A Christmas Conspiracy (2 page)

They could, of course, have dosed his tea with something unpleasant, but, as Genie wisely pointed out, that course might not have at all the desired effect. One could not predict such niceties as the timing or severity of the resulting affliction, nor even depend on their Mother’s heartstrings being in the least wrung after these many years. All they should bring about in that event was an even more churlish father than they already suffered.

That they should write their mother the truth was rejected out of hand as entirely too fanciful. If the lady had had any natural feeling for her daughters, she would not have allowed them to languish under their father’s austere command these five years. No, it was clear they must somehow play upon the fondness their parents seemed to have once held for each other. At last, Tavie hit upon a useful stratagem.

“Father must beg her to return to him,” she announced bluntly.

Genie raised her eyebrows. “Indeed? Shall I just go ask him if he will not oblige us?”

“Of course not, gudgeon! Do you not see? We must write to Mama in his name. He will write such a letter as to
rend
her heart. He will beg her to return, beg her to forgive him.”

“How romantic!” Genie gave a dreamy sigh. “And had we not better make mention of her daughters pining for their dear Mama?”

“That,” Tavie pronounced with a grimace, “is not in the least romantic! Best she keep her mind trained on Father, for he is, remember, an exceedingly handsome man. All the girls at Miss Danbury’s thought so when he came to fetch us away.”

“One tends to forget,” Genie said petulantly. “You are right, of course. I suppose we had best become a part of the backdrop, but do let’s make some small mention of ourselves in case she has forgot us entirely.”

Tavie nodded. “I do not suppose a small reference will do any harm. Now, if we can compose the letter tonight and post it tomorrow, there is a fair chance Mama can be here in time to turn away Miss Walleye.”

“But how shall we copy Father’s hand?”

“Pooh! Surely after all these years she will not know it! Now, Genie, what should Father buy Mama for Christmas, do you think?”

Chapter Two

Lady Frances Montmorency reclined in unaccustomed languor on a
chaise longue
sipping chocolate before the fire, listening to the clock tick away the afternoon. By her side, a particularly indolent pug lay snoring on its back, the pink points of its toes saluting the ceiling.

London was decidedly dreary in the winter, Lady Fanny sighed. Almost as dreary as she felt. She scratched the pug under its chin.

“If only someone would come and rescue us from our own company, Flops!” she mused. “What do you say?”

In his sleep, Flops’ paws fluttered but slightly and Lady Fanny turned to stare gloomily into the fire. It was her own fault, of course. She had turned down any number of invitations to take part in Christmas house parties. This was, however, the one time of year she was unable to summon the high spirits for which she was famed. Season to Season, she danced until dawn, flirted, broke hearts, aroused jealousy—no mean feat at the age of four and thirty—and, indeed, challenged the very candles to burn more brightly than she.

But Christmas was different. There was something almost irreverent in attempting to vie with the jollity that grew out of good fellowship and Christian charity. The very notion made her feel brittle and cynical.

“Greetings, Fanny!” a familiar voice drawled. “What has got you into such a frightful pucker?”

Lady Fanny looked up to see her cousin, Sir Hillary Falwell, stroll into her drawing room. Bold as brass—not even announced! Not, certainly, the company for which she had wished to break the afternoon’s tedium. And that costume he affected! If she had a grain of ambition, she would send for Bow Street. Pulling a gilt chain from an excessively ugly waistcoat, Sir Hillary lifted an ornate quizzing glass and scrutinized her with his usual rapt, unnerving attention.

“Do go away, Hillary,” she told him unfeelingly. “Whatever do you mean by walking into my mauve drawing room dressed in that horrid puce waistcoat? You look like a headache about to come upon me.”

“Ah! the ever intuitive Fanny!” he sighed, looking much struck by this assessment. “Why so I am, the megrims personified—though without the least intention of being so, I assure you.” He pulled a chair beside her and sat, reaching to test the weight of the chocolate pot as he did so. “ ‘What! Drunk all? And left no kind drop for me?’ ”

“Quoting Juliet, are we, Hillary? What am I to take from that? That I serve poison?”

“Shall I say, ‘Death! Where is thy sting?’ ”

“From Shakespeare to the Bible? If you must be a quoting pedant, pray do not hop about the literature so. You make my head spin. If I ring for Chesterton to bring more chocolate, will you be a good little wasp and buzz into someone else’s drawing room?”

“How heartless you’ve become, Fanny!” he scolded, entirely unabashed. “Here I have come to bring some small bit of cheer into this dreary winter day—you must see I have this jolly sprig of holly in my buttonhole—and you eat me!”

Resignedly, Fanny rang for the butler. “If you’d had yourself announced like any other reasonable human,” she said, shaking her head, “I could have claimed to be out and spared you the anguish. What’s more, if you had a shred of sensibility you would toss that holly onto the fire. Those red berries against the puce look positively vomitous.”

“More chocolate, Chesterton,” she said as the servant entered the room, “and the next time Sir Hillary comes to call, pray set the dog on him.”

“Very good, my lady,” Chesterton replied with a solemn bow.

As the butler withdrew, Sir Hillary pulled pettishly at his coat sleeves which hung a distressing six inches beyond his wrists. “How odd I must so constantly remind you, Fanny—I am
not
a reasonable human. Never even professed to be. Nor have I ever claimed the least sensibility. It doesn’t run in the family, as you well know. Besides, the very notion of setting Flops on me! That’s doing it a bit brown. Why, you know quite well I am something of a father to the pup!”

“Pray stop, Hillary!” she exclaimed, lifting her brows. “Do not invite unkind speculation!”

“Come, come!” he chided with an equable smile, shaking his finger at her in admonition. “You know quite well if my mother had not taken the beast in such dislike, I would never have given him to you.”

“Never have abandoned him with me, you mean to say.”

He shrugged. “Such quibbling is beneath you, Fanny! Now to important matters. Will there be any cakes?”

“No!” Fanny said crossly. “I mean you to drink your chocolate and go away.”

“But there must be,” Sir Hillary beamed annoyingly, “for I have spied Madcap’s carriage down the street at Lady Hester’s and she will not stay there long, for you cannot but own they despise one another. Then she will come here and you know quite well Madcap will never leave until she has been fed something.”

“Lady Madden is on her way?” Fanny exclaimed, starting as if a stinging creature had flown into the room. Although Madcap was as close as Fanny came to having a bosom bow, there was about the lady such a confusion of odd parts, endearing and intolerable, that one was often hard pressed to know whether to welcome or evade. Fanny chose the latter.

“Forgive me, Hillary,” she said, rising precipitously from her seat, “but I find all at once I must take to my chamber.”

“Why, Fanny!” he exclaimed, at last letting his offensive quizzing glass drop. “I must confess I am shocked at your lack of charity in this season of good will! I am sure the angels are weeping at you!”

“And I am shocked you did not warn me,” she retorted, pulling at her shawl which had become wrapped about the pug. “What in heaven’s name is family for, if not to apprise one another of calamity bearing down upon them?”

Fanny’s sudden movement sent Flops rolling onto the floor where he landed with a despondent yawp just as Chesterton entered bearing a small tray. “The post has arrived, my lady.”

“Her ladyship is suddenly unwell, Chesterton,” Sir Hillary informed him. “I shall take those.”

“You will do no such thing, Hillary,” she snapped, intercepting the tray neatly. “If Lady Madden should call, Chesterton, tell her I am indisposed. Feed her some cakes and then make them both go away.”

She picked up the scant three or four pieces of mail, and made her way up the stairs. What had made her more short than usual with poor Hillary? she wondered. True, he had no redeeming qualities, but she had suffered him to run tame about her house ever since he had come to town to conduct his desultory search for an heiress. And, after all, he was family. It must be that it was almost Christmas. It always depressed her.

In her sitting room, she flipped quickly through the post. A musical evening at Cheswick’s. Ghastly. A card party at Sir Godfrey’s. Well, she supposed. Hell
might
happen to freeze. She stopped short, however, at the sight of a familiar seal. Surely it was not, could not be ... her husband’s. For the past five years, all communication had been conducted through the family solicitor.

Lady Fanny tapped the edge of the missive nervously. While it did indeed bear her husband’s seal, the hand was certainly not Giles. What could it mean? Perhaps, she thought with a tremor, Giles was ill and had called out for her. What if he should die? What if—?

What rubbish! her good sense cried. Prinney might as likely cry out for the noxious Caroline. Fanny bit her lower lip. She had long ago stopped waiting for Giles to realize his folly. Her pulse no longer raced when the post arrived. Nor when the stance of a silhouette in the distance reminded her of the set of his shoulders. Nor even when the filtered sunlight warmed the empty bed beside her and for a moment she remembered.

Then whence this stupid, stupid flutter of expectation? she asked herself angrily. The letter, whatever it was, was surely just as empty as her dreams. Perhaps he was even suing for divorce, though why Giles should not write the letter himself was unclear.

Who else at the hall might wish to contact her after all these years? she wondered. At once, the image of two heart-shaped faces framed with golden ringlets rose up in her mind. Fanny sat up straight. Surely not! Why the girls were not allowed any contact with her.

Quickly, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter. The same round, childish hand was evidenced inside:

My dearest, most pitifully wronged wife,
she read.

How oft have I cast my mind on our sorrows and berated myself for my cursed stupidity. Each time I look into the faces of our fair and noble daughters (whom, you will recall, are named Eugenia and Octavia) I mentally beat my breast with utmost regret at my most villainous folly. I would ere now have flown to lay my heart at your feet, but for my criminal pride (which you must recall with the most violent abhorrence having suffered so greatly at the inconstant and tedious whimsy it provoked in me when last we met!)

Last night I came upon the miniature of you which I once wore close to my heart. And
—
ah!—how that heart was rent! The spectre of my injustice toward you pointed its appalling and unnatural finger, accusing me, and adjuring me to—dare I name it?—throw myself on your mercy and beg you to return to me and our fair daughters as fast as may be.

I am torn even now by the battle between pride and shame, so pray do me the kindness of not mentioning this letter before me. Fling it onto the flames and your dear self into my arms. I await you and am . . .

Yours to command until death, Giles

By the time Fanny had finished reading this missive, tears of mirth were streaming down her face. Was there ever anything more perfect? The notion of poor, staid Giles having written such a document was equaled only by the expression of horror it must occasion should he ever come to hear of its existence. It could only have been the handiwork of her daughters (the fair and noble ones!)—but what in heaven’s name prompted them to such an escapade? It was clear they wanted her to return, but to what end? She could not imagine they had been led to believe she was anything but wicked. However, if this letter were an apt illustration of their ingenuity, the rumors she had heard of their caprices at school must be borne out. Blood will out! she thought with satisfaction.

The desire to go to her children, to see them again was overwhelming. How tall they must be and how beautiful. If only she might!

Fanny smiled to herself. Although traveling to the country and bursting onto the warm Christmas scene must surely be ineligible, it would take very little to convince her to do so. What fun to picture Giles! His face would go all “Montmorency stiff” (as she used to call his singular grimace of dismay at her antics). How like old times. Why she would wager—

Lady Fanny stopped herself mid-thought, the laughter suddenly disappearing. It was as if she saw it all before her again. Candles burning low in the holiday greenery. Herself in Willoughby’s arms, the laughter dying on her lips. Giles’ frozen expression. Her words echoing.
But it was just a wager! A silly, silly wager!

What a stubborn prig he was! Not worth a moment’s heartache. It would serve him quite admirably were she to deposit herself on his doorstep unannounced.

“Why, Fanny!” Lady Madden—Madcap as she was generally known—entered Fanny’s sitting room in a great swirl of feathers and lavender scent. “Sir Hillary is quite right. You do look shocking!”

Fanny groaned. “Is no one announced anymore?”

“You really must speak to Chesterton, Fanny. I was never so shocked in my life, for it was quite the easiest thing in the world to slip past him. But only look, I have brought dear Flops with me.”

“What? Is that Flops?” Fanny said, regarding Madcap’s burden with distaste. “I thought it was a singularly unattractive muff.”

Lady Madden glanced down at the ungainly bundle in her arms. “Well, to be sure! I have him turned wrong way ‘round. Why, here,” she said, readjusting the fluffy mound, “is his dear little face.”