One
There was nothing like a family Christmas to make a person feel warm about the heart—oh, and a little wistful too. And perhaps just a bit melancholy.
Brambledean Court in Wiltshire was the scene of just such a gathering for the first time in many years. All the Westcotts were gathered there, from Eugenia, the seventy-one-year-old Dowager Countess of Riverdale, on down to her newest great-grandson, Jacob Cunningham, the three-month-old child of the former Camille Westcott and her husband, Joel. They had all been invited by Alexander Westcott, the present Earl of Riverdale and head of the family, and Wren, his wife of six months.
The house had been unlived in for more than twenty years before Alexander inherited the title, and had been shabby even back then. By the time he arrived it had grown shabbier, and the park surrounding it had acquired a sad air of general neglect. It had been a formidable challenge for Alexander, who took his responsibilities seriously but did not have the fortune with which to carry them out. That problem had been solved with his marriage, since Wren was vastly wealthy. The fortune she had brought to their union enabled them to repair the damage of years and restore the house and park on the one hand and the farms on the other to their former prosperity and glory. But Rome was not built in a day, as the dowager countess was not hesitant to remark after her arrival. There was still a great deal to be done. A very great deal. But at least the house now had a lived-in air.
There were a few other guests besides the Westcotts and their spouses and children. There were Mrs. Kingsley from Bath and her son and daughter-in-law, the Reverend Michael and Mary Kingsley from Dorsetshire. They were the mother, brother, and sister-in-law of Viola, a former Countess of Riverdale, whose marriage of upward of twenty years to the late earl had been exposed spectacularly after his death as bigamous. There had been many complications surrounding that whole ugly episode. But all had ended happily for Viola. For on this very day, Christmas Eve, she had married Marcel Lamarr, Marquess of Dorchester, in the village church. The newlyweds were at the house now, as well as Dorchester’s eighteen-year-old twin son and daughter.
And Colin Handrich, Baron Hodges, Wren’s brother, was here too. For the first time in his twenty-six years he was experiencing a real family Christmas, and after some feeling of awkwardness yesterday despite a warm welcome from everyone, he was now enjoying it greatly.
The house was abuzz with activity. There had been the wedding this morning—a totally unexpected event, it must be added. The marquess had burst in upon them without any prior warning last evening, armed with a special license and an urgent proposal of marriage for Viola a mere couple of months after he had broken off their engagement in spectacularly scandalous fashion during their betrothal party at his own home. But that was another story, and Colin had not been there to experience it firsthand. The wedding had been followed by a wedding breakfast hastily and impressively thrown together by Riverdale’s already overworked staff under Wren’s supervision.
This afternoon had been one of laughter-filled attempts to add to yesterday’s decorations. Fragrant pine boughs and holly and ivy and mistletoe, not to mention ribbons and bells and bows and all the other paraphernalia associated with the season, were everywhere, it seemed—in the drawing room, on the stairs, in the hall, in the dining room. A kissing bough, fashioned under the guidance of Lady Matilda Westcott, unmarried eldest daughter of the dowager countess, hung in the place of honor from the center of the drawing room ceiling and had been causing laughter and whistles and blushes ever since yesterday as it was put to use. There had been the Yule log to haul in today and position in the large hearth in the great hall, ready to be lit in the evening.
And all the while as they moved about and climbed and perched, pinned and balanced, pricked fingers and kissed and blushed, tantalizing smells had been wafting up from the kitchens below of Christmas puddings and gingerbread and mince pies and the Christmas ham, among other mouthwatering delights.
And there had been the snow as a constant wonder and distraction, drawing them to every available window far more often than was necessary to assure themselves that it had not stopped falling and was not melting as fast as it came down. It had been threatening for days and had finally begun during the wedding this morning. It had continued in earnest all day since then, until by now it must be knee deep.
Snow, and such copious amounts of it, was a rarity in England, especially for Christmas. They did not stop telling one another so all afternoon.
And now, this evening, the village carolers had waded up the driveway to sing for them. The Yule log had been lit and the family had gathered and the carolers had come against all expectation, exclaiming and stamping boots and shaking mufflers and slapping mittens and rubbing at red noses to make them redder—and then quieting down and growing self-conscious as they looked around at the family and friends gathered in the great hall to listen to them.
They sang for half an hour, and their audience listened and occasionally joined in. The dowager countess and Mrs. Kingsley were seated in ornately carved and padded wooden chairs close to the great fireplace to benefit from the logs that flamed and crackled around the Yule log in the hearth. It gave more the effect of cheerfulness than actual warmth to the rest of the hall, but everyone else was happy to stand until the carolers came to the end of their repertoire and everyone applauded. Alexander gave a short speech wishing everyone a happy and healthy New Year. Then they all moved about, mingling and chatting and laughing merrily as glasses of spiced wassail and trays of warm mince pies were brought up from belowstairs and offered first to the carolers and then to the house guests.
After a while Colin found himself standing in the midst of it all, alone for the moment, consciously enjoying the warm, festive atmosphere of the scene around him. From what he could observe, there appeared to be not one discordant note among the happy crowd—if one ignored the impatience with which the dowager was batting away the heavy shawl Lady Matilda was attempting to wrap about her shoulders.
This was what family should be like.
This was what Christmas should always be like.
It was an ideal of perfection, of course, and ideals were not often attained and were not sustainable for long even when they were. Life could never be unalloyed happiness, even for a close-knit family such as this one. But sometimes there were moments when it was, and this was surely one of them. It deserved to be recognized and enjoyed and savored.
And envied.
He smiled at the three young ladies across the hall who had their heads together, chattering and laughing and stealing glances his way. It was not altogether surprising. He was not unduly conceited, but hewasa young, single gentleman in possession of a title and fortune. Single gentlemen above the age of twenty were in short supply here at Brambledean. Indeed, he was the only one, with the exception of Captain Harry Westcott, Viola’s son, who had arrived back from the wars in the Peninsula two days ago—also unexpectedly—on recruitment business for his regiment. Unfortunately for the three ladies, however, the captain was the brother of one of them and the first cousin of another. Only Lady Estelle Lamarr, the Marquess of Dorchester’s daughter, was unrelated to him by blood, though she had become his stepsister this morning.
When they saw Colin smile, they all ducked their heads, while above the general hubbub he could hear one of them giggling. But why would he not look and be pleased with what he saw—and flattered by their attention? They were all remarkably pretty in differing ways, younger than he and unattached, as far as he knew. They were all eligible, even Abigail Westcott, Viola and the late Earl of Riverdale’s daughter, whose birth had been declared illegitimate almost three years ago after the disastrous revelation concerning her father’s bigamy. Colin did not care a fig for that supposed stain upon her name. Lady Jessica Archer was half sister of the Duke of Netherby and daughter of the former duke and his second wife, the youngest of the Westcott sisters.
It had not been easy during the six months since Wren had married Alexander to sort out the complex relationships within this family, but Colin believed he had finally mastered them, even the step and half connections.
He was about to stroll across the hall to ask the three young ladies how they had enjoyed the carol singing when his sister appeared at his side and handed him a glass of wassail.
“You are going to have to stay here tonight after all, thanks to the snow, Colin,” she said, sounding smug.
“But you already have a houseful, Roe,” he protested, though in truth he knew it would be impossible to go home tonight and even more impossible to return tomorrow. Home was Withington House, nine miles away, where he had been living since the summer. It belonged to Wren, but he had gladly moved in there when she had offered it, rather than stay in London, where he had lived throughout the year for the past five years.
“Roe,”she said softly and fondly. She had been christened Rowena as a baby.Roehad been Colin’s childhood name for her, and he still called her that when in conversation with her, even though her name had been legally changed to Wren. “One more guest will cause no upheaval, and it will make us all a lot happier. Me in particular. Was not the carol singing wonderful?”
“Wonderful,” he agreed, though the singers had been more hearty than musical.
“And the wedding this morning was perfect,” she said with a happy sigh. “And the wedding breakfast after it. And the snow and putting up more decorations and…oh, andeverything. Have you ever lived through a happier day?”
He pretended to think about it, his eyes raised to the high ceiling of the great hall, his forefinger tapping his chin. He raised the finger. “Yes, I have, actually,” he said. “The day Alexander came to call at my rooms in London and I discovered that you were still alive, and I went with him to meet you for the first time in almost twenty years.”
“Ah. Yes.” She beamed at him, her eyes luminous with memory. “Oh yes, indeed, Colin, you are right. When I looked at you, and you spoke my name, and I realized you were that little mop-haired boy I remembered…It was indeed an unforgettable day.”
He had been told when he was six years old that ten-year-old Rowena had died shortly after their aunt took her away from Roxingley, supposedly to consult a physician about the great strawberry birthmark that swelled over one side of her face, disfiguring her quite horribly. In reality there had been no physician and no death. Aunt Megan had taken Rowena from a home in which she had been isolated and frequently locked in her room so that no one would have to look at her. Aunt Megan had married Reginald Heyden, a wealthy gentleman of her acquaintance, soon after, and the two of them had adopted Rowena Handrich, changed her name to Wren Heyden, and raised her as their own. Colin, meanwhile, had grieved deeply for his beloved sister and playmate. He had discovered the truth only this year, when Alexander had sought him out soon after marrying her.
