A Victorian Christmas (15 page)

“Well, I’m done for now,” Star groaned, sinking into the down-filled cushion. “If Daddy’s letter didn’t get here yet, that means the earl had no idea I was coming.”

“I have no doubt my father will be pleased to welcome you.”

Grey walked over to the fire to be as far from her as possible without seeming rude. If the young woman looked any more disconsolate, he was sure he’d be at her side in a moment. As it was, the vision of her red dress, pale skin, and luminous dark eyes sent a pang of hopelessness through him. Star Ellis was stunning, and the instant Rupert laid eyes on her, the young man would realize he’d been blessed with a rare treasure. Any hope that the arranged marriage was a mismatch would end, along with the minuscule possibility that Grey might be able to court the young woman himself.

“Your father might accept me,” she said. “But what about Rupert? A fellow doesn’t like to have his bride sprung on him like a rattler striking from behind a rock. It’s taken me months to get used to the notion of marrying a stranger. Even though Rupert knows I’m coming, he doesn’t know I’m coming
now
. Daddy was sure his letter would get here before I did. I’m hornswoggled. I doubt even Madame Bondurant would know what to do in a pickle like this.”

“I shall make the introductions and everything will be—”

A loud whoop cut off his words. The parlor door burst open, and into the room raced two fluttery young ladies, ruffled petticoats flying and golden curls bobbing. A laughing man chased after them, his dark hair bouncing around his ears. One of the girls bounded up onto a footstool and then leapt into the man’s arms with a squeal of delight.

“Rupey-loopy!” The girl danced away again in a swirl of silk and ribbons. “Can’t catch me, Rupey-loopy! Oh!”

She pulled up short at the sight of the two visitors in the parlor. The young man came to a skidding halt on the marble floor. The second girl clapped her hands to her cheeks and flushed a brilliant crimson.

“Rupert?” Grey asked, astounded at the panting man whose hair hung over his forehead and whose shirttail hung halfway to his knees. “Rupert, what on earth are you—”

“Strat?” Raking his fingers through the thick thatch of hair, Rupert stared. “What are you doing here, Stratton? I thought you were in India or Africa or somewhere.”

“I’ve returned.”

“You’re codding me.” He swallowed and shook himself as if to dislodge the shock. “Have you really come back? Are you in England for good?”

“Just the holidays, actually. I’ve a tea estate in Ind—”

“Won’t Father be in a fuzz over this one?” He gave a humorless laugh. “Strat, you remember the Smythes of Stonehaven, don’t you? This is Polly and her sister Penny. Paulette and Penelope, I should say. Ladies, my brother, the viscount Stratton.”

With tittering that would have put a pair of sparrows to shame, the two young women made wobbling curtsies. Grey did remember the Smythe girls—their father owned a profitable cotton mill in Leeds, and his daughters had been no more than children when Grey had left England. Now they were certainly old enough, pretty enough, and no doubt wealthy enough to attract the attention of any man.

“And who’s this, Strat?” Rupert asked, gesturing at Star. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and gotten yourself married without telling Mum.”

“No,” Grey said as Star rose from the settee. She looked as fragile as a puff of dandelion down. “Rupert, I should like you to meet Miss Star Ellis from Texas. Miss Ellis, my brother, Lord Cholmondeley.”

“Good evening, my lord,” Star said, executing a curtsy far superior to those of the Misses Smythe. “My father is Joshua Ellis, owner of the Rocking T Ranch. He and the earl of Brackenhurst are business associates, and . . . and they arranged for me to come here to England and . . . and . . .”

Rupert’s mouth dropped open, and his face paled to a pasty white. Grey had the distinct impression that his younger brother was going to faint dead away. At that moment Massey, the butler, squeaked into the parlor.

“The Right Honorable the earl of Brackenhurst,” he said in a sonorous voice. “The Right Honorable the countess of Brackenhurst. Lord and Lady Brackenhurst, your son, the Right Honorable the viscount Stratton and his guest, Miss Star Ellis from Texas, America.”

“My lord,” Grey said. “Madam.”

As always, he felt a twinge of discomfort in greeting the granite rock of a man who was his father. The silver-haired earl—as handsome and imposing as ever—had taken almost no interest in his children’s lives beyond a brief pat on the head each evening after their dinner. Grey could remember few moments of private contact with the man. Twice the earl had wandered into the schoolroom and ordered his son to conjugate verbs in Latin. Once at a Christmas banquet he had asked Grey to recite publicly the names of the kings and queens of England. And once he had invited the young man to join him in the library after dinner. There, father and son had sat reading for two hours without a word until the earl announced, “That will be all,” and strode off to the conservatory to listen to one of his daughters on the pianoforte.

Grey’s mother, on the other hand, had always been warm, loving, and as devoted to her little ones as any nanny. As a little boy, Grey had loved to climb up into her lap and listen to her read stories or watch her knit. How disappointed she had been when her elder son had chosen a life of irresponsibility and recklessness.

“Rather a shock, Stratton,” the earl said. “Didn’t expect you in the least.”

“No, my lord.” Grey squared his shoulders. This was the moment he’d been both dreading and anticipating—the time to speak honestly about himself. He lifted up a prayer for strength. “Sir, I should like to apologize for the distress I caused you and Mother, and—”

“Oh, Grey!” the elderly woman cried, throwing out her hands and crossing to embrace him. “You’ve come home to us! Home for Christmas! Of course, we forgive you!”

Enveloped in a cloud of heliotrope perfume, Grey hugged his mother and gave her wrinkled velvet cheek a kiss. “Hello, Mummy.”

“My sweet darling boy—how marvelous to see you!”

“Calm yourself, Hortense,” the earl said. “No need to become theatrical about this.”

“Rupert, Polly, Penny, did you see?” his wife gushed on. “It’s Grey! He’s come home!”

Rupert was busily attempting to tuck in the tails of his shirt. “Yes, Mummy. We see him.”

“Isn’t he handsome? Isn’t he tall? You’ve grown three inches, darling! Oh, we’ve missed you terribly, haven’t we, George?”

As his mother cooed and his father frowned, Grey glanced at Star. He knew she must feel awkward, waiting for her presence to be explained. But this was his moment to say what was on his mind to the entire group. There would be no feasting and joyous celebration for this prodigal son, but if he could make peace with his father, he would accomplish his mission.

“Sir,” he began, “I must speak to you about the matter of my return to England. I’ve come with a specific purpose in mind. While I was in India, I came to the realization that I had been leading a fruitless life. I had fallen ill and was in hospital when I met—”

“I should say so,” his father barked. “Fruitless indeed. Wastrel. Rake. Idler. How many thousand pounds do you suppose you lost at cards, Stratton? And did you complete your education? What of that house in Berkeley Square? We’ve kept it, of course. Not a bad investment, but the tales the neighbors told us. I say, Stratton, did your mother bring you up to be such a cad?”

“Oh, George, leave the poor boy in peace,” the countess said. “He’s come home, hasn’t he? He’s apologized.”

“Bit late for that. And what’s this?” He turned on Star. “Didn’t expect you before the new year, Miss Ellis. Something of a shock, what? Rupert, have you met your bride-to-be?”

“Yes, my lord,” Rupert said.

“You were to arrive in the spring, were you not, Miss Ellis?” the earl addressed Star, looking her up and down as though she were an interesting piece of furniture. “Lady Brackenhurst hasn’t had time to plan a wedding, have you, Hortense? Well, never mind that bit. We’ll announce the engagement at the Christmas Eve party. It’s the usual affair—bonfire, charades, dancing, charity auction. The announcement should add a bit of interest to the proceedings. Massey, do speak to the staff about the change in plans.”

“Of course, my lord,” the butler said. “As you wish, sir.”

“Hortense, were we not on our way to dinner before this interruption?”

“Yes, George. Come along, children!”

Grey watched his parents exit the room. Rupert let out a deep breath, and the Smythe sisters rushed into each other’s arms. Star dropped back onto the settee and buried her face in her hands.

“Good job, Strat,” Rupert said. “Now you’ve upset the ladies. Polly, here’s my handkerchief.”

“Oh, Rupey!” The elder of the two sisters grabbed the scrap of white linen and dabbed under her eyes. “It’s all such a shock!”

“Quite right. Shocking deeds are my elder brother’s forte.” Rupert gave his shirttail a final tuck and cleared his throat. “Miss . . . Miss Ellis? Are you well?”

“I reckon I’ll live,” Star murmured.

“May I help you up?”

Grey watched the scene unfold before him as the young American rose from the settee to meet her intended husband. Star extended her hand. Rupert took her fingers, bowed, and pressed his lips to her knuckles. She fingered the hollow of her throat as she gave him a tentative smile. He smoothed his hand over his muttonchop whiskers and straightened his cravat. One eyebrow arched, and a twinkle appeared in his eye.

“Miss Ellis,” he said, “won’t you join the Misses Smythe and me for dinner?”

Star tipped her head. “Thank you kindly, sir. I do believe I shall.”

As the four walked out of the parlor, Grey felt his spirits slide straight to the bottoms of his boots. So, that was that. His father would not forgive him. His mother would treat him as a child. His brother would charm Miss Ellis as he charmed every woman. And Star would marry Rupert not only to save her father’s ranch but also because he was a worthy young man and would make a good husband.

As he followed his family down the long corridor toward the dining room, Grey recalled Star’s words in the carriage. God was the Master Quilter who could take the worn-out patches—the mistakes, the terrible holes caused by human sin, the frayed edges of life—and He could piece them all together into something beautiful and useful.
“If we give Him our scraps, He can make
quilts,”
she had said.

In India, Grey had known the guidance of God’s hand leading him back to England. In the carriage, he had felt the truth in Star’s words of comfort and assurance. But now, in the manor that once had been his home, Grey knew nothing but the sound of hollow footsteps and the chill of looming stone walls.

“Could you hand me that angel, Mr. Massey?” Star called down from the ladder propped against the wall. “Somebody must have dropped him over there by the door.”

A silver tray balanced on his fingertips, the butler paused on his route down the corridor. “Miss Ellis? Is that you in the Christmas tree?”

Star peered between the thick pine branches and gave a little wave. “I saw Betsy and Nell hauling the ornaments down from the attic this morning after breakfast, so I figured I’d pitch in and help. We’ve already decorated the tree in the ballroom, and this one was next. The angel is right there by that potted fern.”

The two housemaids suppressed their giggles as Massey peered over the rim of his silver tray at the gilded papier-mâché angel lying on the floor. When he crouched to retrieve the ornament, his shoes gave the squeak of a frightened mouse. Bottom lip tucked firmly beneath the upper, the butler placed the angel on his tray, carried it to the tree, and lifted it within Star’s reach.

“Much obliged,” she said. As she looped the ornament’s gold cord over the tip of a branch, Star summoned her courage to put forth the question that had kept her awake most of the night.“Did my leaving the table early last night cause much of a ruction, Mr. Massey?”

“A ruction?”

“Was the earl angry that I went to my room before dinner was over? I tried to see the meal through, but I got to feeling like a throw-out from a footsore remuda, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t figure out what I was eating until Polly Smythe mentioned how good the jellied tongue was tasting, and that about threw me for a loop. I was tired, and everything I said seemed to come out wrong. When I told the story about the time I was helping Daddy brand cattle and I nearly stepped on a coiled rattlesnake, I thought the earl was going to drop his teeth right into the soup. Rupert just stared at me, and the Smythe gals started giggling like there was no tomorrow. If it hadn’t been for Grey . . . for Lord Stratton telling about the cobra that crawled across his foot while he was drinking tea in India, I would have just about died of mortification.”

As she spoke, Star tied a length of red satin ribbon into a luxurious bow and arranged it on the branch beside the golden angel. The truth was, she hadn’t left the dinner because of exhaustion or jellied tongue or embarrassment. She had left because of Grey. After his story about the Indian cobra, Star had followed up with a tale about a bear that wandered into the cowhands’ bunkhouse. Then he had laughed and told about the time a tiger chased him straight up a tree—only Grey wasn’t telling his story to the whole family. He was telling it to Star. He looked into her eyes and leaned across the table, and before she knew it, she had forgotten all about the jellied tongue and was hanging on to every fascinating word that came out of the man’s mouth.