Season's Regency Greetings (17 page)

“
Joe told me about your difficulties, dearie,” Mrs. King said.

“
I think the entire world must know of them, Mrs. King,” she said. “I am glad he told you. I would not have you think I am a habitual watering pot.”

“
I think you're rather a charming lady, and I know that Joe agrees with me,” Mrs. King said firmly. “But this is bad news, isn't it? Mr. Shepard—Thomas—is even downstairs walking up and down, hoping that you have good news.”

Mary looked down at the letter that she still held. “I suppose he would call this good news, then. Sir Harry has agreed to pay his addresses to me.” She thought of Mrs. King's own trials, and tried to hide the bitterness in her words, even as she knew she failed. “He claims that he will not reproach me with my ignominious birth, should we decide to form an alliance.” She held out the letter again. “Mrs. King, he has asked all his relatives what they think, and they are united in their opposition to me!” She leaned back and closed her eyes as shame washed over her. “There are probably men taking wagers at White's on what will be the outcome of this sorry tale!”

“
And still Sir Harry persists?” Mrs. King asked.

“
I suppose he does,” Mary said quietly. “Mrs. King, I do not love him. I never have.” She turned in her chair for a better look at the woman. “I have come with the Shepards this Christmas because they are to leave me with a grandmother I have never met … on a farm! Sir Harry is my last chance to remain in the social circle in which I was raised.” She rested her cheek against Mrs. King's comforting bulk. “Am I too proud?”

Mrs. King's answer was not slow in coming. “P'raps a little, my dear, but if you do not love this fellow, marrying him would be a worse folly than pride.” She laughed softly. “I think there are worse fates than farms. Didn't Joe say you had enough income to do what you want, should the farm prove unsatisfactory?”

“
It's true,” she agreed. She folded the letter, then looked at Mrs. King, who was regarding her with warmth and surprising affection, considering the shortness of their acquaintance. She took her hand. “It's hard to change, isn't it? I mean, I could have gone along all my life as the daughter of Lord Davy, but now the matter is different, and I must change, whether I wish it or not. Mrs. King, I do not know if I am brave enough.”

She stopped then, noting the faraway look in the woman's eyes, and the sorrow she saw there. “Here I am complaining about what must seem to be a small matter to you,” she said. “Do forgive me.”

Mrs. King gave her a little shake. “It is not a small matter! It is your life.”

She considered that, and in another moment took a sip of tea. “This will upset Thomas more than you can imagine. He places such emphasis on class and quality.” She stood up. “You say everyone is belowstairs?”

Mrs. King nodded. “Thomas is there on sufferance, but Mrs. Shepard seems content to decorate Abby's batch of Christmas stars.”

“
And Joe?”

“
He and Mr. King are playing backgammon.”

“
Are we a strange gathering, Mrs. King?” she asked. “I suppose that other than Joe and Joshua, none of us are where we really want to be.”

Mrs. King rose. “I am not so certain about that, my dear. Are you?”

She could think of no reply that would not involve a blush.

The two of them went down the stairs. Mrs. King gave her a little push when she reached the bottom and stood there, the letter in her hand. Thomas's eyes lighted up. “Do you have good news, Mary?” he asked.

“
That may depend on what you consider good news,” she replied, and handed him the letter. “Here. I wish you and Joe would read it.”

With a nod to Mr. King, Joe got up from the game-board and sat beside his brother, who had spread out the letter on the table. She watched them both as they read, Thomas becoming more animated by the paragraph, and Joseph more subdued. How different they are, she thought, but how different they had always been.

When he finished reading, Thomas looked at her in triumph. “There you are, Mary!” He smiled at his wife, who was dusting the last of the cookie dough with sugar. “She need not leave her sphere, Agatha.” He shrugged. “It may take a year or two before you are received in the best houses again, Mary, but what is that? People forget.”

Mary looked at Joe, who finished reading and sat back, his face a perfect blank. He stared at the letter, then picked it up. “ ‘… no matter how disgusting the whole affair is to sensible people, the sort I wish to associate with, I will never reproach you with your ignominious birth,' ” he read out loud. “Mary, he is irresistible.”

Ignoring his brother, Thomas took her hand. “Mary, you are most fortunate. The road is clear south of us. Any letter you write will reach Sir Harry in a mere day or two.”

Joe grabbed the letter. Without a word he crumbled it into a tight ball. “Thomas, I am not sure I even know you anymore,” he said, his voice filled with emotion. “You would have Mary McIntyre, this little lady we watched grow up at Denton, pawn her dignity for a crumb or two? I am surprised at you.”

Thomas stared at him and his face grew red. Mouths open, Tommy and Joshua had stopped their game of jackstraws. Abby held the rolling pin suspended over another wad of dough. Agatha dabbled her fingers nervously in the sugar. On the other hand, Frank King appeared to be enjoying the drama before him. His eyes were bright as he looked from one to another.

“
Joseph, Mary is no lady anymore,” Thomas said. “But you are no gentleman.”

Oh, God, Mary thought, and felt her face grow white. The brothers glared at each other. Clarice was already in tears, her face pressed against her mother. What has happened here, Mary thought in the silence that seemed to grow more huge by the second. If ever there were unwanted guests, we have met and exceeded the criteria. She knew that she could not please both men. No matter what she said, it would be wrong to someone, and she would offend people she never wished ill.

Her footsteps seemed so loud as she walked the length of the room and stood between the brothers. “You are probably right, Tom. I will write Sir Harry immediately.”

“
Thank God,” Thomas said, his relief nearly palpable.

“
I will assure him that even though I am grateful for the honor I
think
he is doing me, I chose not to further the alliance,” she concluded.

“
My God, Mary, do you
know
what you are saying?” Thomas gasped. “Do you seriously believe you will ever get another offer as good as Sir Harry?”

For the first time that day, or maybe even since Lord Davy had ruined her hopes two weeks ago, she felt curiously free. “Thomas, Sir Harry is a boring windbag. You can't honestly think he would ever let me forget my origin.”

“
But he is so magnanimous!” Thomas exclaimed.

“
To trample my feelings?” she asked. “I think not. Honestly, Thomas, I believe I would rather … rather … slop hogs and … and … oh, heavens … milk cows at Muncie Farm than endure life with a man who thought I was common!” She gave him a little push. “How unkind you are to call me common! A woman is only common when the people around her tell her that she is. And I am not.”

Mary looked around her, noting the expressions of wounded reproach on Agatha's and Tom's faces. Mr. King winked at her, and she smiled back. To her confusion, Joseph was regarding her with what appeared to be amusement. I should be grateful someone considers this imbroglio humorous, she thought with some asperity. In fairness, he is entitled to think what he chooses. Imagine how glad he will be when the road is open.

“
Joe, may I use your bookroom again to write that letter?” she asked.

“
Of course.” His expression had not changed. “Did you say Muncie Farm?”

“
I did.”

“
But your name is McIntyre.”

“
Yes. From what I gather, the modiste's mother was widowed not long after her daughter ran away and later remarried. I gather I am still a McIntyre, though. You have heard of Muncie Farm?”

“
I have. In fact, Thomas, rather than be any hindrance to you when you are able to bolt my vulgar establishment, I can transport Mary to Muncie Farm. I could give you directions, but I can easily take her there.” He bowed to them all. “And now, I have some work to do in my shop. Josh? You may come, and Tommy, too. Use my bookroom as long as you need it, Mary.” He bowed again. “Mrs. King, I look forward to dinner at six o'clock.”

Mary returned to the bookroom with an appetite. Mrs. King's meal, though cold now, took the edge off her hunger quite nicely. She thought she would have to use up reams of paper to find the right words of regret for Sir Harry, but one draft sufficed. After all, Lady Davy had taught her to regard brevity as the best antidote for unreturned love, and quite the safest route. Poor Sir Harry, she thought. You will miss me for a while, perhaps, but I suspect that your paramount emotion will resolve itself into vast relief. Humming to herself, she sealed the letter and set it aside for a brisk walk tomorrow to the inn to mail it.

“
Silly,” she said out loud. “Tomorrow is Christmas. It can wait for the day after.”

After a little more thought, and a long time gazing out the window, she took out another sheet of paper and wrote a letter to Lady Davy. It proved more difficult to write, because she found herself flooded with wonderful memories of her childhood. She knew down to her stockings that she would miss Denton, and her brother and sister, and even more, the quiet, lovely woman who had chosen to take her in, keep her from an orphanage or workhouse, and raise her. If events had not fallen out as Mary desired, it was not a matter to cause great distress now. She chose to remember the best parts. She decided then that she would write Lady Davy at least once each year, whether Lord Davy wanted her to, or not. Perhaps a time would come when she would be invited home.

She did feel tears well in her eyes as she remembered how many of her mother's acquaintances had called her the very image of Lady Davy. I suppose we see what we choose to see, she thought, then rested her chin in her hand. I hope Thomas can see that someday. Joe already seems to understand.

By dinner, the workhouse road crew was shoveling in front of the house. Thomas and Agatha had decided to take dinner upstairs, to Mary's chagrin and Joe's irritation. Mrs. King only laughed and assured him that the entertainment the Shepards had provided far outweighed any inconvenience. “Abby and I will take them food. If it is cold, well, that's the price for being better than the rest of us.” She put her arm around Mary. “If they want seconds, they can come downstairs. It is Christmas Eve, after all, and Mr. King and I are on holiday. Dearie, you lay the table here.”

Mrs. King's roast beef was the perfect combination of exterior crust and interior pink tenderness. Abby glowed with pleasure when Mrs. King pointed out that the scullery maid had made the Yorkshire pudding. “I may have directed it, dearies, but I think the secret is in the touch, and not the telling. Mr. King, don't be hoarding the gravy at your end of the table!”

The coachmen joined them, coming into the servants hall snow-covered from helping the road crew. “We met a mail coach coming from York, so the highway is open now,” the Shepards' coachman told them as he reached for the roast beef. He jostled the King's driver. “We can all be on our way.”

Mary could not help noticing the worried look that Mr. King directed at his wife, who was helping Abby with the gravy. Her heart went out to him as she imagined what it must be like to wonder every Christmas when the melancholy would strike her, and how long she would struggle with it. She leaned toward Joe, and spoke softly. “I wonder, do you suppose a parent ever recovers from the loss of a child through an angry word, or a thoughtless statement?”

He shook his head, and rested his hand on Joshua's head. “It doesn't even have to be your own child, Mary, to fear such a disaster. I pray it never happens to me.”

She sat there in the warm dining hall, surrounded by people talking, spoons clinking on dishes, wonderful kitchen smells, and fully realized what he was saying to her. I have a grandmother at a place called Muncie Farm, she thought with an emotion akin to wonder. She has been looking for me. Me! Not to shame me with my shaky background, but to
find
me, because I am all that remains of her daughter. I have been dreading this, when I should be welcoming the chance to put someone's mind at rest. It is a blessing ever to be denied the Kings, I fear, and I nearly passed it by. God forgive me.

“
You know where Muncie Farm is?” she asked Joe.

He nodded and ruffled Joshua's hair. “We could take you there tomorrow.”

“
Then you may do it,” she said, and took the bowl of gravy from the Kings' coachman, “
after
we have Christmas dinner here with the Kings.”

Thomas and Agatha did not invite her to attend Christmas Eve services with them at St. Boniface, which troubled her not at all. There would have been nothing comfortable or even remotely rejuvenating in celebrating the birth of a Peacemaker with people who chose so deliberately to divide. When Joe told the Kings that indeed there was a Methodist establishment in town—although not the better part of town, and certainly not close to St. Boniface—she demurred again. She had heard much about Methodism and the enthusiastic choirs that it seemed to produce, but Abby was accompanying the Kings. She wanted that kindly couple to give the scullery maid their undivided attention.

“
What do you generally do on Christmas Eve?” she asked Joe, while they were washing dishes. (Joe had insisted that Mrs. King did not need to do dishes, and Mrs. King had not objected too long.)