Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (33 page)

“I’ll wager he did,” Gerry said dryly, trying not to smile at the shamefaced earl. “Have you decided on a name for this Christmas surprise?”

“Why, I—Papa! Mistletoe!”

“That’s a lovely name for a—” Gerry started, until she noticed the little girl was pointing upward. There, above her head in the doorway of the room, was a lopsided ball of crudely woven vines, with a ribbon-tied spray of mistletoe dangling from one twig.

“Gentleman’s duty, don’t you know,” the earl teased, taking her by the shoulders. He meant for the kiss to be a quick touching. It wasn’t. Gerry meant to offer her cheek for the ritual. She didn’t. They both intended to remain unaffected by the forced contact. They weren’t. Warmth and wanting mingled with their breaths, tenderness and unspoken yearnings.

The kiss went on and on, touching eternity, touching paradise. Then Samantha was touching them. “Papa, won’t Miss Mactavish and Sir Eustace think we are rude if we don’t go down soon?”

8

Christmas wishes did come true. Just ask anyone at Squire’s country ball. Why, there was hardly a dry eye in the place.

Squire wiped away tears of pride to see his three boys polished up like bright new apples, and his house gleaming. Even his hounds had had baths. Almost bursting his buttons, he welcomed his friends and neighbors, and bade them share a toast to his forthcoming nuptials to dear Ermintrude.

“Who the deuce is Er
min
trude?” murmured more than one of the company. Then Remington brought forth Miss Musgrove, her black bombazine exchanged for a dove-gray merino that made her look more like a pouter pigeon than an old crow. Not that the ex-governess would be guilty of showing such emotion in public, but she nobly restrained tears of satisfaction, that she would never have to seek another position.

After a few more toasts, Mr. Mactavish cleared his throat and, despite tears of chagrin, announced the betrothal of his daughter Virginia, to Sir Eustace. Ginger was as damp-eyed and sniffly as usual, but no one doubted her happiness, the way she beamed at the young baronet through her tears. She never left her fiancé’s side.

At Mactavish’s side, Charleen, Lady Trant, sported a new ruby bracelet besides the new diamond necklace, with stones so big she didn’t need spectacles to be dazzled. She kept bottled up inside the tears of relief that she wouldn’t end her days in the poor house. Nothing ruined a woman’s looks faster than weeping, she’d always believed, or made a man more uncomfortable. Charleen was going to make sure that Mr. Mactavish stayed very comfortable indeed.

Her aunt kept dabbing at tears of mirth. That old uncle of the squire’s was more shortsighted than she was, and the two were having a high old time under the mistletoe boughs. At least she told the old coot it was mistletoe.

Sir Eustace was also enjoying the kissing balls, and the congratulations of all his friends and neighbors. He’d actually gone and won the hand of the sweetest, most adorable girl in all of England. By sheer luck, she’d turned out to be one of the wealthiest heiresses. Now he’d never have to worry about losing his heritage, his family home. And he’d be able to look after his dear sister, too. Why, just seeing Gerry in her green velvet gown, with the string of pearls at her throat, made him almost as watery-eyed as his beloved. To add to his joy, Gerry had made him shut his eyes that afternoon, as Jigtime had been brought round by the earl’s groom, with red bows woven in the mare’s mane, and bells on her bridle. Truly this was the finest Christmas in memory.

It was positively Lady Samantha’s best yuletide ever. Her first real party, held in her father’s arms as Squire lit the Yule log in the manor’s huge fireplace and blessed all the company. She was so tired, though, that she nearly fell asleep there on her father’s shoulder during the caroling, almost weeping that she’d be sent home with Maggie and the footmen, without seeing Papa dance with Miss Selden. Her only consolation was that when she awoke in the morning, she’d have a cat of her own.

Everyone would have a cat of their own. Gerry had seen to it. Mr. Mactavish was getting Tiffany, the gold-colored kitten. Squire was to have placid Coco, for his sister in Bath. Gerry thought her brother should have Speedwell, the kitten with the bluest eyes, for they almost matched his Ginger’s eyes, when they weren’t swollen shut. Lady Trant was a perfect match for Sheree, the prettiest kitten, the one that Gerry had thought to keep for herself. And the smallest, Mistletoe, of course, was asleep in her lidded basket, waiting for Lady Samantha. Gerry wished she could see the look on the child’s face on Christmas morning. But this evening would be enough, if she didn’t take to blubbering with gladness over her brother’s bliss.

The Earl of Boughton was not crying, of course. If his eyes were moist, it was likely due to the game of snapdragon he’d played earlier, trying to win Samantha a raisin from the flaming bowl. Brett could not deny, though, that his heart was overflowing. Never had he known such contentment over such simple pleasures as he was finding among friends and family. He’d never felt such satisfaction, not without being castaway, winning a fortune at wagering, or being sexually satiated.

He could make this joy last, Brett knew, longer than this one night, longer even than the Twelve Days of Christmas. All he had to do was give up his freedom, place himself and his child at the mercy of a managing female he barely knew—and could barely keep his hands off, in her green velvet gown.
Now
he felt like crying.

But he’d do it, humble himself, for Sam’s sake. That Miss Geraldine Selden fit perfectly beneath his chin, or that she had the softest skin in the kingdom and the most generous nature on earth, had little to do with the fact that she doted on his little girl and Sam adored her. Like hell it didn’t.

“Would you care to look at Remington’s portrait gallery?” he asked sometime later, when she was resting between vigorous country reels.

“Oh, Squire doesn’t have a formal gallery. He keeps a few ancestors in the book room, where the card tables are set out.”

“A trip to the refreshments room, then?”

“No, thank you, my lord. Mr. Heron just brought me a glass of lemonade.”

“A walk outside?” Lud, he was getting desperate. It was colder out than Charleen’s heart. Gerry just smiled, handed him her lemonade, and went off to dance with the curate. Brett’s patience came to an end altogether when the party ended and he hadn’t had one minute alone with Gerry. He suggested, therefore, that Sir Eustace escort his betrothed home. He would see to Miss Selden’s return to the cottage.

Too enamored to question the propriety of such a happy notion, Stacey went off with Ginger. How much could happen between Remington Manor and the cottage, anyway?

One kiss. One kiss lasted the entire journey, with infrequent pauses for breathing, for shifting Gerry onto Brett’s lap. One kiss, and her hair and bodice were both disarranged.

“Oh, dear, I cannot go home like this.”

“Good.” Brett rapped on the carriage roof and instructed the driver to stop by The Boughs first. “To deliver the kitten,” he added for the driver’s benefit. “I gave the servants the night off,” he added for Gerry’s. The earl waited in his library, counting his blessings, while Gerry tidied herself in one of the spare bedrooms. They went up to the nursery together, the kitten complaining at being in the basket so long.

Gerry spoke softly: “Hush, Mistletoe. It’s not every cat that gets to be a Christmas wish come true.”

By the light of the oil lamp left burning, they could see that Samantha was fast asleep. Gerry tucked one hand under the covers, and then she tucked the kitten under the child’s chin.

Brett raised an eyebrow. “What about the cat bed, on the floor?”

“Don’t be a gudgeon,” was all she said. “Mistletoe will end up here anyway.” She kissed the kitten on the nose, and the child on the forehead, and stepped back. “There, that’s done.”

“And what about your Christmas wishes, my dear?” Brett asked.

“Did you see how pleased my brother was? He intends to start a racing stud, so he won’t be so dependent on Mactavish’s money forever.” She touched the necklace at her throat. “And I got my pearls, something I never expected at all. It’s a perfect holiday already. And you? What did you wish for?”

Brett looked at his sleeping daughter, and the beautiful woman at her bedside. “I was too blind to know what to wish for. I couldn’t have described it or given it a name in words. But it seems fate knew what I needed for my happiness, far more than I. Now there is only one thing missing from my perfect holiday.”

“Goodness, what could that be? You can have anything you want.”

“Can I?” He took a ring from his pocket, a huge diamond set with emeralds. “Will you accept?”

Gerry had never seen a diamond so big, not even on Lady Trant. “Heavens, you aren’t offering me
carte blanche,
are you?”

“With the Boughton engagement ring? I’ll find something more to your taste if you don’t like it.”

“Oh, no, I love it.” She was already admiring the ring on her finger.

“And me?”

Now she turned to admire the anticipation she saw burning in his eyes. “Oh, I must have loved you from the moment your horse pushed me into the mud. My wits have gone begging ever since, don’t you know.”

He knew very well, having suffered the same condition without the excuse of a knock on the head. “And I love you, my precious Miss Selden. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, my countess, my happily-ever-after?”

Despite the absence of nearby mistletoe—the berries, not the cat—they sealed their engagement with a kiss. Sometime later, Gerry heard the hall clock chime. “Gracious. I must be getting home. It’s almost time for church. And I’ll have to fix my hair again.”

He was searching the carpet for her missing hairpins. “Before you go, I have a problem that requires your expertise.”

“A problem?”

He nodded as he led her downstairs to the library. “A person can have too many, ah, blessings, it seems.” There in the corner of the room, barricaded behind hastily rearranged chairs, pillows from the couch, and piles of books, was a laundry basket, filled with kittens. Long-haired, short-nosed, blue-eyed kittens. “But…?”

He bent to put one of the kittens back in the basket. “But Squire had no sister in Bath, and Mactavish doesn’t even like cats. Lady Trant has no need to make a splash in London, now that she’s got her nabob. Your brother only wanted to exchange one for the pearls.” He held up Bandit. “And Miss Mactavish has concluded that she’d rather not spend the rest of her days sneezing and wheezing.”

“It was the cat all along?”

He nodded. “It seems all of our friends wanted Sam to have her kitten. More than that, I’d guess half were playing at matchmaker. And they were right. I can’t do without you. I could manage to raise my daughter, and I could even survive the emptiness I knew before you.” He gestured toward the wriggling kittens. “But this? Only you can help.”

She knelt by his side. “Will you
min
d?”

“What, that your brother gets to raise prime horseflesh and I get to raise push-faced hairballs? Not at all, sweetings.”

Gerry knew he was teasing by the way he was rubbing a kitten’s belly, with one gentle finger. “I wish…”

“Anything, my love.”

“I wish you would kiss me again.”

So he did, because Christmas wishes really do come true.

Little Miracles

1

They were as poor as church mice. No, they were the church mice. It was the little stone church that was so poor it could barely sustain a resident family of Rodentia religiosa. St. Cecilia’s in the Trees was so poor it could have been called St. Cecilia’s in the Twigs, for all the nearby oaks had been cut long ago for firewood. The church was so poor that when Portio Mea Domine, named for the page from the Book of Common Prayers she was given for bedding, decided to use the alms box for a nursery, nothing disturbed her nestlings. Not a shilling, not a farthing, nary a ha’penny interrupted the infants’ rest, not even hungry fingers seeking aid. The parishioners knew better, for they were as poor as the church. Prices were high, incomes were low. Wars and enclosures, bad weather and bad management, influenza and indifference had taken their toll on the entire region of Lower Winfrey. Whole families had moved, seeking better lives in the New World, or in the factory cities of the north.

Whole families of the Churchmouse clan had to move, too. Without the Sunday worshipers, no pockets were filled with crumbled muffins from hurried breakfasts, no childish hands clutched sacks of peppermint drops. The Communion bread barely stretched as far as the few poor congregants who still attended services. Nothing was left for the mice. The gleanings were not enough to fill a flea, much less a family of
Mus ministerus.

The mice could not even raid the vicarage’s paltry pantry, not while the sexton’s tomcat, Dread Fred, was on patrol. They lost both little Hope of Redemption and one-eared Abiding Hope to Dread Fred in one week. All hope of continuing the clan, in fact, was nearly gone. What the family had left, though, was a burning, inborn need to propagate their species, and an old secret. The secret of St. Cecilia’s hidden wealth had been passed down from father to furry son for generations past counting. Now all they had to do was tell someone about it.