Season's Regency Greetings

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover design by Sabrina Sun

Season's Regency Greetings

“
Let Nothing You Dismay”

Copyright © 2003, 2015 by Carla Kelly

“
No Room at the Inn”

Copyright © 2002, 2015 by Carla Kelly

ISBN: 978-1-60381-254-2 (Trade Paper)

ISBN: 978-1-60381-255-9 (eBook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014955979

Produced in the United States of America

* * *

To all of my readers who love the magic of the holiday season, whether it be

Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwaanza.

* * *

I
t was obvious to Lord Trevor Chase, his solicitor, and their clerk that all the other legal minds at Lincoln's Inn had been celebrating the approach of Christmas for some hours. The early closing of King's Bench, Common Pleas, Chancery Court, and Magistrate's Court until the break of the new year was the signal for general merrymaking among the legal houses lining Chancery Lane. He had already sent his clerk home with a hefty bonus and a bottle of brandy from his stash.

Trevor had never felt inclined to celebrate the year's cases, won or lost. He seldom triumphed at court because his clients were generally all guilty. True, their crimes were among the more petty in English law, but English law always came down hard against miscreants who meddled with another's property, be it land, gold bullion, a loaf of bread, or a pot of porridge. A good day for Lord Trevor was one where he wheedled a reprieve from the drop and saw his client transported to Australia instead. He knew that most Englishmen in 1810 would not consider enforced passage to the Antipodes any sort of victory. Because of this, a celebration, even for the birth of Christ, always felt vaguely hypocritical to him. Besides that, he knew his solicitor was in a hurry to be on his way to Tunbridge Wells.

But not without a protestation, because the solicitor, an earnest young man, name of George Dawkins, was almost as devoted to his young charges as he was. “Trevor, you know it is my turn to take that deposition,” the good man said, even as he pulled on his coat and looked about for his hat. “And when was the last time you spent more than a day or two home at Chase Hall?”

“
You, sir, have a family,” Trevor reminded him firmly. “And a wife eager to see her parents in Kent.”

Dawkins must have been thinking about the events of last Christmas. “Yes, but I could return for the deposition. I would rather not …” he paused, his embarrassment obvious.

“…
leave me alone here, eh? Is that it?” Trevor finished his solicitor's thought.

The man knew better than to bamboozle. “Yes, that's it. I don't want to return to …. Well, you know. You were damned lucky last time.”

Not lucky, Trevor thought. I thought I was home free. Damn those interfering barristers in the next chamber. “I suppose. I suppose,” he said. “I promise to be good this year.”

His solicitor went so far as to take his arm. “You'll do nothing besides take that deposition? You'll give me no cause for alarm?”

“
Certainly not,” Trevor lied. He shrugged off his solicitor's arm (even as he was touched by his concern), and pulled on his overcoat. He looked around the chamber, and put on his hat. Nothing here would he miss.

He and his solicitor went downstairs together and stood at the Chancery Lane entrance to the Inn. He looked up at the evening sky—surprisingly clear for London in winter—and observed the stars. “A rare sight, Dawkins,” he said to his employee.

As they both looked upward, a little shard of light seemed to separate itself from a larger brightness, rather like shavings from some celestial woodcarver. Enchanted, he watched as it dropped quickly, blazed briefly, then puffed out.

Dawkins chuckled. “We should each make a wish, Trevor,” he said, amusement high in his voice. “Me, I wish I could be more than five minutes on our way and not have one of my children ask, ‘How much farther, Papa?' ” He turned to Trevor. “What do you wish?”

“
I don't hold with wishing on stars,” he replied.

“
Not even Christmas stars?”

“
Especially not those.”

But he did. Long after his solicitor had bade him good night and happy Christmas, and was whistling his way down the lane, Trevor stood there, hesitating like a fool, and unable to stop from staring into the heavens. He closed his eyes.

“
I wish, I wish someone would help me.”

“
Miss Ambrose, do you think we will arrive in time for me to prevent my sister from making this Tragic Mistake that will blight her life and doom her to misery? I
wish
the coachman would pick up speed!”

Cecilia Ambrose—luckily for her—had been hiding behind a good book when her pupil burst out with that bit of moral indignation. She raised the book a little higher to make sure that Lady Lucinda Chase would not see her smile.

“
My dear Lady Lucinda, I have not met her, but from what I know of your family, I suspect she is in control of her situation. Is it not possible that your sister welcomes her coming nuptials? Stranger things have happened.”

Her young pupil rolled her eyes tragically, and pressed the back of her hand to her cheek. “Miss Ambrose, in her last letter to me she actually admitted that Sir Lysander kissed her! Can you imagine anything more distasteful? Oh, woe!”

Cecilia abandoned her attempt at solemnity, put down the book after marking her place, and laughed. When she could speak, she did so in rounder tones. “My dear little scholar, I think you are lacing this up a bit tight. If the wicked stage were not such a pit of evil and degradation, you would probably be anointed a worthy successor to Siddons! It is, um, possible that your sister doesn't consider kissing to be distasteful. You might even be inclined to try it yourself someday.”

The look of horror that Lucinda Chase cast in her direction assured Cecilia that the time was not quite ripe for such a radical comment. And just as well, she thought as she put her arm around her twelve-year-old charge. “It is merely a suggestion, my dear. Perhaps when you are eighteen, you will feel that way, too.” It seemed the teacherly thing to say, especially for someone into her fifth year as instructor of drawing and pianoforte at Miss Dupree's Select Academy for Young Ladies.

Her young charge was silent for a long moment. She sighed. “Miss Ambrose, I suppose you are right. I do not know that Janet would listen to me, anyway. Since her come out she has changed, and it makes me a little sad.”

Ah, the crux of the matter, Cecilia thought as the post chaise bowled along toward York. She remembered Miss Dupree's admonition about maintaining a firm separation between teacher and pupil and—not for the first time—discarded it without a qualm. She touched Lucy's cheek. “You're concerned, aren't you, that Janet is going to grow up and leave you behind?” she asked, her voice soft. “Oh, my dear, she will not! You will always be sisters, and someday you, too, will understand what is going on with her right now. Do trust me on this. Perhaps things are not as bad as you think.”

Her conclusion was firm, and precisely in keeping with her profession. Lucy sighed again, but to Cecilia's ears, always quite in tune with the nuances of the young, it was not a despairing sigh.

“
Very well, Miss Ambrose,” her charge said. “I will trust you. But it makes me sad,” she added. She looked up at her teacher. “Do you think I will survive the ordeal of this most trying age?”

Cecilia laughed out loud. “Wherever did you hear that phrase?”

It was Lucy's turn to grin. “I overheard Miss Dupree talking to my mama, last time she visited.”

“
You will survive,” Cecilia assured her. “I mean, I did.” Lucy stared at her. “Really, Lucy, I
was
young once!”

“
Oh! I didn't mean that you are precisely old, Miss Ambrose,” Lucy burst out. “It's just that I didn't ….” Her voice trailed away, but she tried to recover. “I don't know what I meant.”

I do, Cecilia thought. Don't worry, my dear. You're not the first, and probably not the last. She smiled at her charge to put her at ease, and returned to her book. Lucy settled down quietly and soon slept. Cecilia put the book down then and glanced out the window on the snowy day. She could see her reflection in the glass. Not for the first time, she wondered what other people thought when they looked at her.

She knew she was nice-looking, and that her figure was trim. In Egypt, where her foster parents had labored for many years—Papa studying ancient Coptic Christian texts, and Mama doing good in many venues—her appearance excited no interest. In England, she was an exotic, Egyptian-looking. Or as her dear foster brother liked to tease her, “Ceely the Gift of the Nile.” Cecilia looked at Lucinda again and smiled. And heaven knows I am old, in the bargain, she thought, all of eight and twenty. I doubt Lucinda knows which is worst.

She knew that her foster brother would find this exchange amusing, and she resolved to write him that night, when they stopped. It was her turn to sigh, knowing that a letter to William would languish three months in the hold of an East India merchant vessel bound for Calcutta, where he labored as a missionary with his parents now, who had been forced to abandon Egypt when Napoleon decided to invade. She looked out the window at the bare branches, wishing that her dear ones were not all so far away, especially at Christmas.

She had been quite content at the thought of spending Christmas in Bath at the Select Academy. Miss Dupree was engaged to visit her family in London, and the other teachers had made similar arrangements. She had remained at the Academy last year, and found the solitude to her liking, except for Christmas Day. Except for that one day, when it was too quiet, it was the perfect time to catch up on reading, grade papers, take walks without students tagging along, and write letters. That one day she had stood at the window, wanting to graft herself onto families hurrying to dinner engagements or visiting relatives. But the feeling passed, and soon the pupils and teachers returned.

Lady Maria Chase, Marchioness of Falstoke, had written to Cecilia a month ago, asking if she could escort Lucinda home to Chase Hall, on the great plain of York.
I cannot depend upon my brother-in-law, Lord Trevor Chase, to escort her because that dear man is woefully ramshackle. Do help us out, Miss Ambrose
, she had written.

At the time, Cecilia saw no reason to decline the invitation, which came with instructions about securing a post chaise, and the list of which inns would be expecting them. Miss Dupree had raised her eyebrows over the choice of inns, commenting that Cecilia would be in the lap of luxury, something out of the ordinary for a teacher, even a good one at a choice school. “I doubt you will suffer from damp sheets or underdone beef,” had been her comment.

No, she did not wish to visit in Yorkshire. Lucinda had not meant to be rude, but there it was. I
am
different here in England, Cecilia thought. I might make my hosts uncomfortable. As they traveled over good roads and under a cold but bright sky, Cecilia resolved to remain at Chase Hall only long enough to express her concerns to her pupil's mother, and catch a mail coach south. It was too much to consider that the marquis would furnish her with a post chaise for the return trip.

Always observant of her students, especially the more promising ones, Cecilia had watched Lucy mope her way through the fall term. Her pupil, a budding artist, completed the required sketches and watercolors, but without enthusiasm. As she gave the matter serious consideration, Cecilia thought that the bloom left the rose with the letter from home in which Janet announced her engagement to Sir Lysander Polk of the Northumberland Polks, a dour collection of thin-lipped landowners—according to Lucinda, who already had an artist's eye for caricature—who had somehow begotten a thoroughly charming son. Not only was Lysander charming; he was handsome in the extreme, and rich enough in the bargain to make Lord Falstoke, a careful parent, smile. Or so Lucy had declared, when she shared the letter with Cecilia.