Sunshine for Christmas
It was raining again. It had rained yesterday and the day before that. His hands clasped behind his back, Lord Randolph Lennox gazed out the window of his bedroom at the slick gray streets of Mayfair. “Burns, do you know how many days it has been raining?”
“No, my lord,” his valet replied, glancing up from the wardrobe where he was stacking precisely folded neck cloths.
“Thirty-four days. Rather biblical, don’t you think? Perhaps it's time to order an ark.”
“While the autumn has been a wet one,” Burns said austerely, “it has not rained continuously day and night. Therefore, if I recall the scriptural precedent correctly, an ark should not be required.”
Between amusement and depression, Lord Randolph considered the question of arks. Somewhere on Bond Street, among the tailors and bootmakers and jewelers, was there a shop that would supply an ark suitable for a gentleman? But that would never do, for arks were meant for pairs, and Randolph was alone. Had been alone for thirty-four years, save for one brief spell, and undoubtedly he would be alone for the rest of his life.
With disgust, Randolph realized that he was in danger of drowning in self-pity. Damn the rain. He was a healthy, wealthy man in the prime of his life, with friends and family and a variety of interests, and he had no right to complain of his lot. He knew that he should be grateful for the rain that kept “this scepter’d isle, this demi-paradise” green, but the thought did nothing to mitigate the bleakness outdoors, or in his soul.
He would have enjoyed snow, which was clean and pure and forgiving, but snow seldom fell in southern England. Farther north, in Scotland or Northumbria, soft white flakes might be floating silent from the sky. In London, the weather was merely miserable.
In a few weeks it would be Christmas, doubtless a drab, wet one, and Randolph was not sure which thought was more depressing: the rain or the holiday. As a boy growing up on the great estate of Dunbar, he had loved Christmas, had ached with excitement from the celebrations and the sense of magic in the air.
Randolph and his older brother, Edward, more formally known as Lord Westkirk, would burrow into the Dunbar kitchens with the glee of all small boys. There they stole currants and burned their fingers on hot pastries until chased out by the cook, who had a fondness for children except when a holiday feast was threatened.
Dunbar had been a happy house then. Indeed, it still was. Randolph’s parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Kinross, enjoyed robust good health and liked nothing better than having their family about them. Edward and his wife and three children would be at Dunbar for Christmas, as would numerous other Lennoxes. The great house would be drenched with love and laughter and happiness. It was expected that Randolph would be there as cherished son and brother, uncle and cousin.
He couldn’t bear the thought.
It was only mid-afternoon, but the light was already failing because of the rain. Randolph studied his reflection in the darkening window glass with detachment. Above average height, dark gold hair, slate-blue eyes, regular features. During their courtship, his wife had said that he looked like a Greek god. It had been a sad disappointment to her when he had proved merely human, and not an especially dashing specimen at that.
He did not have to spend Christmas at Dunbar. There were other houses, other friends, more distant relations, who would welcome him for the holidays, but he no more wished to go to any of them than to his father’s house. He did not want to be an outsider at the feast of other people’s happiness. Neither did he want the good-hearted matchmakers of his acquaintance trying to find him another wife.
What did he want? Sunshine and anonymity. Bright skies, warm air, a place where no one knew or cared who he was.
An absurd idea. He could not just pack up and run off on impulse.
Why not?
Why not indeed? First with surprise, then excitement, Randolph realized that there was nothing to stop him from leaving England. Winter was a quiet time at his estate, and his presence was not required. Now that the long wars were done, the Continent awaited, beckoning staid Englishmen to sample its decadent charms. If he answered that siren call, his family would regret his absence, but he would not be missed, not really. His presence was essential to no one’s happiness.
Quickly, before the impulse could dissipate, he turned from the window. “Burns, commence packing. Tomorrow we shall take ship to the Mediterranean.”
The usually imperturbable valet so far forgot himself as to gape. “Surely you jest, my lord?”
“Not in the least,” Randolph answered, a sparkle in his eyes. “I shall go into the City to book passage directly.”
“But. . . but it isn’t possible to arrange such a journey in twenty-four hours,” Burns said feebly.
Randolph considered all that must be done, then nodded. “You’re right. We shall leave the day after tomorrow instead.” He grinned, feeling lighter than he had in months. “We’re going to find some sunshine for Christmas.”
With a lamentable lack of regard for his expensive coat, Lord Randolph crossed his arms and leaned against the brick wall, drinking in the grandeur of the scene before him. Even under damp gray skies, Naples was beautiful.
Having made the decision to leave London, he had booked passage on the next available Mediterranean-bound passenger ship. Its destination had seemed a good omen, for Naples was said to be one of the most sophisticated and enchanting of cities.
As further proof that his journey was blessed, Randolph had found lodgings at the best hotel in the city, with glorious prospects visible from every window. Naples seemed a magical place, and he had gone to bed the first night full of hope, sure that even a staid Englishman could find magic here.
The next morning he awoke to rain, and the local variety was every bit as dismal as the London kind. The hotel manager, heartbroken at being the bearer of bad news, admitted that December was the height of the rainy season, but hastened to add that the weather might well improve momentarily, if not even sooner.
Perhaps the sun would come out, perhaps not, but that morning the weather was exactly like a bad English November, which was what Randolph had tried to escape. His brief spark of hope flickered and died, leaving resignation. It had been foolish to think he could run away from either rain or loneliness. But, by God, he was here on the holiday of a lifetime, and he was going to enjoy himself if it killed him.
He hired a guide, and for three days he dutifully viewed churches and monuments. He bought antiquities andobjets d’art, and an exquisite doll in native dress for his niece.
He had also admired the handsome Neapolitan women, had even been tempted by one or two of the sloe-eyed streetwalkers. But he did not succumb to temptation, for the price might be too high. It was said that the prostitutes of Naples often gave men souvenirs that could be neither forgotten nor forgiven.
