A Christmas Conspiracy (6 page)

“I am so glad to hear it!” she returned brightly. “In that case I shall rest easy. Now, if you do not mind, I have already been sufficiently chilled this evening and I am weary far past civility. Good night.”

Giles looked for a moment as if he might say something more, but he turned instead and silently left the room. In the deadening quiet which ensued, Fanny buried her face beneath the pillow and cried as if her heart would break.

* * * *

Giles threw himself into a chair by the fire and kneaded his temples. How could he have acted so stupidly? There Fanny had sat, looking so ridiculously beautiful in that ludicrous cap and, first thing, he must ask about that wretched dog—as if it were in the least important!

Why could he not simply have said what was really on his mind? What, he should have asked, did this unprecedented return mean?

He
had
asked, of course, but in terms so uncivil she must have had no choice other than to make light of him. For all he flattered himself that he knew Fanny, he had not made the least use of his knowledge of her. He had said exactly the wrong things.

Giles brought himself up short. What did this self-chastisement mean? That he
wanted
Fanny back in his life, in spite of all the sorrow and recriminations that had passed between them?

It could not be! Surely, he was not thinking rationally. He was in shock, that was all. Seeing Fanny so close to Christmas, when his thoughts so often found their way back to her, must, for a moment, have unhinged his ordinarily disciplined mind.

Giles rose and poured himself a large brandy. Snowbound in the country with Fanny! He shook his head. What would his daughters make of it all? he wondered. What did they remember of those tender, early days? Probably nothing, he sighed. It was undoubtedly just as well that their perception of their parents’ marriage be founded on memories of the later years, a mechanical life of chilly civility, punctuated occasionally by the wintry rage of silence. Let the burden of a remembered happiness rest on his shoulders, he determined. He stared into the fire as he sipped the golden brandy. It would be a long night.

Chapter Six

Genie and Tavie bounded from bed as soon as they were awake and pulled back the curtains to find the last pink light of the winter sunrise gleaming through a break in the clouds. Piled high with snow, the grounds had taken on the appearance of a glistening confectionery. In spite of the loveliness of the scene, however, the twins did not greet it with unmixed pleasure.

“Confounded weather!” Genie muttered darkly. “The sun is shining!”

Tavie bit her lower lip as she, too, stared out the window. “But the clouds on the horizon are quite thickish, do you not think?”

Her sister continued to glower. “What a nuisance it would be if the roads were to clear and Mama was sent about her business!”

“But you seemed so sure we had succeeded last night, Genie—why, did you not agree Father looked at Mama rather softly?”

“For a moment, yes,” Genie nodded, “but now I have slept on it. You must own our parents’ marriage has been at nothing but sixes and sevens. No, I cannot think it at all wise to place our hopes upon what may or may not have been one tender moment. Indeed, I fear it would not be at all prudent, even after all our careful preparations. We must not leave a matter of such gravity to
them.
Too much is at stake. Only consider a season spent under the scrutiny of Miss Walleye!”

Tavie groaned disconsolately as she envisioned a variety of distressing scenarios. “What do you suppose we must do, Genie?”

“We must refine our plan, of course. There must be a simple solution, for I am far too muddled to think of a complex one.” Genie paced a moment, considering the dilemma, knitting her brows as Tavie watched.

“The hot house!” she said all of a sudden.

“The hot house?” Tavie exclaimed, mystified. “Why, whatever for?”

“I have a sudden notion,” Genie grinned, “that, if we wish love to blossom, we must make use of whatever is blooming!”

“Of course! Let me think a moment. I believe there may be some of Father’s orchids,” Tavie suggested.

“The very thing!” Genie clapped her hands. “We shall just slip them onto Mama’s pillow while she sleeps and then she will know that Father merely has difficulty articulating his love for her.”

“And that difficulty translates to his looking like a baffled storm cloud?” Tavie asked archly.

“Pooh! Men are such dreadful conundrums, after all, that a nodcockish response such as Father evidenced last night must be neither here nor there for a sophisticated woman of the world like Mama. When she awakes to his prized orchids, however, she cannot help but comprehend his amorous intentions.”

“Perhaps,” Tavie said tentatively. “I do hope you are correct.”

“Do not be a great buffle!” Genie protested. “Of course I am correct! Besides,” she went on, taking her sister’s hand, “how clever of you to have thought of the orchids. Mama must surely know Father would never touch one were not his deepest feelings engaged.”

“I only hope he does not have us transported when he finds out,” Tavie complained.

“Come now! Why should he find us out at all? We shall just write Mama another little note from him praying she not make mention of it!”

Tavie brightened. “What a good thought, Genie! Indeed, you are up to anything! But. . .”

“But what?”

“What if Father should notice a blossom is missing?”

“That
would
be a great bother,” Genie admitted. “Sometimes I believe Father thinks more of his orchids than he does of the entire estate.”

“Little doubt of that! Indeed, I should not like for us to spend Christmas locked in our chamber. It is only two more days, and I do not fancy he would recover his equanimity in less than three, if we are to be instructed by his past intolerance. Would it be altogether too uncharitable for us to blame Mama’s lapdog?” Tavie suggested tentatively. “After all, Father has already taken the beast in dislike.”

“Perfect, Tavie! We are both such clever girls, are we not? And we needn’t worry, for Mama would never countenance its being punished over such a trifle. You saw how she fawned over it last night.”

“Very clever, indeed.”

“Come, let us steal down the stairs before anyone else is about.”

“Indeed,” Tavie said as she drew on her dressing gown, “for we have a great deal to accomplish today. Besides everything else, we must do something to bring poor Mama up to snuff! Did you ever dream she would look so faded, Genie?”

“The poor soul. You are right, of course. These years must have been very hard on her.”

“Poor Mama!”

* * * *

The twins made their way down the stairs and through the corridors with a practiced silence, born of years of inspired escapades, and into their father’s conservatory. As always, they were greeted by warm humidity and the delicate, spicy scent of tropical foliage, overlain by the earthy scent of loam and peat. The snow had melted off the glass ceiling, of course, and now they could see that great walls of jagged icicles hung from the eaves. At intervals, braziers of coals supplemented the diminished heat provided by the pale light of winter.

“Old Martin has been astir here already,” Tavie whispered, pointing to the coals. “We had best hurry ourselves.”

Genie glanced over her shoulder. No one was in sight. Grasping Tavie’s hand, she led the way, creeping along the ferny aisles until they came upon a section isolated from the rest. There were several planters of what appeared to be bare branches sticking out of the soil. A few of these sported leaves. Only one bore flowers, white with pale green centers.

“I do wish there were something more distinctive,” Genie complained.

Her sister grimaced and nodded. “How odd that Father should set such great store by these. I wonder if we might not find a rose or two still.”

“That would never do. They would be sadly blown, you must own, Tavie. I suppose there is nothing for it but to take this one. After all, white is not so very bad. I fancy I might even be able to compose some verse or other about the purity of love.”

Glancing once more behind her, Genie snapped the flower at the base of the stem and tucked it up the sleeve of her nightrail.

“Do let us hurry,” Tavie pleaded, glancing over her shoulder.

“You are quite right. Who knows when Mama might begin to stir? After all, older persons do not seem to need much sleep. Why, remember when Mistress Wiggins caught us in the buttery and it was not even ten o’clock!”

Tavie stifled a giggle. “To be fair, though, I venture to guess that old cat had not closed her eyes but to feign sleep in twenty years! Do come now, Genie!”

Together the girls quickly retraced their steps to their chamber where they composed a cursory verse to accompany the stolen blossom:

White as this Christmas bloom, my sweet,

Doth my heart blossom with love replete.

Of this speak not from this day hence—

Pray keep this token in confidence.

“Surely that should do the trick,” Genie declared. “How clever you were, Tavie, to hit upon a rhyme for ‘confidence.’ I should have spent from now until the New Year trying to find one for ‘secret!’ ”

“Do you think she will comprehend its import, though?” Tavie asked, her brows knitted with a worry. “It would never do if Father were to discover our part in this business.”

“Indeed it would not,” her sister was quick to agree, “but I place
confidence
in Mama’s quick-wittedness. Only consider—our own astuteness must have come from
somewhere!”

With this unintentioned slur against their father’s intellect, the girls neatly sealed the note and tied it to the purloined orchid with a bit of ribbon. A moment later, they stood outside the chamber into which they had seen their mother disappear on the previous night, their ears pressed firmly to the door.

“Snoring?” Genie exclaimed in a surprised whisper. “Our mama snores!”

“First that dreadful flannel nightrail-—I vow it looked just like those we wore at Miss Wilberforce’s—and now this!” Tavie shook her head. “Where did we ever get the notion that Mama was à la mode?”

“It only goes to show us not to trust to general report and gossip,” Genie concluded virtuously. “However, I am certain that, before too long, we may help her to acquire some polish. We must convince her to be ruled by us in matters of fashion.”

“And the snoring?”

“We shall have to think on that.”

When, at last, the girls ventured into their mother’s chamber, they were much encouraged to discover that the distressing snores they had overheard issued from the dog rather than their slumbering parent. They exchanged a look of relief.

Together, they peered through the murky light and approached the bed on tiptoe. Their mother’s eyes were closed and her breathing even. One hand was thrown up over her brow.

How peaceful she looks,
Tavie sighed mentally.

With a little rouge, I daresay she might be quite passable. Perhaps our task will not be so difficult,
Genie mused.

Do you suppose we dare slip the orchid into her hand? It is open just enough, I believe.

Perhaps,
her sister allowed.
It would be a lovely touch, but I must bow to your superior skill here. You are the acknowledged champion at jackstraws. This undertaking seems very little different.

I shall give it a try,
Tavie agreed with a nod.
But, have a care! If she stirs, we must fall to the ground and lay quietly until she is back to sleep.

With that, Tavie crept closer to her mother and, positioning the stem of the orchid at a precise angle, slipped it between that lady’s delicate fingers with consummate skill. When Tavie had accomplished this feat, Genie, who had been standing with fingers crossed, let go her breath. Then they nodded at one another and stole once again from the room.

Chapter Seven

No sooner had the door shut behind the pair than Fanny opened her eyes. What a study her daughters were! Now what in heaven’s name, she wondered, was this all about? She had observed the twins’ surreptitious entrance from beneath hooded eyelids and watched their curious actions with a good deal of interest and amusement—without the least assistance from the indolent pug who slept boldly on the pillow beside her.

True to expectation, Flops had proved to be no watch dog, but instead snored peacefully through the entire episode. She had a very good notion to send the beast away to Bath for the Season next year where he might be more in tune with the soporific atmosphere. With the right sort of hat, she mused, it seemed unlikely anyone would remark on his presence among the other languid denizens in the Pump Room.

Sitting up in bed, Fanny at last examined the flower they had placed in her hand. Her daughters were courageous girls indeed. Unless she missed her guess, this was one of Giles’ prize orchids. Perhaps she ought to wear it in her hair when she went down to breakfast. And what was this? A note—why it must be from that thoughtful Giles, she told herself wryly.

The room was still too dim to read the missive without drawing back the curtains, but she stretched for a moment before rising to walk to the window. Bracing herself against the morning chill, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and into a pair of waiting slippers. She chafed her arms against the cold, realizing forcibly how fortunate she was to be clad in this borrowed warm flannel, rather than the diaphanous night garments to which she was generally accustomed.

When she at last read the note by the light of the bright, snowy day, she burst out laughing. It was all she could hope for. Whatever else her daughters might be, she decided mirthfully, it was plain they were not destined to be poets. They were, however, apparently well aware of what the repercussions might be, were Giles to discover their plunder of his prize. Only a rank villainess, she decided, would even consider wearing the bloom to breakfast—although the image of how her family’s faces must look upon her entry lent the notion considerable appeal.