadows to flick the curtain aside. “Be careful, my dear!” she urged, in an agitated whisper. “They have not yet gone.”

  Celia rolled her eyes. “Well, what of that? Even if she could hear me, which I sincerely doubt, I cannot picture the duchess unbending far enough to come back and ring a peal over me.”

  “I can,” asserted Mrs. Floyd nervously. “There! The coach is moving off, and we may be easy. Well! I don’t know what she meant by putting you through such a catechism, but it seems you passed the test. Oh, my dear little Celia! What an astonishing stroke of good fortune for you! At last!”

  Celia did not move from her collapsed position on the settee, but turned her head far enough to peer at her former governess with a skeptical eye. “Are you serious, Liz?”

  Mrs. Floyd’s round eyes grew rounder. “Quite, quite serious! Why, how could I not be? I think it amazing, and really quite affecting, that you should come to such a delightful end after all your travails.”

  “I am not sure this is any sort of end, let alone a delightful one,” Celia pointed out. “I own, it will be interesting to visit Delacourt—which I never expected to see—but do not forget that the duchess is in residence there! How am I to face her on a daily basis? I hope she does not mean to pepper me with personal questions every time we meet, for I am likely to say something rude to her if she does.” Indignation kindled in Celia’s brown eyes and she suddenly sat upright again. “How dared she question me on my religious beliefs? As if Papa might have neglected his duties! And why do you suppose she wanted to know my medical history? I almost offered to let her examine my head for lice. Do you think that would have satisfied her?”

  “Oh, dear. Oh, dearie dear. I am so glad you did not. Think how affronted she would have been!”

  “Yes, but what was her purpose? I don’t believe she was worried about… what happened to my family. Nothing contagious was responsible for—”

  Mrs. Floyd interrupted quickly when she heard the catch in Celia’s voice. “No, certainly not. Not a contagion at all. No question of that. Very odd of her, very odd indeed! But many people are nervous about illness, you know. I dare
say she wished to feel quite, quite sure that you would not communicate some dread disease to her household. Smallpox, or typhus, or something of that nature.”

  “Well, I like that! Of all the—”

  “Now, Celia, pray! You should be blessing your good fortune, and instead you are looking a gift horse in the mouth! She has invited you to Delacourt— Delacourt, my dear! Nothing could be more exciting. I declare, I am in transports! You shall have a family again, for they are your very own relatives, however grand and strange they may be. And you shall be surrounded by luxury—which I’m sure is no more than you deserve—and I shall be able to go home for Christmas, something I had not thought possible a quarter of an hour ago. Oh, I am so happy!” She whipped a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed briskly at her eyes.

  Celia saw that her old friend was really beaming with joy. “Oh, Liz, what a wretched friend I have been to you,” she exclaimed remorsefully. “I have been so taken up with my own troubles, I never gave a thought to yours. Of course you would rather be home for Christmas than cooped up here, bearing me company for propriety’s sake.”

  “For friendship’s sake,” said Mrs. Floyd firmly, perching her plump form on a nearby chair. “I have not begrudged a single moment of my time here, and well you know it. Why, Celia, you are like a daughter to me! I would no more think of abandoning you than—than anything.”

  The cap on the little governess’s head fairly quivered with indignation. Celia smiled affectionately at her. “Even friendship has its limits. Am I to keep you from your family forever? You ought to have told me you wanted to go home for Christmas.”

  “I will be glad to go home, there is no denying it, but my brother’s wife takes better care of him than ever I can, and I am only Aunt Liz there. Had you needed me for another month or so, they could easily have spared me. But, my dear, now that the crisis is past I do not hesitate to tell you how worried I have been—for I was at my wit’s end to imagine what would become of you when the new vicar arrives. I could not offer you a place with me, since I do not have a home of my own. There was no possibility of the new vicar being able to spare you a room, with such a large family as he has. And only think how difficult it would be to see another family move in to the house where you have lived all your life—the house where you were born! After everything else you have been through, I feared for you, my dear, I really did. How unfortunate, that both your mother and your father had no siblings! With no aunts, no uncles, no cousins—where were you to go?”