Once Upon a Christmas Page 3

  Dick Hart threw up his hands in mock horror. “My dear Thornburg! Delacourts don’t fall in love at any age. How dare you insinuate that our own Jack might be guilty of such a vulgarity? Jack, I say, call him out! Emerson and I will act as seconds.”

  “Well, Delacourts don’t fall in love as a general rule,” admitted Jack. “But there have been exceptions to that rule, and the exceptions have formed a certain—er—pattern. The family has grown rather superstitious about it, actually.”

  “Oh? What’s the tale?” asked Hart, dropping into a nearby chair.

  As there were no more chairs near the fire, Emerson pulled one over from the breakfast table. “I can’t imagine the duchess, of all people, crediting a superstition,” he remarked.

  “Yes, but this one has an extraordinarily consistent history,” said Jack, his eyes twinkling. “I daresay I am committing a solecism by divulging the family secrets in this way, but after all, everything I am about to tell you is a matter of public record. Anyone might look it up and put two and two together.”

  “Well?” prompted Thornburg. “Let’s hear it.”

  Jack assumed a melancholy and impressive air. “’Tis the curse of the Delacourts,” he intoned in a hollow voice. “Although it took us a while to notice it,” he added, his voice resuming its normal pitch. He stretched his long legs out before him and crossed them comfortably at the ankle. “Ever since Henry VII carved out a duchy to bestow upon my grateful ancestors, marrying well has been the aim and ambition of the family. Advantageous marriage, my friends, consistently advantageous marriage, has been the key to our continued prestige, our awesome political power, our repetitive mentions in the history books, and our increasingly obscene wealth. As Hart so sapiently pointed out a moment ago, we have left ‘falling in love’ to the lower social orders. Delacourts never marry to disoblige the family, as the saying goes.”

  He looked round the circle of young men, who were all regarding him raptly, and chuckled. Then he held up one finger and wagged it. “Except,” he said impressively, “the second sons.”

  Hart looked surprised. “Really?”

  Jack nodded. “They marry beneath themselves. Every last one of ‘em. As I say, it took a few generations for the pattern to be noticed. The first duke only had one son, so the question never arose. The fourth duke’s second son died at the age of twelve. And so on. There have been several dukes who either had no second son to embarrass them, or whose second son died mercifully young. But the ones that survive—ah, they are nothing but trouble!” He shook his head mournfully. “They invariably fall in love—irretrievably and insanely in love—always before their twenty-fifth birthday, and always with someone unsuitable. During the past century or so, it has caused increasing alarm and annoyance to the head of the family. Became a real thorn in the side, you know. Sterner measures have been taken with every generation, in an effort to stamp out the fatal tendency. Alas, to no avail! My father’s favorite uncle, the second son of the 15th duke, became enamored of a humble vicar’s daughter. He was given an ultimatum: choose her, or choose your family. He chose her, and was never heard from again.”

  Emerson appeared enthralled. “And what of your father’s younger brother?”

  “He wisely chose to remain unborn. The 16th duke had no second son. The 17th duke was less fortunate. He had me.”

  Thornburg looked puzzled. “But, Jack, old chap, you’re the heir. I’ve known you forever, and you’ve always been the heir.”

  “Yes, you’d think that would mend matters, wouldn’t you? Being reared as the duke-in-waiting, I ought to have absorbed all the reverence for duty and infatuation with my own consequence that have characterized the Dukes of Arnsford since time immemorial. Well, I haven’t. I exhibit all the classic characteristics of a Delacourt second son. In fact, I’m the worst one yet. I couldn’t wait to shake the dust of my ancestral home from my shoes. I despise all that silly ducal bowing and scraping and protocol and formality. And—prepare to be shocked, my friends—I think my father a fool.”

  “Never mind, old chap,” said Hart soothingly. “Most people think your father a fool.”

  “Yes, but I ought not to think it,” Jack pointed out. “Most unfilial of me!”

  “You had an older brother, then,” said Thornburg, still wrestling with this new information.

  “Yes. Henry died when I was a year old. So, you see, I’ve been the heir for as long as I remember—but all my careful training has had no effect whatsoever. I’m telling you, it’s a curse. No one has mentioned it—to me, at least, though for all I know it has been the central topic of conversation at Delacourt ever since I left my father’s roof—but I am well aware that everyone is on tenterhooks, dreading the day when I announce my betrothal to a brewer’s daughter, or a shepherdess, or some such thing.”

  Thornburg choked. “You won’t meet one in London. Perhaps you’ll bring home that opera dancer after all.”

  “The landlord’s daughter,” suggested Emerson.

  “Your washerwoman,” cried Hart, and they all shouted with laughter.

  “It’s very amusing, I’m sure,” said Jack aggrievedly, “but if this summons means my mother has chosen a bride for me, she’s bound to be a fright. What female would agree to marry a man sight unseen? A mercenary female, that’s who! Since she doesn’t know Jack Delacourt, she could only be interested in the Marquess of Lynden. My mother has found some simpering, well-bred, humorless shrew who means to be a duchess one day, whatever the cost.” He shuddered. “If there really is a girl lying in wait for me, and if she’s half as skillful as my mother is at manipulating everyone around her into doing her bidding, a mild-mannered chap like myself won’t stand a chance. I shall have to handicap myself in some way.”

  “Handicap yourself? What do you mean?” asked Emerson.

  “I must make myself unattractive to the wench. Come, help me think! What would make a girl like that run in horror?”

  Thornburg eyed him doubtfully. “A marquess, young, reasonably good-looking, rich as Croesus, and Arnsford’s heir? My dear chap! There’s nothing you can do to make yourself unattractive.”

  “Very well; less attractive. What if I played imbecile?”

  “No good,” said Hart firmly. “Idiocy would make you more attractive than you are now.”

  “Why, thank you—” began Jack, his voice quivering with laughter.

  “Oh, no offense, old man! But the sort of female who’d fall in with Her Grace’s plans is the very sort of female who likes to rule the roost. The more foolish her husband is, the better she will like it.”

  “That’s true,” said Jack, much struck. “Only look at my parents. It wouldn’t have suited my mother at all, had my father possessed a brain.”

  Hart grinned. “I’m glad you said that, rather than I.”

  “Yes, but perhaps it all depends upon the sort of idiocy,” suggested Emerson. “No, now hear me out! What if Jack were to behave like a despotic sort of fool?”

  “Beat her, do you mean?” inquired Jack. “I don’t think I have it in me. Besides, it must be difficult to accomplish a really sound beating on short acquaintance. One would have to be on a first-name basis with the victim, I should think, before one could properly begin.”

  Hart burst out laughing as Jack continued plaintively. “Yes, only think how awkward it must be to strike a lady one has just met. I would be wearing gloves, too! Even if I somehow worked a few blows into the conversation, I don’t think they would be effective.”

  “Oh, no need to actually strike the wench. Just bully her a little,” advised Thornburg, grinning.

  “Bully her a lot,” corrected Emerson. “Shout her down. Order her about. That sort of thing.”

  Jack blanched. “Now, really, dear chap—can you picture me doing that? I wouldn’t have the first idea how to go about it. And only think how exhausting!”

  “Oh, if you’re going to begrudge the effort—”

  “No, no! I am willing to stir myself a little.
But within reason, man, within reason!”

  “Yes, but I do think Emerson is on the right track,” said Thornburg. “There are any number of behaviors that females find repellent. You merely choose one, and adopt it as a habit.”

  “That’s the dandy!” said Jack approvingly. “What shall I do? Short of actual violence, that is.”

  “Stop bathing,” suggested Thornburg.

  Jack pulled a face. “I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Belch at the dinner table,” offered Hart.

  “Belch whenever you begin a sentence!” cried Emerson, inspired.

  Hart leaped to his feet. “Drool!”he shouted. The entire company roared with laughter.

  Eventually Jack wiped his streaming eyes and managed to utter, “So which of you is going to invite me for Christmas? I can’t go home this year, that’s certain!”

  “Courage, man,” said Thornburg, reaching out to give Jack’s knee a friendly shake. “We are all being even sillier than usual. Even if it’s true and there is a girl, your family can’t force you to marry against your will. This is the 19th century, not the middle ages.”

  “Never mind Thornburg,” interrupted Hart. “He hasn’t met the duchess. I, for one, will wager a pony that if Jack goes home for Christmas, he comes back engaged.”

  “Done,” said Jack promptly.

  “And I’ll bet a monkey he not only comes back engaged, but engaged to the chit Her Grace picked out for him,” added Emerson. He grinned. “I’ve met the duchess, too.”

  Jack groaned. “Now I shall have to go home for Christmas, just to prove my own mettle!”

  Thornburg laughed. “It’s my belief you’ll win your bet, Jack, and come back after the New Year as unshackled as you are today.”

  “I don’t notice you risking any blunt on it,” Jack pointed out. “Still, I shall not despair. My dependence is on the strength of the Delacourt curse. It’s never yet failed a second son.”

  Hart winked. “The curse hasn’t met the duchess, either.”

  Chapter 3

  Celia closed the massive door to her new bed chamber behind her—not without difficulty—and leaned her back against it for support. The shock, she felt sure, was killing her. Dear saints in heaven, what a place.

  Her eyes traveled fearfully round the room, confirming, to her relief, that she was finally alone. No servants hovered respectfully in the corners. No new faces peered curiously at her. No strangers with unsettlingly familiar features were present to stare with ill-concealed contempt at their drab and poverty-stricken relative.

  When the housekeeper had shown her this apartment earlier, she had been in too much of a daze to really look at it. Now she realized that this was the smallest and least prepossessing room she had seen at Delacourt. That was not saying much, however. It was easily six times the size of her bed chamber at home. How could anyone afford to heat such a space through the winter? It would cost a fortune.

  Well, a fortune was clearly what they had. A brisk fire burned in the grate and the room was, in fact, tolerably warm.

  Celia moved forward like a sleepwalker and began slowly unbuttoning her redingote. She could just kick herself for her own stupidity. What had she been expecting? She had known all her life that she was a Delacourt, and that the head of her family was Henry Fitzwilliam Delacourt, the 17th Duke of Arnsford. It was no secret that dukes were rich, and that the Duke of Arnsford was spectacularly rich. As the descendent of a disinherited black sheep, the Delacourt wealth had been no concern of hers. She had never given it a thought. Now she was mortified to find herself here, utterly unprepared for Delacourt’s magnificence, its gargantuan proportions, and its overwhelming grandeur.

  What must they all have thought of her! What a fool she must have looked, arriving at a ducal palace in her rusty black traveling dress and her mother’s old redingote, too frightened to say more than two words together—and staring at everything, eyes wide and mouth agape, like a bumpkin at the fair!

  She had been in such a daze, she had received only blurred and fleeting impressions of the family she had just met. The duchess was every bit as formidable as she remembered: impressive, ageless, and rather frightening. With a different expression, thought Celia, she might have been beautiful. But long years of self-consequence had hardened Her Grace’s features into a permanent mold of finely-etched hauteur. The eldest daughter, Lady Elizabeth, was a striking creature; she looked very much like her mother must have, twenty or thirty years ago. Her black hair and pale skin had struck instant envy into Celia’s heart, but she seemed to have inherited her mother’s arrogance as well as her coloring. Lady Augusta put Celia eerily in mind of Fanny, with her willful, discontented face and slanting brows. Lady Winifred suffered from a spotty complexion one could only hope she would outgrow, and Lady Caroline, despite a disturbing resemblance to Papa—of all things!—was plump and graceless.

  The duke was so unlike Celia’s mental picture of a duke, she feared she had stared when presented to him. He seemed much older than the duchess, spoke ungrammatically, and looked more like a country squire than a fine gentleman. His Grace, the Duke of Arnsford was fat, red-faced, goggle-eyed and wheezy, and Celia thought him one of the most unattractive persons she had ever met.

  She glanced in the mirror as she untied her bonnet strings, and the reflection of the room around her made her wonder, fleetingly, if her placement here was meant for an insult. It was, by Delacourt’s standards, small, and far from the apartments of the other family members. She walked to the tall windows, half expecting her room to have a view of the kitchens or some such thing.

  It did not. “Oh, my,” murmured Celia, gazing at the pretty vista of seemingly endless parkland. Delacourt was not a modern seat, but the only remaining vestige of its Tudor beginnings was the vast park which had been the first duke’s hunting grounds. The original house had been razed, and Celia looked out from one of hundreds of windows in a gigantic palace of golden limestone erected, perhaps, a hundred years ago. The palace graced the top of a slight rise, from which vantage point, Celia now realized, the Delacourts could view their surrounding domain as masters of all they surveyed. The vast lawns and woods and lakes and gardens belonged to them, and them alone, all the way to the horizon. The situation was perfect; the view breathtaking, even in winter.

  Of course, Celia thought cynically, if the rise were any higher one might have caught a glimpse of a village, or someone else’s farm. As it was, however, reality did not intrude. Delacourt Palace dreamed in splendid isolation, the self-contained and perfect center of its world.

  So much for her idea that this bed chamber was substandard. Delacourt obviously did not contain substandard accommodations. The servants’ quarters were probably finer than the vicarage Celia had grown up in.

  With a sigh, she dropped the edge of the heavy drape she had been holding and turned back to survey the room again. It lacked magnificence—thank goodness—but it certainly contained its fair share of luxury. The bed was enormous. She’d never before slept in a bed that had its own little flight of stairs. The sight made her chuckle. She climbed them, sat on the edge of the bed, and instantly sank over her waist in goose down.

  She bounced experimentally. Yes, there was a mattress beneath all those feathers, and a good one, too. It did seem a long way to the ground, however—for a bed. It would be like sleeping atop a great table on a dais. If she managed to get through the night without falling off the edge of it, it would probably prove to be comfortable beyond her wildest imaginings.

  Oh, dear. No wonder those hoity-toity servants the duchess had sent to help her pack had looked askance at her few sticks of furniture. They must have thought her a madwoman, insisting so mulishly on bringing her narrow bed and battered chiffonier! But the duchess’s instructions were to bring everything, absolutely everything, that belonged to her, and bring it she had. It was a little embarrassing that the sum total of her belongings did not even half fill the enormous wagon the duchess had sent. But most of the furni
ture belonged to the vicarage, and would be passed to the new vicar and his family.

  Celia had been too proud to let the duchess’s supercilious staff see how much it pained her to leave those things behind. She supposed it had been helpful, in a way, to have their cold eyes upon her at the last. Otherwise she might have broken down. She could not weep before strangers, and had thus survived the experience without disgracing herself.

  Sitting on her new bed at Delacourt, cradled in eiderdown, she thought of those last moments and felt her throat tighten with unshed tears. The worst, somehow, had been parting with the dining room table. Odd that that would hurt so much. But the strange thing about grief is, the things one expects to find oversetting are bearable. One is prepared to face them. She had sat stonefaced and stoic through the funerals. But the little things, the things that catch you off-guard—those are the things that blindside you.

  The last thing Celia had done, before vacating the only home she had ever known, was take the leaves out of the dining room table. As her father’s family had grown the table had grown with it, adding leaf after leaf until it was really too big for the vicarage’s tiny dining room. It had occurred to Celia that taking the extra leaves out would make the room seem larger when the new vicar saw it for the first time. So she went, alone, to the dining room and tugged at the heavy table. It rocked and creaked and then, with a final sigh of protest, gave in to her insistence and pulled apart.

  It was then, unexpectedly, that grief had struck. Lifting the heavy wooden panels out of the dining room table, Celia was vividly reminded of the faces that had sat around it every day of her life. Faces she loved without thinking, saw without noticing, assuming they would always be there. As she removed the first leaf, her eyes did not see the pitted wooden surface before her.

  They saw Benjy.

  Benjy had sat here, next to Mama, within reach so she could cut his meat for him, catch his kicking feet in her hand beneath the table, and make sure he did not slip his porridge into his milk cup when no one was looking. And across from him, at the other end of the leaf, had sat Jane, the quiet one, who never gave anyone any trouble at all.