Regency Christmas Gifts (24 page)

“
You need to tell Papa what you have
told me,” she said immediately, wanting to leap up and run all the
way through London until she was home in Kent. “I must speak to
Clotilde.” She took his hand. “Miles, I honestly do not know if she
has the strength of will to end the engagement at this late
date.”

He leaned back, tugging her with him. “She
must, Lucinda,” he said. “There might be repercussions of an
embarrassing nature for Clotilde—you know, young lady jilts
distinguished marquis.” He kissed her hand. “And you might find
yourself quite unwelcome in London. I have no doubt that Lord
Masterton will spread rumors to soothe his pride.”

“
You already know how I feel about
my London Season,” she answered.

“
I certainly do.” He gave her a hand
up to her feet. “We’ll be out of here first thing in the morning
and ready to do our duty.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Miles.
We’re going to be ever in your debt.”

He gave her a hug—the cousinly kind, to her
dismay—and started down the hall to the breakfast room, where she
heard laughter. He stopped and tapped her nose, something he hadn’t
done in years, but which he had done to get her attention when she
was eight or so.

“
Lucinda, there is something even
better going on in there. My father may have just made an offer to
Michael.”

She grasped his elbows. “Please tell
me!”

“
Nope. Let’s just hurry to the
breakfast room and see if I’m right.”

What she saw made her heart seem too large for
her breast. Both Michael and Edward sat close together, nearly on
one chair, their arms around each other, both in tears, but with
smiles, too.

Vivian dabbed at her own eyes, and Will laughed
at them all. “My dears, a man makes a simple request for services,
and everyone turns into watering pots!” he said.

Lucy knelt by Michael. “You’d better tell me,
my dear,” she said. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve. “Here.
Blow.”

Michael did as she asked. He found a dry spot
and handed it to his brother. “Miss, I’m going to stay right here
and help in Mr. Bledsoe’s stable!”

Lucy bowed her head in relief and gratitude, as
she wondered just how many emotions of a startling nature were
going to plague her this Christmas.

“
Among other matters, Miles and I
discussed this before dinner,” her cousin said, giving his son a
pat on the shoulder. “My stable master is getting a bit creaky. He
has been asking for help. I believe Michael here will be just the
ticket, eh, Michael?”

The boy nodded and spoke to Lucy. “Miss, he has
promised me a room of my own over the stables, and … and
Edward can stay here on his day off, if he’d like.”

“
I would like that, above all,”
Edward said. “Miss, we’ll look out for each other in London, and
you can look out for our mam and sister in Kent.”

“
It’s a promise,” Lucy
said.

W
ith a full heart, Lucy
kissed the Bledsoes goodbye on the morrow, after hearing their
assurances that they would be arriving soon for Clotilde’s wedding.
Miles disappointed her by sending her and the brothers on without
him.

“
I have a matter of business here in
the city,” he told her. “It will be done by noon, I am certain.
I’ll take my horse and meet you in Tidwell by nightfall or
sooner.”

She nodded, part of her relieved that she
wouldn’t be sharing close quarters with the man she wanted to kiss,
and the other part unhappy for the same reason. In one day she had
gone from being a practical, rational female, to someone even
sillier than Clotilde, and all because of a cousin she had known
for years. She didn’t like the feeling.

Occupied with their own plans, the Lonnigan
brothers paid no attention to her, which suited Lucy completely.
She thought through her uncomfortable dilemma, realizing with a
pang that she understood precisely what it felt like to be in love,
because she was. She consoled herself that she was young, and
someone else might come along someday who would make her laugh, and
worry, and want to become the best person she was capable of. Miles
was interested in being just a cousin, and not a
husband.

Better now that Miles Bledsoe not even return
to Tidwell. If she could convince her father and Clotilde of the
folly of an alliance with Lord Masterton, there was no need of his
comforting presence. Mrs. Little could gather up his clothing and
books and ship them to London, or to Christ Church College. He
would go his way, and she, hers. They would likely meet now and
then at family gatherings, but she would be prepared and
calm.

She swallowed her tears and focused on the
Lonnigans. With Miles’s magnificent help, she had kept Christmas
for Mama. One less family was headed toward ruin. She had made a
difference in four lives, each life as God-given and important as
hers, no matter their difference in station and class. This was
charity of the best kind, the charity that mattered. It had been
Mama’s gift to her, given beyond death.

They ate at the same ordinary tavern. To her
delight or chagrin—the matter was in some doubt—Miles joined them
just as she was paying the bill. His coat was dirty and mud
covered, but his eyes had their same twinkle.

“
I’m leaving my nag here, because I
rode him hard,” he said, after asking the publican for a bag of
pasties to tide him over. “You get me in all my dirt in the chaise.
My parents will stop here and retrieve my horse when they come for
the wedding.”

“
We’re hoping there isn’t a
wedding,” she reminded him as the four of them, veteran travelers
now, piled into the chaise again.

“
We’ll do our best,” he said, which
struck her as ambiguous in the extreme, and unlike the man she
adored. If she hadn’t been so miserable, his reply would have made
her grumpy.

The boys were asleep when the chaise slowed and
the post riders followed Miles’s directions to the humble side of
Tidwell. Her heart full, Lucy watched as the door opened and Mrs.
Lonnigan stood there with open arms. A few words from Miles reduced
her to smiles through tears. A few words from Mrs. Lonnigan had him
reaching for his own handkerchief.

“
Good news. The best news,” he told
Lucy as he got into the chaise again. “Your housekeeper has found
Mrs. Lonnigan indispensable. She has permanent employment. And Mary
Rose slices onions better than he does, according to
Honoré.”

Lucy leaned back in relief.

“
You don’t mind that I told them all
to come to the wedding?” he asked.

“
Not at all,” Lucy replied, “but
we’re trying to prevent the wedding, remember?”

“
I remember,” he said, and nothing
more, until they arrived at Number Five Mannering
Street.

Finally looking tired—Lucy wondered what fueled
his energy—Miles paid off the post riders and wished them Happy
Christmas. He picked up his baggage and hers, too, which made her
protest. He ignored her objections, but did allow her to go first
and open the front door.

All was quiet within, amazingly quiet, too
quiet. “Milsap?” she asked finally. “Mrs. Little?”

She looked at Miles, who shrugged, went to the
still-open door, and banged on the knocker. She heard a shuffling
of feet, and there was Milsap, looking far older than he had only
yesterday. He paled noticeably to see her, and then unbent so far
as to grasp both her hands, which made Miles stare, open
mouthed.

“
Miss Lucy! You will not believe
what has happened!” he said, sounding more like Clotilde than their
old tried and true butler.

“
Uh, Napoleon has escaped from St.
Helena, too?” Miles asked, which earned him a freezing stare from
the Danforth’s normally proper butler.

Milsap opened his mouth and nothing came out.
He tried again. “Miss Danforth has eloped to Gretna
Green.”

Lucy gasped and sat down with a thump in one of
the spindly hall chairs that seldom were sat upon. It groaned
alarmingly, even though she was not heavy.

“
Why in the world would Lord
Masterton ever do something like that?” she managed to say at last.
“A wedding would puff up his pretensions.”

“
It was not the marquis.” Milsap
rolled his eyes and sat in the opposite chair, something he had
never done in Lucy’s memory.

“
Who … who … who?” Miles
tried, and then stopped, because he was making himself
laugh.

“
James Petry,” Milsap said, “our
next door neighbor!”

Lucy stirred in the chair, which creaked so
alarmingly that Miles took her by the hand and walked her to the
bottom steps of the hall staircase, where he sat them both
down.

Milsap joined them, a shaken man. “You probably
passed Lord Masterton in the lane,” he said. “He arrived an hour
ago. I’ve never seen someone turn so red, or jump up and down and
dump flowers from vases, and just generally make a fool of
himself.”

Lucy felt a huge laugh welling inside, which
she welcomed, after her melancholic thoughts from London to
Tidwell. “I wish we had witnessed this,” she said, more to herself
than anyone else in the room, which now contained a servant or two,
in addition to Milsap.

“
Aye, miss, he screamed and carried
on, breathing out all manner of curses and foul language,” the
’tween-stairs maid said. “Your papa just stood there and listened,
then handed him his hat, dusted it off, and showed him
out.”

“
Clotilde is well and truly gone?”
Lucy asked, still unable to contemplate such a blessed turn of
events.

“
On her way to Gretna Green,
according to this note.” Milsap took a much-creased bit of paper
from his breast pocket. “Here.”

Lucy opened the note and held it so Miles could
read it, too. “ ‘Dear averyone,” she read, “ ‘I have
aloped with my dearest friend, James
Petry ….’ ”

“
She never could spell,” Miles said,
looking at the note. His shoulders started to shake. He made
strangling noises, which meant Lucy felt duty-bound to loosen his
muffler and jerk on his neckcloth. “Oh, my, thank you!” he managed.
“Who in the world is—”

“
James Petry,” Lucy said. “He lives
next door. He is a solicitor. In a fit of rare bravery once—perhaps
he was mizzled—he told me how much he loved Clotilde, and that he
would never have the courage to ask for her hand.” She laughed.
“And Clotilde told me once what a nice fellow he was, but so
shy.”

“
People confide in you, don’t they?”
he asked.

“
All the time.” She stopped and
didn’t even try not to lean against Miles’s shoulder. “People used
to do that to Mama.” Her face felt wet then, but she didn’t mind.
She turned to face her cousin. “Miles, when did I turn into my
mother?”

He didn’t hesitate. “You’ve always been like
her—quiet, calm, a home-body, a problem solver, and so
kind.”

“
That is quite the nicest thing you
have ever said to me,” she told him, hunkering down to be closer to
him.

“
I’ll say something nicer in a few
minutes, but first, we’d better find your father,” he told her,
just when she was comfortable in that excellent place under his
arm, close to his chest. “Up you get. Milsap, go have a drink of
something stronger than barley water. You need it. We’ll close up
here.”

The butler gave Miles no argument, which
impressed Lucy. She couldn’t think of a time when Milsap let anyone
else lock the front door. This was turning into a day of
surprises.

“
Where do you suppose my cousin is?”
Miles asked.

“
Let’s try the library. Papa never
reads, but he likes to sit there.”

He took her hand and they ambled down the hall,
neither in any particular hurry, now that Clotilde and her shy
suitor were coursing through the night to Scotland.

“
Whatever gave Mr. Petry the nerve
to propose to my already engaged sister?” she asked.

“
Love does strange things to a man,”
Miles said, as they walked along, arm in arm.

“
Oh, now, how would you know?” she
asked. “You told me only a few days ago that neither of us had any
idea what it felt like to be in love.” She could tease him now. The
crisis with Clotilde was over, and he would leave soon. She had all
winter to discover how strong she was. With any luck, in ten or
twelve years she could see him again and not want to cry. “I
remember distinctly that you told me so.”

“
I now suspect that life can turn on
a penny,” he said, his voice full of humor. “Only consider
Clotilde!”

Sure enough, Papa sat in the library, his
stocking feet propped on the ottoman, a glass of something dark in
his hand. He gave them an owlish stare, then waved them
closer.

Lucy took a sniff. The fumes weren’t too
strong. He might still be lucid. “Papa, what in the world possessed
Clotilde?” she asked.

“
There was a note. Ah, you have it,
Miles,” he said, his words barely slurred.

“
I do, and I didn’t finish reading
it. Let’s see: “ ‘my dearest friend …’ ah, here we are.
‘I have been mizzerabul for weeks …’ I do love how she
spells.”