Another false start to Winter Fire
You will notice that bits of these scenes did appear in the final version of Winter Fire in different ways.
Chapter 1
London, 1763
The first frost of December had struck, dusting roofs, railings, and paving stones an airy white. In the light of flaming flambeaux, the steps of the tall, gray townhouse glinted charmingly gold. That gold disintegrated beneath the heeled shoes of the gentleman who mounted them, but the gold of his shoe buckles and of the ornate knob of his sword cane shone on.
The Marquess of Ashart used his own gloved hand to open the door, but inside a waiting footman leaped forward to take his master's cane, and to ease off the long, dark surtout. With a casual word of thanks, Lord Ashart strolled on toward the stairs.
Candlelight flared on the silver and gold embroidery lushly edging his suit of blue velvet, and his knee-breeches were fastened with gold and sapphire buckles. White stockings were clocked with glittering embroidery, jewels shone in his lace cravat, and the hilt of his dress sword was of ivory banded with gem-studied gold. When he yawned, the hand that covering his mouth flashed fire from four large rings.
Lord Ashart had begun the previous evening at court.
Needless to say, he had traveled throughout the long night in his coach with armed footmen behind, and his dress sword was not entirely ornamental.
He had reached the stairs when a man dressed in a woolen banyan robe came out of a nearby door, some papers in his hand. "Ah, there you are."
The marquess paused, and a gold-handled quizzing glass appeared in his fingers as if by magic. He studied the interrupter through it. "I'm relieved to hear it. Why are you up in the middle of the night?"
"It's gone seven o'clock," Alexander Fitzroger said with a forbearing look.
"I have not yet been to bed, thus it is night. Moreover, it is still dark outside."
"It's winter."
"In fact," said the marquess, "it is not. Not until the soltice." He focused the quizzing glass on the paper, though in fact his eyesight was perfect. "Whatever that is, Fitz, I know you will not presume to disturb me with it in the middle of the night."
Alexander Fitzroger, secretary to the marquess, knew better that to persist when his friend was in this mood.
Fitz was as tall as Ashart, and built in much the same athletic style. Being able to keep up with the marquess in society and on the sporting field was one of his qualifications. He, however, was blond where the marquess was dark.
He had news of importance and tried again. "There's more on the Chevalier d'Eon. He's..."
Ash's raised hand silenced him. Ash slid the quizzing glass back through one of the ornamental buttonholes on his jacket. "We could have avoided this unnatural moment if you had accompanied me to Mirabelle's."
"We lesser mortals can't afford to game there, and if I want a woman, I prefer a less complex provision."
A faint smile touched Ash's face. "Complexity is the spice of life."
Fitzroger raised a skeptical brow, but said, "Then you will want the news about d'Eon, and you will want to read this letter."
"Your persistence is wearying." Ash continued on up the stairs. "I will see you, and these wearying affairs, when the day has begun."
Fitz returned to the morning room, his breakfast, and the newspaper. Neither couriered letter nor news was urgent and Ash would know it from his manner. It was a game they played, but Fitz was beginning to think that it was past time for games.
They were both twenty-six years old, after all, and serious matters swirled around them. Even the basic affairs of the marquesate required serious attention -- attention Ash seemed unwilling to provide.
Five hours sleep, Fitz guessed, glancing at the two documents again. He could hardly wait to see Fitz's reaction to the letter from his grandmother, and he had concerns about the d'Eon situation. Beggars can't be choosers, however, and Ash would give them no attention until the appointed time.
He finished his breakfast, dressed, and went out to deal with some matters. He made sure to be home by one and to have the day's post bag reviewed and ordered. Thus he was ready when, at a quarter to two, a footman brought the command to attend his lordship in his bedchamber.
Ash showed no sign of a long night and short sleep. He had bathed, and his dark hair curled to his shoulders. It was as well a huge fire roared in the grate because he was wearing only a banyan of rich Chinese silk.
Fitz shrugged out of his woolen jacket and tossed it on a chair. "You can get a robe made of wool, you know."
"How declasse. Now, your wondrous documents?"
Fitz passed over the d'Eon one first. It had in fact come as an enclosure from Ash's grandmother, the Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, but he did not include the vituperative covering letter.
As Ash read the document, Fitz considered the ramifications of it. He was deeply uneasy about the whole matter.
The Chevalier d'Eon had come to England earlier in the year as temporary ambassador of France. His spectacular career had included scandalous murmurings about his closeness to the young queen and king -- but especially the queen -- and his fondness for dressing up as a woman.
Some even speculated that he was a women masquerading as a man, but weighing against that was his supreme skill with the sword. He had not dueled in England, but his demonstration bouts were avidly attended.
The Dowager Lady Ashart's interest in d'Eon was nothing to do with his gender, swordwork, or position, but grew from a connection to the Marquess of Rothgar, another of her grandsons and the person the old lady burned to destroy.
Ash had been raised to be her champion in this cause. Since meeting Ash and becoming his secretary companion four years before, Fitz had done his damnedest to introduce some sanity.
Ash lowered the paper. "Forgery. Can we believe it?"
"That Rothgar would have letters from the French king forged if it served his purpose? Of course. That it was well enough done to fool d'Eon? Of course. That your grandmother has proof?" Fitz shrugged. "It could be her entire invention."
"But you don't really think so." Ash tapped the informant's letter against his other hand. "Do we know where d'Eon is at the moment?"
"In rooms in Golden Square, protected by armed bully-boys, sitting on the document boxes that stand between him and disaster."
"Remarkable. But the king still favors him. His Majesty spoke of him last night. Thus his majesty might be seriously displeased to learn that his beloved Rothgar helped destroy the man, might he not?"
"Or he might turn his wrath on the messenger who brought such news."
"Quite. I'm sure my grandmother has demanded instant, dramatic action. Send her a soothing letter. It will all wait. Now, what was the other paper?"
Fitz passed it over, observing the reaction to the seal. For that reason, as he expected, Ash tried not to give one, but it was there anyway; a slight rise of the chin, a lowering of the lids.
"From Rothgar? What does it say?"
"You have only to unfold it."
"I believe I pay you to be my secretary."
Fitz sat down in a brocade chair facing Ash's, relaxing back and stretching out his legs. He expected to enjoy this. "Very well. You are invited to celebrate Christmas at Rothgar Abbey."
Ash's eyes met his, wide. "What?"
Fitz grinned. "Now don't you wish you'd read it earlier?"
But Ash already had himself in control. "Why? The answer is the same. No."
"This looks like an olive branch. What are you going to do? Shoot the dove?"
"And roast it for dinner. Any olive branch Rothgar sent my way would be shaped into a spear and tipped with poison."
"It's an insanity, this! And it's past time to put an end to it. Thirty-five years is long enough for anything to heal."
"Unless it's probed and opened again at every opportunity."
"By your grandmother. Quite. Put an end to it, Ash." Fitz had spent hours coming up with arguments. "In the process, you will have the opportunity to study the Dark Marquess at his ease, guard down."
Ash laughed. "He drops his guard as often as I do mine."
"Pity you're not a woman, then."
Ash flashed him a look that showed the dart had hit. Ash had a weakness for a certain sort of woman, most recently and disastrously a widow called Molly Carew, and there was a letter from her in the pile. Fitz had been tempted to destroy it, but he wasn't his friend's nursemaid.
"About the invitation...."
Ash frowned at the ceiling. "Plague take the man, what's he up to? First he marries, when it always seemed he wouldn't. Would he really do that simply because all the king seems to care about is hearth and babies?"
"For love?"
Ash lowered his gaze. "Such innocence. My cousin married a chunk of the north of England. Lady Arradale could have been a warty shrew for all he cared."
Fitz knew better than to pursue that pointless argument. "If you had gone north as the dowager commanded, you could perhaps have snapped up the countess."
"Yorkshire," said Ash with a theatrical shudder. "You're mad."
"You'll have to marry sooner or later, and marry well, or your grandmother will skin you."
"My grandmother commands me in nothing. And in fact Rothgar's marriage is clearly taking his attention away from Court." Ash contemplated his perfectly manicured nails. "It might perhaps leave a vacuum, and as we know, nature abhors a vacuum."
"Thus courtiers rush in to fill the space. You'll have to fight for it."
"I? But I am the king's cradle-mate, born within days of him, taken to play with him, toss balls with him."
"At which you were very good, and he was very bad, as I hear tell."
Ash smiled ruefully. "I didn't know then how to be a courtier."
"If you want that place, the dowager's right. You'll have to marry for it. The king cares for little but hearth and babies -- and fidelity." Fitz couldn't help adding, "You would certainly have to be faithful."
"Zeus, you almost convince me to emmigrate to the Americas and grow cotton."
"Rothgar appears to have embraced that life."
"He's emmigrated to the Americas to grow cotton?"
Fitz didn't bother to answer, and Ash said, "Old age comes to us all."
"He's ten years your senior. Hardly in his dotage yet."
"Why else invite me for Christmas?"
Fitz tossed the letter into Ash's lap. "Read it. He's not only inviting you. He's inviting the entire Trayce family."
Ash caught it, an astonished smile breaking. "He's sent one to grandmother? Zeus, to be a spider on the wall!"
The walls, Fitz thought, might not survive. The root of the enmity between the Trayce family and the Mallorens went back nearly forty years to the ill-fated marriage between the Marquess of Rothgar's father and the Marquess of Ashart's aunt, Lady Augusta Trayce.
The lady had gone mad and strangled her second child, and the Trayce family, particularly Lady Augusta's mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, blamed the Mallorens for the whole thing.
Perhaps it wasn't wise to push Ash to accept this surprising invitation, but Fitz was convinced that this putrefying wound had to be lanced before the patient died -- the patient being the marquesate. For some reason Ash was unwilling to devote himself to his affairs, leaving far too many of them in the dowager's hands. And the dowager, though a shrewd woman, only cared to use them as a weapon against the Mallorens.
He felt some sympathy for the dowager, who had led a tragic life, but he seemed to be the only one with an eye on the whole situation. People all over Britain were being affected by this courtly feud, from the lowest peasant on an estate, to Ash's close relatives, the remaining members of the Trayce family.
Chapter 2
Genova Smith rapped the gleaming brass knocker of the handsome house which belonged to the elderly Trayce ladies, leaders of Tunbridge Wells society. She'd received an urgent letter from Lady Thalia Trayce, summoning her here.
My dear Genova,
You must come immediately! The most amazing thing! I cannot wait to tell you.
Thalia
A stranger would think it from a sixteen-year-old, but that was seventy-seven-year-old Thalia's usual manner. However, Genova knew something truly amazing must have occurred and she welcomed distraction from problems of her own.
The door opened and a maid quickly welcomed her into the house. Genova's breath still misted a little as she shed her hooded cloak, muff, and gloves. As soon as she entered the drawing room, however, she realized she might collapse from heat-exhaustion.
Genova had only lived in Tunbridge Wells for three months since her father's second marriage, and this was the first true cold snap. In her stepmother's house woolen stockings and an extra quilted petticoat had been necessary for comfort. For the walk here, she'd added a quilted caraco jacket beneath her cloak. Now she felt like a baked pudding.
All three ladies were present and Thalia leaped to her feet. "Genova! At last!" Thalia was dressed as usual in low-necked silk.
Genova shed her caraco and folded it on a chair. "I came immediately, Thalia."
Lady Thalia insisted that Genova call her simply by her name, but the other two ladies were Lady Calliope and Lady Urania.
"So good of you," said Thalia. "Come sit by the fire, do."
Genova managed to sit as far from the blazing logs as possible while still close enough to converse, wondering if she could ask to shed her extra petticoat. But her wolen dress would still be too warm. The three sisters were all in silk finery, but presented very different appearances.
Thalia affected a youthful look. She was plump, and in a way, still pretty, with fluffy white hair and bright eyes. Part of the prettiness was paint, but she managed it subtly.
Lady Urania, the next oldest, was overly thin and constant victim of vague complaints. She wore a heavy Kashmir shawl and had another draped over her knees. Perhaps in an attempt to look more robust, she always wore a densely black wig and too much paint. Today, her white face was enlivened with scarlet cheeks and lips and three black patches.
Lady Calliope, the oldest, was a mound of clothes and shawls in a huge wheeled chair. She had only wisps of hair and usually wore an abundant red wig. At the moment she was wearing a quilted cap, and it was sitting on the floor besides her looking for all the world like one of the cats sprawled before the fire.
There was a saying about a fool -- that he had more hair than wits. The opposite was true of Lady Calliope. At nearly ninety, her wits were still all there, and razor sharp.
"Good of you to come, Genova," she said in her gruff voice. "We have a delicate situation."
"Rothgar!" Thalia declaimed in a dramatic tone.
Genova looked around for elucidation. The famous Marquess of Rothgar was their great-nephew. Not their Trayce great-nephew, Lord Ashart, whose portrait hung over the fireplace, but the son of their niece, Augusta.
She knew this, however, only because she'd looked up the Trayce family in the library. Lord Rothgar was not spoken of in this house in the very obvious way of a family scandal.
Was she to be privy to some court scandal, or a sensation even more macabre? How delicious.
Thalia leaned forward. "We have received an invitation! To the Abbey. For Christmas."
"Idiot man," Lady Calliope snorted. "I can't even move out of this plaguey chair!"
"If he was sending invitations," Lady Urania pointed out, "he could hardly not invite you, Callie."
Whenever Genova heard the impressive Lady Calliope addressed as Callie she wondered if the lady had been a Callie sort of person seventy or so years ago. Then she wondered what sort of old lady she would be herself. Would some whippersnapper sneer to hear a crone called Genni?
But then, she had no sisters to remember that childhood name, and since she'd spent most of her life following her father's naval career, the friends of her youth were scattered over the four seas.
"But why invite us?" Lady Calliope demanded. "Demmed fishy, if you ask me. What do you think, dear?"
Genova was sure she'd missed something. "You are invited where?"
"To Rothgar Abbey for Christmas!" Thalia exclaimed. "See."
She held out a sheet of crested paper and Genova went to take it, reluctant to read something never intended for her. She needn't have worried. It was businesslike to the point of cool and merely issued the invitation.
"It says `family celebration'," she pointed out. "And you are family."
Three sets of identical blue eyes stared at her. "We don't have any connection to the Mallorens, dear," said Lady Urania.
"But wasn't the marquess's mother-"
"Our niece Augusta, yes," said Thalia. "But they drove her mad, so we don't acknowledge them. Do you not know the story?"
It sounded enough for a dark theatrical drama. "No, I'm afraid not."
"Well it was all before you were born, and you have spent so much time away from civilization."
Genova had spent a great deal of time in the Mediterranean, the "cradle of civilization," but she managed not to show amusement.
"You see," said Thalia with obvious relish, "our niece Augusta -- such a beautiful, high-spirited girl -- married the Marquess of Rothgar. The current one's father, of course. A very suitable match, and he seemed an excellent choice. Well placed at court, rich, good humored, sensible. We were terribly deceived."
She sighed, though Genova felt it was the routine sigh of an old tragedy, not a deeply-felt one.
"He beat her?" Genova asked, having no illusions about such things.
"Definitely not," barked Lady Calliope. "You think our family would have stood for that? One of the Trayce men would have skewered him. No, he was more subtle than that."
"What did he do?" Genova's could imagine a number of appalling possibilities.
Lady Urania answered in a tone that rang with dark mysteries. "We have never managed to find out."
This was positively delicious! "But she went mad?" Genova prompted.
"Quite mad," said Lady Calliope. "She strangled her new born babe."
Amusement fled. "But the marquess...?"
"Was her first. The dead child was her second. They say the boy witnessed the murder, but he was too young to say what really happened. The marquess's second wife died young, too."
"Now, that isn't fair, Callie!" Lady Thalia interrupted. "The marquess and his second wife died within days of each other, both of a purulent fever, I believe."
"Brought home by him. Bad, rash blood in the Mallorens."
Silence settled. Genova looked between the three ladies wondering what her part was in this.
She had become acquainted with Lady Thalia when asked to give a talk to the ladies of St. Michael's church on life at sea. Thalia had been there, bright-eyed and fascinated, and had invited her to repeat the talk for her sisters.
Genova had done so, and discovered unlikely friends. She thought that her chief appeal was that she was an excellent whist player and the ladies were always in search of a good fourth, but since she was new to town and found her stepmother's circle uncomfortable, the three old ladies were very dear to her.
"So your family has cut all connection with the Mallorens," she prompted. "And now there is this invitation...?"
"Thalia wants to go," said Lady Calliope.
Genova looked at her blushing friend.
"Well" -- Thalia flickered a glance at her older sisters -- "it was all so long ago, and it is Christmas."
Lady Urania sighed. "Sophia won't like it."
Genova knew who Sophia was. She was their sister-in-law, the Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, who appeared to rule the family roost. Well, except for these three sisters who, in shipboard parlance, hated her putrefying guts.
Not a happy family, the Trayces.
"That woman's reaction is reason to go if I were able." Lady Calliope chuckled, a deep, mound-shaking rumble. "Think he sent her one? With any luck, it's given her an apoplexy!"
"Callie!" Urania chided, but her scarlet lips were twitching.
Thalia looked at Genova. "We wondered how it looked to someone on the outside, dear. Someone sensible, like you."
Gads. Outsiders rarely fared well if they tangled with family disputes, but at least only one side was sitting in front of her. She considered her answer, and decided to go to the heart of the matter.
"Do you think there is true cause for this breech between the families?"
"Poor Augusta," pointed out Lady Urania. "We can't forget poor Augusta."
"But is it possible that the story was.... exaggerated?"
"The child died," Lady Calliope stated. "And Augusta died not long after. Faded away, then carried off by a fever at not yet twenty. I fear she understood what she had done."
"Such a sweet girl." Lady Urania produced a tiny silk handkerchief with six inches of lace around it and dabbed her eyes. "And so pretty."
"A wild, willful piece," corrected Lady Calliope, "with more looks than's good for any woman. But that don't excuse the Mallorens."
Genova wanted to ask what the Marquess of Rothgar could have done so "subtly" to drive his poor wife so mad, but it might be indelicate. Men could be extremely cruel to women, even to wives, in intimate matters, but why would that drive a woman to kill her baby? Genova felt sure she would be more likely to kill the offending husband.
The sisters were looking at her again, expecting an ajudication.
"The present marquess is innocent, however, is he not? Should the sins of the father be visited upon the children?"
"A sensible head," said Lady Calliope, nodding. "All the same, he's a devious man, Rothgar. He has to be up to something."
The sisters speculated, their talk wandering between matters of court, politics, and family history, revealing a new aspect. They had all spent years at court and even been ladies-in-waiting to queens. She shouldn't be surprised; it was the way of the world among the great. Court was the seat of influence, wealth, and power, and all members of a great family were supposed to do their part to gain influence there.
The complex entanglements of the aristocracy and royalty were familiar waters to the sisters, but Genova was adrift. That was doubtless why, dilemma still unresolved, the conversation shifted to novels. Despite their eccentricity, the three ladies had perfect manners and kind hearts.
They all discussed the translation of the works of Voltaire by Mr. Smollett. The Trayce ladies had read the work in French but were interested in the translation. Genova spoke French just as well as she spoke Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Dutch. That is, well enough to get by, but not well enough to read something like Voltaire. Thalia had given her a copy of the translation, however, so she could enter some of the conversation.
After a while, they moved inevitably to the whist table. Relaxed by the play of the hands, Genova found herself telling the sisters about her own dilemma.
"I have a carved nativity scene," she said as she shuffled the cards. "A presepe, as they call it in Italy. My parents bought it in Naples just before I was born, and all my life it has been set up for Christmas on December 13th."
"But that's today, dear!" said Thalia.
"Yes, but my father hasn't said anything." She passed the cards to Lady Urania, who started to deal. "We have always done it together, you see. My parents and I."
A ache started in her throat, an ache that had threatened her all day. She swallowed it away.
"Last year it was only my father and me, but we still did it." Genova picked up her hand and fanned it, only part of her mind on the cards. "It has always been in pride of place, no matter where we were. Now we are living in my stepmother's house, I don't know what to do."
"Your house, too," said Lady Calliope leading the ace of clubs. "At the very least, your father's house. If the woman has any sense, she'll welcome something so dear to you and the Commodore. Damnation, Thalia. How can you be void?"
Lady Thalia smirked. "The gods are on my side." She led the three of hearts and when it found Genova's ace she crowed, "You see!" Then she added, "I'm sure your father simply assumes that your presepe will be set up as usual, dear. Men are like that."
"Yes, they are," Genova said, leading back a club, tension melting. How silly she'd been. Her father must be wondering why she hadn't already set up the presepe.
Chapter 3
The days were short so the ladies insisted on Genova using a well-guarded sedan chair for the short journey back to her stepmother's house. She was safe, but all the same, she grew more tense the closer she came.
She didn't mind that her father had married again. Mary Smith's death had broken his heart and his spirit. He'd retired from the navy, and for almost a year he'd sat in their house in Portsmouth with little interest in life.
He'd brightened a little when old friends visited, but the effect had never lasted. And then one old friend had brought his widowed sister, Mrs. Poole, and it was as if Commodore Smith awoke from a long sleep.
Genova wasn't sure why Hester had been magical. Certainly she was a warm and charming woman, good-looking for her age, and with well-bred elegance, but there were others like her, many with an eye on a prosperous retired naval officer. It had happened, however, as suddenly as if Cupid had let loose a dart.
Her father had brightened and begun to take interest in life again. As soon as Hester entered a room his eyes lit. She had only been visiting her brother for a fortnight and on the tenth day, Genova's father had asked Genova if she'd mind him marrying again.
Of course she'd said no and meant it.
Would she do the same again?
She pulled a face. What choice would she have?
She'd soon realized that rather than Hester moving to Portsmouth, they would move to Tunbridge Wells. There was no other rational choice. Hester owned her house here, but more importantly, it was her home. She'd been born and raised in Tunbridge Wells. All her friends and family were here, including children and grandchildren.
Genova had thought one place in England would be as comfortable as any, but she'd been wrong. In Portsmouth, she'd many friends from naval circles, and it had been, perhaps, a half-way point for her between her former life and a settled life in England. Hester's house in Tunbridge Wells was the epitome of settled, and settled firmly in that level of society where propriety and good order was everything.
Somewhat to Genova's surprise, her father had settled in like a bird into a nest. Not a good analogy, for it was his difference that made his place in Hester's circles. He was connected to the aristocracy, though distantly, and had high naval rank. As a man, he was allowed to be different and bolder; was admired for it, in fact.
As a woman, Genova was not.
Her unusual upbringing meant she was more broadly informed, more experienced, more accustomed to plain speaking, and simply more active than young ladies in Hester's circle. Because she sought to please, she felt as if she now lived confined in a box, never able to stretch.
If there was a nest, she was a cuckoo. No, that wasn't a good analogy either. She had no desire to take over, or destroy other inhabitants. She simply wanted to escape, and she was sure Hester was as uncomfortable with the situation as she was.
If it weren't for the Trayce ladies, Genova thought she would have already done something intolerable. But the only escapes were employment and marriage.
She knew her father would be hurt if she left his comfortable protection for employment. As for marriage -- she sighed, misting the inside of the glass window of the sedan chair. She was cursed with a romantic disposition.
Having lived with her parents' happy marriage she was not inclined to settle for less, though she had weak moments when it seemed that any escape was better than none.
She left the sedan chair at her door, giving the men a coin each, and entered her stepmother's house, going quickly up to her room.
She took off her outdoor clothing and picked up the carved wooden box with a domed lid that held all the pieces of her presepe. It wasn't the original box. On her first birthday, her father had begun a tradition of buying a new carved animal to add to those normally found in a nativity scene. Over twenty-two years, the set had outgrown the first box, but her father had commissioned a new one exactly the same as the original, but larger.
The presepehad been so important to all of them, an anchor at Christmas wherever they were. But now she realized that last year, only months after her mother's death, her father had not bought her a new figure for her Christmas birthday.
It couldn't have been deliberate, but now it made her hesitate.
They had put up the presepe as usual last December 13th, with all the usual traditions and songs, but it hadn't been the same. Was the presepea cause of grief to her father? Did it bring back too many painful memories?
She had no wish to hurt him, but did her pain not matter? The presepe had been part of Christmas all her life, part of her family all her life. She couldn't bear to lose this, too.
She swallowed and straightened her spine. She was being silly. Her father must be wondering why she hadn't brought it to the drawing room. He might be hurt that a visit to the Trayce ladies seemed more important to her. As for Hester, why would she object?
Within moments of entering the drawing room, Genova knew she'd been wrong.
"A pre-se-pe?" Hester asked, as if speaking the foreign word was a strain on her tongue, teeth, and lips.
"A nativity scene," Genova said quickly.
She should have remembered that Hester was the sort of staunch Englishwoman who thought foreign meant only invading enemies, strange foods, and unpleasant diseases. One day Genova would lose patience and point out that words such as boudoir, mantua, pelerine, and macaroni were all foreign, too.
She stopped that thought before it showed on her face.
"It's simply a stable with carved figures to go inside it, Stepmama. Mary, Joseph, the baby, angels, animals.... We put it up every Christmas. Dont we, Father?"
He wouldn't get away with pretending this wasn't happening.
Her father looked up from his newspaper, a smile on his lips, but a pained look in his eye. "Aye, that we did, Genni-love."
Did? The past tense?
But then his expression softened and he said to his wife, "We bought it on this day in Naples, Hester. Genova was still to be born, or she might of ended up called Napola. Kept us waiting until we were in sight of Genova on Christmas Day. On the day she was born, one of the sailors carved a little lamb to add to it and that started a tradition. I found a new animal every year..."
Had he remembered that he hadn't done that last year?
"We added to it every year on my birthday," Genova said cheerfully, "making up a story about why this animal was late to the stable."
Hester was smiling, but it was the sort of fixed smile that didn't augur well. Genova knew she shouldn't persist like this, but she couldn't stop herself.
There had been much talk of accommodations and compromises since her father's marriage, but it seemed to her that the adjustments had been very one sided. Moving into Hester's home had rather tilted the balance.
"Well, dear," said Hester, with a vague air of martyrdom, "why don't you show it to me."
It was to be vetted?
Genova's feelings must have shown, for Hester colored slightly. "I do need to see what we are talking about, dear. I gather you would like to display it here, in my drawing room. I hold many gatherings over Christmas, both for family and friends."
Genova hadn't known that, though she should have anticipated it. But was Hester implying that the presepewas not up to the standards of this house? Lords and admirals had celebrated Christmas with the Smiths and the presepehadn't been beneath their touch!
Genova was dismayed, too, at the idea of days and days with the house full of conventional Hester-guests. She was coping with her new life by spending a great deal of time in her room. Manners would prevent her from doing that over Christmas, but Hester's guests were so predictably like Hester. It meant Genova would have to act every minute of every hour.
She suddenly wanted to run away, screaming.
But Hester was waiting, smiling, and her father was avoiding her eye.
Genova looked around for a suitable spot. They had usually set it up on a mantelpiece if one was available, or in a central position. It didn't need Godlike wisdom to know that would not be diplomatic here.
She chose a small table in one corner. It held only one figurine -- a simpering child holding a lamb. She moved that to a console table nearby and set her box on a nearby chair. Then she raised the carved, domed lid, her heart already lightening, and took out the white cloth that lay folded on top. She spread it on the table and it just covered it. Perfect.
The cloth was fine linen, densely embroidered around the edge with leaves and flowers. Elsewhere, beautiful needlework scattered tiny, jewel-bright flowers. Her mother had called it the flowers-in-the-snow cloth -- a miracle because of Christ's birth.
In the center, the cloth was embroidered in gold thread to represent straw, and it was there that the carved wooden manger would sit, awaiting the Christ Child who would arrive at midnight on Christmas Eve.
First, Genova had to construct the ramshackle stable.
She unwrapped the pieces of wood that made the three-sided building and fitted them together, annoyed that her hands were unsteady, as if this were a difficult test. She put the shelter on the cloth and laid the wooden roof covered with rough thatch on top. Then she began to unwrap the principal figures.
She had hoped that her father would join her in this, as he always had before, but he stayed in his chair. She had to swallow tears. She and her parents had always done this together, singing songs and sharing memories, especially of where the additional figures had been bought. There was even a tiger and an elephant.
"All God's creatures must celebrate the Saviour's birth, I suppose," her mother said when the snarling tiger appeared. After that, her father had sought out more and more outlandish creatures. There was a strange little bear from the antipodes, and a bone polar bear from the North.
That last Christmas together, just two Christmases ago, he'd produced the new animal for the presepe -- a Chinese jade dragon.
How her mother had laughed.
Genova bit her lip and placed the original animals -- the ox and ass -- in the stable.
Before the next Christmas Mary Smith was dead, carried off by a sudden intestinal bleeding, gone between one sunrise and the next. She'd died in the middle of the ocean and had to be buried at sea. That had been an exquisite pain -- to have no marked resting place, no marker. Genova kept meaning to ask her father about putting a memorial in the church wall, here, but she'd been waiting for the right moment.
Surely Hester couldn't object to that, too.
Anxious to show the presepe at its best, she added those extra animals that could be expected to be found in a barn or stable -- two cats, some poultry, a fat pig with a litter of piglets, even a dappled pony. Finally, outside the building, she placed Mary and Joseph, still on their way.
Mary, heavy with child, was riding a donkey. Joseph walked by her side, staff in hand. There was another Mary for after the birth, and Genova had always loved that magical transformation on Christmas Eve. The presepehad always been left like this -- a simple stable, waiting for the miracle of Christmas Eve, but perhaps she shouldn't leave it quite so stark now.
She unwrapped some other figures and set them out on the table outside the building to show Hester what it would be like over the Twelve Days of festivities. The Mother Mary, the Baby Jesus, the three shepherds and their sheep, and the various angels that would appear on and in the transformed stable. The gilded stars.
She even put out the three crowned kings on their camels, bearing their wondrous gifts. They only arrived at the last moment, on the Twelfth Day, but they were the most magnificent of the figures.
She surveyed it. No one could find this objectionable. All the same, she had to stop herself biting her lip as she stood aside. Rather than ask for Hester's approval, she addressed her father.
"I think that's right, Father, yes?"
He stood and came to look down on it. "Aye, I'd say so, Genni-love."
Hester joined him. "But... don't you think it's a little Popish, Henry?"
Her father had his hands clasped behind him and was rocking on his toes. "Bought in Naples, true enough. But there's no harm in it, Hester."
"It is unfortunate, however, wouldn't you say? To make such a point of it here where guests will see it. And -- excuse me, Genova dear -- but to show Christ's mother quite so obviously fruitful."
Genova tried to exchange a look with her father, but he avoided her eyes. "But she was. She was with child."
"It doesn't seem quite the thing. I'm thinking of my grandchildren, you see."
"Children love the presepe, stepmama." But Genova took the Mary on the donkey and put it back in the box.
She heard Hester sigh. "Genova dear, I really don't think I can have this pre-se-pe in my drawing room over Christmas. As you say, it is more a nursery item, isn't it? And, forgive me, dear, but it is a little shabby. Some of the finest people of the Wells come through my house at Christmas."
"Shabby!" But then Genova looked at the presepeand saw what her step-mother saw.
The building was supposed to look like a ramshackle shed that might topple at any moment, but the wooden figures showed their twenty-two years of use. Paint had flaked in places and dulled in others. Most of the gilding on the kings' crowns had worn away.
The cloth was truly in a very shabby state. The linen had yellowed along the folds, and even had rust and mildew spots. In places the embroidery threads were loosening, leaving ends sticking up. How could she not have seen?
Cheeks hot, she began to gather the pieces and wrap them. "I see what you mean, Stepmama. You're quite right." She wasn't able to surrender entirely, however. "I will see what I can do to return it to its glory."
"Thank you, dear," Hester said vaguely, and discreetly removed herself from the room.
Genova was furious to find her vision blurred as she wrapped the scandalously pregnant Mary. Her father had often commented on how it reminded him of his Mary carrying Genova....
Her father took it from her to wrap it himself. "You know Hester's a conventional woman, Genni-love. And her circle of friends and family is important to her."
And she is important to you, Genova thought. It was as it should be, but at this moment she was angry.
She picked up a king. Her fingernail easily loosened another bit of gilt paint. "I hadn't seen how shabby the presepehad become, Father. It truly does need work, which will give me something to do."
She hadn't meant that to come out quite so sharply.
He sighed. "I know there's not much to occupy you here, love, and you've never been one for idleness at sea or on land. It's time you married, Genova. Then you can start a new tradition with the presepe, and your children will value it as you always did."
He wanted her gone, too. That was her first bitter thought, and it was doubtless true, but she didn't doubt he loved her.
She wrapped the king. "It is the obvious solution, isn't it?"
"Aye. Selfish of me to keep you by me all these years."
She smiled at him. "Silly. I would have left if I'd wanted to. I almost did."
He nodded. "Walsingham. Do you regret giving his ring back?"
"No...." She wrapped the king and put him away. "Yes, I have, now and then -- but only when feeling low. I think the impulse toward a husband should be more positive than that."
"Aye, it should."
"I didn't love him, you see." She began to dismantle the shed, thinking she might as well be honest. "And part of the reason I changed my mind was that I didn't want to marry a naval officer."
"There's nothing wrong with naval officers!"
He was teasing and she teased back. "That's not what you used to say when I was younger. `A scummy, scroundrelly lot,' I seem to remember, and never to be trusted."
He chuckled. "True enough. True enough. But that's men for you, love, sailors or not."
"It's not that I didn't enjoy the life, Father, but I find that I want to settle on land, to put down roots."
She wouldn't stir sad memories by saying that her mother's burial at sea had been the final straw.
"Well, then, the Wells is just the ticket! Hester knows everyone, and as she said, they'll all be through the house at Christmas."
Genova laid the bits of building on top of the figures in the box and began to fold the shabby cloth, hoping she'd suppressed her shudder. She was not going to pick a husband from among Hester's friends and relatives.
She was already had the interest of one of them -- the son of the town's finest vinter. He was a pleasant enough man but he'd expect a wife to be another Hester. Anyway, she knew he could never stir any kind of magical feelings inside her.
"And in the spring," her father was saying, oblivious to her mood, "the fashionable set will be here to play. Perhaps you'll find a lord, especially with the help of the Trayce ladies."
She turned to him with a wry smile. "Can you really see me as `my lady'?"
"Why not, love? You're a fine looking woman, your portion is good enough, and you have some blue blood."
She saw that the idea pleased him, so she teased. "I shall have to spend a small fortune on clothes if I enter that circle."
"And you know I'll be happy to pay the bills." He rubbed her cheek with his knuckles. "Ah, Genni-love, all I want now is to see you happy with a good husband, and children of your own."
"I know." But she couldn't help thinking, in part because it will remove me from your nest.
He picked up the box and put it in her hands. "We always used to make a wish when the presepe was up, didn't we? Here's my Christmas wish, love. That by next December 13th, you'll have a home of your own, a babe in your arms, and the presepe-- fresh as new -- in pride of place on the mantelpiece."
Tears stung Genova's eyes as she headed for the door. It was a lovely and loving vision, but it was also a statement that the presepeand all it represented was in his past. She would not let her feelings shadow his contentment, however, so she turned at the door to say something cheerful.
Her father was carefully replacing Hester's figurine on the table, exactly as it had been before.
She sighed and went up to her room. At least this had settled many things in her mind. For her father's sake and for her own, she had to leave this house.
And soon, before she turned cuckoo and destroyed all within.
Chapter 4
Genova had meant to set up the presepe in her room, but for the moment the prospect depressed her. She went so far as to take out the cloth to see what she could do for it, but felt defeated. It had once been so beautiful, but it was now in a sorry state.
She took out her recipe book, searching for ways to remove stains. Soap and pearlash. Lemon juice and salt. Fullers earth. She would try them, but she feared the stains were too well set. In addition, the linen was worn along the folds in a way that threatened to shred away.
She brushed a finger over a loose thread. That, at least, could be stitched down. She opened her sewing box, looking for a thread of that particular blue. Nothing matched.
She fought back tears. It was no great obstacle! She had only to go to the mercer's shop to find exactly the right color. But perhaps -- she smoothed the beloved cloth -- she should make a new one. She was not so skillful a needlewoman as the one who had made this, but she could create something similar, perhaps even by Christmas Eve. A little paint could restore the figures, a little gilding could make the crowns shine again....
She knew, however, that even with the presepereturned to its glory, Hester would not want it in the drawing room, and it would not be appropriate to insist. It would upset everyone, which would hardly bring her any satisfaction.
Very well, she would set it up here and perhaps invite the children up to see it. She looked around her modest room then defiantly moved the ticking clock from the center of the mantelpiece. Going further, she moved all the little items that had been there when she moved in.
She was about to spread the cloth when she realized that she could hardly mend it when it was in use. She took a plain white fichu from a drawer and spread that.
Snow without roses, but only for now.
She quickly reassembled the stable, hardly having to think about the work. She would only set up the stable and put Mary and Joseph on their way. It would all have to be done again once she'd repaired the cloth.
She put the rough building on the white cloth and unwrapped the ox and ass. After so many years she knew them by their shape and the pattern on the cotton raps that protected them. Each figure, no matter how small, had its own piece of cloth. She'd insisted on that with the intensity children can bring to a tradition.
As she worked, she sang the song they had always sung as they put up the presepe.
In the stable, in the wild,
Came the mother, Mary mild.
Came the star as bright as day,
Came the angels, lutes to play.
Then the hand of God came down
Strewing flowers on the ground.
Stars a-shining, roses blooming,
At the sound of angels singing.
Joy, joy, joy, joy....
It was a round, however, needing at least three voices to work as it should, so she fell silent and closed the presepe box. It was done, anyway. The presepe was set up as it should be on December 13th.
She touched the empty, waiting manger, echoing her father's wish in her heart. A husband, soon. The right kind. Someone steady, quiet, dependable, and well-rooted to the earth. Someone she could love as her parents had loved.
But for sanity's sake, she would accept less.
All she insisted upon was honor, honesty, kindness, dependability. She would find a husband, and soon, so that by next December 13th she would have husband, home, and babe with which to start a new tradition.
The next day, the atmosphere in the house was strained, so Genova was delighted to receive another excited but cryptic letter from Thalia, and hurried over there.
All was much as before except that Lady Calliope had her hair on and looked to be in a fine rage.
"What has happened?" Genova asked, wondering if she should summon a doctor.
"That woman," Lady Calliope snarled, "dares to order us about. She says we must not accept Rothgar's invitation!"
"Who?" Genova asked, taking a seat. She'd traded chilly legs on the way here for comfort, so was not too wary of the huge fire.
"Sophia, Dowager Marchioness of Ashart!"
"Can you believe it?" Thalia demanded of Genova.
Even Lady Urania looked militant. "Does the woman think she rules over us? And," she said to Genova, "she sent a letter only to Callie! Does she think we jump to Callie's bidding?"
"She expects us to jump to do hers," Lady Calliope growled. "It was a dark day our foolish brother married her."
But Thalia said, "They were very much in love, as I remember. She was quite pretty and lively back then."
"A loving wife would keep her husband alive. Not to mention her children. She's like a spider that eats her mate and young."
"Callie!" Lady Thalia exclaimed, looking as if she might cry.
Genova sat frozen. The vicious accusations had to be wrong, which meant the poor dowager had lived a life of loss and tragedy. Surely she deserved some kindness in her old age, no matter how difficult she might be.
Before she could think of anything to say, Lady Calliope went on. "This means, of course, that we must go. Not Urania. She has her own family needing her at Christmas. But Thalia and I must go."
"To Rothgar Abbey?" Genova asked, wondering if eccentricity had moved on to insanity. Lady Calliope never left her chair for more than a few steps. She was wheeled or carried in it by stalwart footmen.
"I must confess," said Thalia, "that I would like to go. I would like to see dear Beowulf again. Such a sweet boy. Very fond of apricot crisps, and so very clever for his age."
"Most well-behaved two-year-olds seem clever to doting great-aunts," Lady Calliope snapped. "They grow up into plaguey men anyway." But then she added, "He has shown well in the world in recent years. Better than a succession of Marquesses of Ashart."
"Dear Ashart is not so bad," Thalia objected, looking up at the portrait over the fireplace.
Genova looked, too, though she'd never thought it an inspired portrait. The gentleman was in pale blue court dress, his hair carefully arranged and powdered. His face could be powdered, too, so pale and smooth as it was, and set with two fashionable black patches. It also looked young. Perhaps he showed more character now he was twenty-eight.
The current Marquess of Ashart was apparently a fashionable beau, but he did pay attention to his elderly relatives and visited them a few times every year, as well as sending them delicacies for town or hot house.
"He's a rake," Lady Calliope said, as if addressing Genova's thoughts, "and a wastrel and no use to anyone except his tailor." She turned to Genova. "It's an imposition, my dear, but we wondered if we could persuade you to come with us."
Genova stared. "To Rothgar Abbey? I? I hardly think.... I have no experience of the grand world, Lady Calliope."
"You have experience of the world, which is more to the point, and from your stories, you've mingled with the great of many nations. We'll have servants, of course, but it would be a comfort to have along someone young and resourceful of our own kind."
That was very flattering, but Genova didn't know what to say. She couldn't help thinking that this was escape from Hester's house, presented in a form she could take. Both her father and Hester would be flattered by the offer. But she'd be plunged into a different world, and into an aristocratic battlefield.
"Meeting the great in naval circles is not like visiting the Marquess of Rothgar's home, Lady Calliope. I would be the proverbial fish out of water."
"Nonsense, dear," said Lady Urania. "You have excellent manners, and a refreshing frankness."
Genova was sure that refreshing frankness was not appreciated in an assembly that would be close to a court. "I have no grand clothing," she pointed out.
"We will provide some!" Thalia exclaimed. "What a treat it will be for our mantua-maker to dress someone young. Dear Genova, do please say you will! It will be a delightful adventure, and I think it is time this breech between the families was healed."
"True enough," said Lady Calliope. "I've been thinking of your words, Genova, and I see that it has all been that woman's doing. As a result, we haven't seen Rothgar since he was a young lad. They all visited Cheynings for Caroline's marriage. When was that?"
"Back in '28, I think," said Lady Urania.
"He was an engaging lad."
Lady Calliope glared, but Genova thought perhaps there were tears behind the fierce expression. This family discord was a tragedy, and perhaps she could assist.
"I could go with you as a servant. A maid."
"Nonsense. You come with us as lady companion. No need to put on airs or pretend to be what you're not, but you'll be treated as a guest there or there'll be words to say."
The old lady eyed Genova in a way to make anyone wary. "Come now, dear. You're not a timid creature. Wouldn't you enjoy a new foreign shore? You can observe every fashionable folly and affectation, and flirt with some out-an-out rakes."
"I've known my share of out-and-out rakes, alas."
"Rakes of the lower ranks," Lady Calliope dismissed. "Not the same at all. A well-bred rake knows the line, and he knows how to please a woman. Why put up with amateurs scraping away for amusement when you can enjoy the finest musicians?"
"True," said Lady Urania, with what looked like a reminiscent smile. "What a pity Ashart will not attend. He's a rake of the finest water."
As was often the case with the Trayce ladies, Genova was slightly shocked. "I doubt a rake of the finest water would waste his time on me. I'm thoroughly virtuous."
"Virtue doesn't preclude flirtation," said Thalia. "How dull that would be. And as Callie says, a good rake is delicious at flirtation." She cocked her head, studying Genova. "Perhaps we could find you a husband there, dear."
"I doubt it," Genova responded, feeling beleaguered. "My dowry would be paltry in those circles."
"But your connections would be excellent," Lady Calliope said. "And men are often charmed out of prudence. Our brother was. Sophia only brought a modest portion. As for you, I think you underestimate your charms. It will be interesting to see how you go on."
"Am I amusement for you?" Genova challenged, but the old lady only chuckled.
"What argument do you have to place against the plan, eh?"
"A desire to spend Christmas with my family?"
"In your step-mother's house?"
Genova had tried not to let her feelings about Hester show, but clearly she'd not succeeded. Lady Calliope looked like a wolf sure of its dinner, and the other two ladies were waiting for Genova's answer.
There could only be one. This would be an adventure, and almost anything would be better than a Hester-Christmas. "Very well. I thank you."
"Good, then it's settled. You'd doubtless kick up at the idea of payment, so we'll pay you in clothes and gew-gaws. To save time, Mrs. Haughton can smarten up some of your gowns and refurbish some of our older ones in the latest style. We all have masses of them."
"I'm sure my father-"
"Won't hear of it! You're our guest, but we'll not be easy traveling companions, so you're worthy of your hire."
This made Genova think of practicalities. "Forgive me, Lady Calliope, but are you sure you are up to a winter journey?"
The old woman pulled a bull-dog face. "Why not? All I do is sit in this plaguey chair, so I can sit in a plaguey coach, can't I? I'm tired of the inside of this house, and that woman is not going to tell me what to do."
Despite misgivings, Genova couldn't protest any more. She resolved to earn her keep by making sure the journey went smoothly and the old ladies survived. Plenty of blankets and hot bricks. Frequent stops. Good inns along the way.
And who knows, perhaps she would find a suitable husband among the great, and make her father's presepe wish come true.
Fitz entered the morning room and halted, surprised to see Ash there at such an early hour, especially holding a letter in each hand as if weighing them. The post bag had come, and the contents were spilled out on the table.
Ash was even dressed as far as shirt and breeches beneath his banyan.
"Trouble?" Fitz asked.
"A letter from the dowager." Ash sat back down, putting the two letters by his plate, and returning to some ham.
"Trouble," said Fitz, sitting opposite and pouring himself coffee. "What does she want now? Rothgar's head on a platter?"
"Do you really see me doing the dance of the seven veils before the king for it?"
Fitz grinned. "You could try it before the queen."
"I do not have the particular qualities of Monsieur d'Eon."
Fitz laughed. "Whatever they might be. Speaking of d'Eon-"
"Which we were not, unless by connection to my grandmother." Ash tapped one of the letters with a nail. "The dowager forbids me to attend Rothgar's revels."
Fitz froze, his cup part way to his lips. "Forbids?"
"Quite." Ash leaned back in his chair. "She exceeds her powers, don't you think? It almost makes it imperative to attend."
"You think so?" Fitz should be pleased, but the hairs were standing up on his neck.
"You argued for this only days ago."
Fitz shrugged off his strange feelings. "I did. Rothgar has clearly changed. He married for love and now invites his family to celebrate Christmas with him. He seeks harmony."
Ash laughed. "Rothgar? He married another wolf, which means two sets of teeth against me rather than one. He also married a large chunk of England. If it was love, it was a damned convenient affection. No, he goes about as a demon, seeking something to devour."
"Then don't go." Wearying of Ash in this mood, Fitz gathered the pile of letters toward himself. "You don't usually open the mail bag."
"It is not beyond my powers. You were a slug-a-bed."
"We were out till four. I'm human even if you're not." Fitz noticed one letter had been opened, and the broken seal was made with green wax. "Molly Carew? She hasn't learned her lesson yet?"
"I have no idea. The letter begs me to meet her at the Crown in Midford ten days from now. She pleads for a chance to make amends for her many follies."
"Throw it on the fire," Fitz said, picking up the letter and intending to do just that.
Ash moved swiftly to snatch the letter back. "Nonsense. Molly trying to make amends is too delicious a thought to ignore, and I don't believe I have anything better to do ten days from now."
"Unless we go to Rothgar Abbey."
Fitz wasn't so worried that Ash would succumb to Molly Carew again as that he'd throttle her. The woman had been strewing thorns in his path for a year now.
Ash picked up one of the letters by his plate. "Alas, I don't see a way to accept this invitation without appearing to be weakly desirous of peace. In that, my friend, my grandmother is right. Show a fragment of weakness, and the Mallorens will carve up the Trayce family alongside the Christmas goose."
Chapter 5
The weather in Kent turned mild in the intervening weeks, making Genova's daily trips to the mantua-maker easier, but then it snapped cold again as the trip commenced. The temperature worried her, her charges being so old, but that was before she saw their conveyance.
She had assumed that they would travel in a hired post-chaise like ordinary humans, but when the sisters arrived at Hester's house to pick Genova up, three coaches halted, attended by four liveried outriders.
That certainly commanded attention on the street, and had Hester all a-flutter.
Genova's father was beaming to see her setting off in such grand style. As she'd thought, he was relieved to have her gone, and the prospect had made Hester much warmer. She truly was a kind woman, but she and Genova rasped against each other in every way.
Her father had also given her twenty guineas for play and incidentals. Now, as he kissed her outside the coach he said, "Write if you need extra, Genni-love. Remember that you're second cousin to a viscount and have no reason to think yourself low."
She hugged him, biting back tears. This would be the first time they'd been apart since her mother's death, and quite possibly it would be the beginning of a permanent separation.
"I'm your daughter, Father, which is high enough for me. And how could I feel low in this magnificent coach and company, not to mention this cloak?"
In addition to a fine new wardrobe, now being loaded into one of the following coached in two trunks, the Trayce sisters had given Genova a splendid new cloak. It was sky blue and lined with white fur which turned back to edge the hood. A matching fur-lined muff came with it. The fur was only rabbit, but it was the most luxurious garment Genova had ever owned.
With a last hug for her father, and a light kiss for Hester, Genova entered the principal coach, which was carved, gilded, and held an escutcheon. She had not known the sisters owned such a vehicle.
A footman closed the door as soon as she and her cloak were inside. She instantly realized why. It was as warm in here as in the sisters' drawing room. And here she was, overdressed again. She had prepared for a more normal sort of travel.
Greeting the two sisters, who had the opposite seat, facing the horses, Genova unfastened the cloak and spread it. She'd get rid of her two extra petticoats at the first stop. Unless, of course, the coach had chilled by then. The heat must come from hot bricks, but that wouldn't last. Part of her seat was taken up by a pile of thick woolen rugs.
"Isn't this exciting!" Thalia exclaimed as the coach jerked into movement. "Such a splendid coach."
"Which we'll be heartily sick of in a couple of days," said Lady Calliope.
Genova leaned to the window to wave. Hester had gone back into the house, but her father still stood there, breath puffing white, waving back.
Tears threatened again, but she fought them away. A separation was natural, even delayed. It was right that he stay in his new life with Hester, and overdue that she leave to start a new life.
Then they were out of sight, and she settled back to find that the sisters were looking at her with concern.
"Shouldn't have dragged you away from your family," Lady Calliope said gruffly.
"Oh, Genova! How thoughtless we are!"
Genova smiled at the dear ladies. "Not at all. I am truly grateful." To reassure her, she told them more about her problems with Christmas at her step-mother's house.
"That's good then," said Lady Calliope. "And what you need is a husband. Shouldn't be difficult to arrange."
Genova felt her face heat, but it probably didn't show with the her face flushed with heat. "I think I'm going to have to remove some petticoats. I never expected the coach to be so cozy."
"Hot bricks in the footrests," said Lady Calliope.
They each had a large, padded footrest, and if they were full of hot bricks that would account for it.
Genova wriggled out of her quilted petticoat, then her flannel one. It wasn't easy, for even this splendidly roomy coach left little space between her knees and those of the other ladies.
As for the other seat, it was as well that Thalia was only moderately plump because Lady Calliope took up two thirds of the space. Genova wondered how long it had taken to maneuver her into the coach and how things would be managed on the journey. Presumably her two stalwart footmen and her carrying chair were somewhere in the entourage, but it would still be an awkward business and she felt somewhat in charge.
"Ashart has arranged everything splendidly!" said Thalia.
"Ashart?"
"This is his coach, the dear boy. And all his servants, of course."
"He's in our party?" Genova asked, startled, and trying to recall the other coaches. They surely had been simple ones, suitable for servants and luggage but not for him.
Thalia, however, looked astonished by the notion. "Ashart? Wouldn't that be lovely? But no, alas."
"Arranged everything," said Lady Calliope. "Here." She thrust a folded paper forward and Genova took it.
"His groom of the stables arranged our itinerary," Lady Calliope went on. "You have it. My eyes aren't up to reading all that fine writing, and Thalia has no head for details except at the whist table."
Thalia didn't seem to mind the assessment and it was accurate. How someone generally so flutter-headed could be steel-sharp over cards was a mystery.
She unfolded the papers to find a very precise journey laid out with stops every hour to change horses and refresh the hot bricks. Every two hours time was allowed for them to leave the coach to refresh themselves, as it tactfully put it. Some stops were also designated for food and drink.
It would only work if all these inns had been forewarned, which was an astonishing feat of organization.
So this was how the great traveled. What did they do, however, if the normal hazards of travel intervened?
They were scheduled to journey throughout the daylight, but this close to the shortest days of the year, that wasn't a long day. The sun would not be up much before eight, and would be down by four.
Genova saw that as an advantage, providing plenty of rest for the old ladies each night. She had no doubt that the inns chosen would be the best, and that the attending two coaches contained extra comforts such as feather pillows, extra blankets, and clean sheets. Even the best inns could fall short there.
She was tempted to laugh. She'd thought she was going to have to marshall this journey and had been nervous about it. She was apparently a passenger and couldn't be more pleased, but she would still take the ladies' comfort as her charge. Something would go awry. Something always did.
Fairmindedness made her acknowledge that their rakish great-nephew was taking excellent care of them. "The marquess has made every arrangement for your comfort. How kind he is."
Lady Calliope snorted. "Doubtless tossed it to Fitzroger and forgot about it. His secretary," she explained, "though as much of a rogue as he is."
"But an excellent whist player," said Thalia. "What a shame they aren't with us."
Lady Calliope ignored her. "You need a clear idea of how things are done," she said to Genova. "Ashart -- all the great magnates -- have armies of servants to do everything for them. Have to. They'd run mad if they didn't. They're personal attention is for matters to do with court, state, and Parliament. That's where they guard and promote their family's welfare. And it would be better if Ashart fixed his mind on such matters rather than idle pleasure and foolish women."
"I see," said Genova, pleased all in all to find that her opinion of the rakish marquess didn't have to be revised.
And this was his coach -- gilded, escutcheoned, driven by a liveried coachman. Everyone who saw the entourage pass would know it belonged to a very important person. She could imagine the man himself, in brilliant finery, peacocking it around expecting everyone to stare and worship.
She prayed she be able to keep a straight face if they did finally meet.
After all, this coach was vastly overdone. She was grateful for its comforts, but the splendors were simply for show. The thickly padded seats were welcome, but what need was there to line the walls with the same deep blue damask, or to flute it on the ceiling into a central, gilded boss?
What need to decorate the walls above the seats with ornate, gilded frames containing fanciful scenes of plump children dressed and acting like courtiers? The sun-drenched garden settings might be welcome on a winter journey, but a more sensible man would be content with the reality outside the windows.
The warm footrests and thick woolen rugs might be provided especially for the old ladies, but she doubted it. The footrests were covered in damask to match the walls.
This was the vehicle for a prideful fribble.
"Weren't you worried that the marquess wouldn't help you?" she asked. "The Dowager Lady Ashart forbade anyone to accept Lord Rothgar's invitation, didn't she?"
"Fol-lol!" Thalia said. "Ashart don't pay heed to Sophia. In fact he's more likely to do the opposite of anything she says."
"Then won't he accept, too?"
"No," said Lady Calliope. "Sophia raised him to hate the Mallorens. We should have done more."
Thalia patted her knee. "Now, Callie, you know we invited him to visit, but that woman would not let him out of her clutches. We did compel her to let him travel to complete his education."
Lady Calliope grunted, but it seemed to be assent. "Ashart's parents were selfish wastrels, and his mother remarried a year after his father's death. Never appeared to give him another thought. But all in all, that's a blessing. A more useless creature is hard to imagine. It's maybe not surprising that our nephew despised her. Sophia arranged it, of course, for the woman's money. Once they'd produced a son, I doubt they ever spoke again except to argue. If James had died of eating bad shellfish like his brother, I'd have wondered if she'd murdered him."
Genova squirmed at the vitriol in this, and it made her aware again of how unpleasant this visit might be.
"How did the previous marquess die?"
"Some intestinal eruption. That's what comes of a dissipated life."
Genova remembered something. "Is it true that all the dowager's children are dead?"
"Dead to the world, at least. Augusta, you know about, and Charles and James. Amelia was a sensible woman, but she took the smallpox. Henrietta's still alive, but her reaction to all this was to convert to Catholicism and immure herself in a nunnery in France. Probably sane enough, given that she's achieved a decent age."
Peacemakers rarely have an easy time of it, but Genova tried. "Perhaps it's not surprising if the Dowager Marchioness is embittered by grief."
Lady Calliope snorted again. "We've known Sophia Prease since before she married our brother. She was always a hard, ambitious woman who cared for nothing except her own way. Drove our brother to an early grave."
"Oh, Callie, I don't think so," Thalia protested. "It was poor Augusta's tragedy..."
"Don't remember him being a devoted father, either. More interested in stews and hells. Like father, like son."
And grandson, Genova thought. Blood will out.
"Genova, dear," Thalia interrupted, overly bright, "would you read from the paper to us?"
Genova was happy to escape that subject, and to be of service. Since the sisters were happy for her to read everything including the advertisements, the newspaper passed the time until the first stop.
Horses were ready to be changed, and the footrests were taken and returned quickly, freshly hot. Genovas was astonished and impressed. "How did they know we would be arriving just then?" she asked as they rolled on their way.
"Running footman," said Lady Calliope. "Goes ahead when we get close."
Genova laughed, then had to explain that she'd never imagined such a thing.
"Makes sense," was Lady Calliope's only comment, making it clear she'd never imagined any other way.
Genova had seen running footmen in towns, dressed in their particular livery, and carrying an ornate staff, carrying letters or sometimes running ahead of a carriage, but she hadn't imagined one in use on a journey such as this.
But as Lady Calliope said, it did make sense.
She relaxed into the slow and stately pace, feeling nothing could go amiss.
Of course even wealth could not perform miracles. The road was not always smooth, and at one steep hill, they all had to get out of the coaches so they could make the top. Genova quite enjoyed stretching her legs, and it seemed Thalia did, too. Lady Calliope was carried up by her porters, and even they seemed a little out of breath at the end.
After that, the older ladies dozed off. Genova took the opportunity to do some final work on her flowers-in-the-snow cloth.
She was not as fine a needlewoman as the one who had made the original, but she was pleased with her effort. A little unpicking had shown that the threads had faded, so she had bought threads of the original colors, creating a more vivid effect.
The presepe was in one of her trunks, and she had touched up the paint and gilding on the figures before packing them carefully away. She wasn't sure what accommodations she would have at Rothgar Abbey, but the presepe would be set up over Christmas somewhere. She was determined on it.
And no one would be able to call it shabby.
As she set tiny stitches, she thought about her father's presepe wish. It would be lovely to be married by next Christmas, with a babe in her arms. But only if she found the right man.
Every time she thought about it, she knew she couldn't marry simply in order to be married. She'd seen too much of the world, seen too many ill-matched, unhappy unions.
Lady Calliope grunted and resettled in her seat. The two sisters were each leaning on a window wall like mismatched bookends.
A new idea formed.
She liked them, and they seemed to like her. Even on this well-arranged journey, surrounded by their servants, she was of use to them.
What if she were to continue as lady companion to the Trayce ladies? That would the sort of employment that would please her father. It would be almost like being a lady-in-waiting, and the grandest in the land sought out such positions at court.
Hester would not feel offended -- in fact, she would bask in the reflective glory -- and Genova would be out of Hester's house while she sought for the right husband at her leisure.
Her shoulders loosened, showing how much the matter had pressed on her. This was the solution to all her problems, and surely if she was a useful and pleasant companion on this journey it would not be hard to arrange.
The next stop was the one designated for their midday meal. Genova and Thalia were helped out of the coach, then Lady Calliope's attendants appeared with her chair. They helped her into it with accustomed skill and carried her into the inn in fur-covered splendor where the whole party was greeted by awestruck servants.
They progressed like a grand procession to a ground floor parlor already warmed by a blazing fire, where a table was laid ready for their refreshment. An adjoining room contained a close-stool and maids to attend to their comforts.
By the time they had finished with that convenience, the table held an excellent meal. The Trayce ladies' maids sat down to eat with them as well as the chief outrider, a Mr. Hockney. He was apparently the one in charge of all the servants and the management of the enterprise.
Genova checked the itinerary and saw, as she thought, that they were a little late. She took a seat by Mr. Hockney and quietly commented on it. "I'm concerned that we may end up traveling into the night."
He was a middle-aged man with bushy grey eyebrows, weathered skin, and a kindly expression. "Not at all, not at all, Miss Smith. We will adjust as needed."
"We could probably go a little faster if necessary."
"Completely unnecessary, Miss Smith. My instructions are to put the health and comfort of the ladies first in all situations. You must not worry about these matters."
Genova resented the dismissal, but approved. Again, she had to feel kindly about the marquess. No matter how distant he was from the practical organization of the journey, his much be the original command. She had always had the impression that he and his great-aunts were close and fond.
They did have to travel into the dark a little, but they reached the inn designated for their first night's stay.
It was large, handsome, and used to dealing with the great, but that didn't prevent the familiar awe. Genova discovered that this wasn't only because of the size and magnificence of the entourage. The Marquess of Ashart stopped frequently at this inn.
Genova couldn't resist asking one maid, "A very grand gentleman, I understand?"
"Everyone jumps to his bidding, miss. But then," she added with a dreamy sigh, "he's so handsome, a chicken'd throw itself into the pot for him!"
Genova didn't roll her eyes, but she had no doubt that many poor chickens had thrown themselves into a pot of trouble and disaster over a man whom even his doting great-aunts described as a rake.
Thalia and Lady Calliope had separate bedchambers, with their maids sleeping with them. Since it would be improper for Genova to sleep alone, she shared Thalia's big bed while Thalia's maid, Regeanne, slept on the truckle one that rolled out from beneath it. It was almost as big as the bed and seemed comfortable, but Genova thought Regeanne resented the situation. She would have to work to appease the maid.
Both older ladies snored, but Genova was used to sleeping through all kinds of noises. She had a restful night and, as usual, woke early.
No one had lit the fire yet, so the air outside the heaped covers was icy, but she hated to lie in bed once awake.
She'd taken the precaution of putting her warm woolen robe under the eiderdown, however, so she found it and slipped out of the bed and into it. With her feet still in bedsocks, and into her slippers, the air was tolerable.
She peered out of the frosted window to see no trace of dawn yet. What to do? She could not light a candle in here for fear of waking the others, but she silently opened the door to the adjoining parlor and slipped into there.
It was as dark as the bedroom, but when she groped her way to the door and opened it, she found that as expected, there were a couple of well-guarded candles in the corridor. She hurried back for one of the ones waiting in the parlor, and lit it, then returned to put a light to the already laid fire.
It caught immediately, and that and candlelight made the room feel warmer already. Soon the room would be truly warm, and she could hear sounds of the inn stirring.
She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her robe and took a few brisk circuits of the room. The one problem with this journey was that it required her to sit nearly all day, which she wasn't used to. With the weather so cold, and stopping after dark, she hadn't been able to stretch her legs last night.
By the time the room was warm, the first crack of dawn was brightening the sky. A sleepy maid came in and stopped, startled, to find the fire already lit.
Genova smiled at her. "Good morning. When you've lit the other fires, could I have a pot of chocolate?"
The maid curtsied and assented. As she waited, Genova took up her embroidery and studied it, proud of her work. The gold thread for the center had been expensive, but worth every penny.
She'd like to set some more stitches for the cloth was nearly finished and her time in the coach was unpredictable, but the air was still a bit cold for fine work. Instead, when a higher rank of maid brought the chocolate, she cradled her cup and sipped from it as she read some Swift.
Once the other ladies were awoken, she returned to the bedroom to dress and help pack. Their luggage was taken to the coaches as they ate breakfast, so they had only to go from door to coach to be on their way, heading for Littleton, their next stop.
The second day progressed much like the first, but it was colder. They would probably have to travel late again to make their stop, but she hoped there'd be no need for the passengers to leave the coach. The outriders' faces looked chapped by the bitter wind, and she could only hope the running footman was warmly dressed.
At a time when the sisters dozed off, she found herself looking out at the bleak countryside, her embroidery in her lap.
A light drifting of snow lay on the barren fields, and certainly no flowers poked up through it. She thought of southern Europe, sun-drenched, flower-strewn, and wondered why anyone would choose to winter here who did not have to.
And yet, she did want to settle in England, winter and all. Perhaps it was in the blood. Southern winters had always seemed artificial to her, as if the world was putting on a masquerade.
She was very much looking forward to her first true English Christmas. Last year had hardly counted. They'd been given many invitations, but her father had been sunk in melancholy.
This year she wanted hams and roast goose, plum puddings and cakes, and spicy, cold-fighting drinks. She wanted the Yule log fighting the long nights, defying winter like a ship of the line\rquote s guns. She wanted holly, ivy, and mistletoe, and the Twelfth Night celebrations with mummers, fortune telling, and cakes.
On board ship and in ports around the world, English men and women tried to recreate all this, but it had never felt quite right to her. Even her one Christmas in Canada had seemed like another fabrication, excessive in its cold and deep snow.
Now she recognized that an English Christmas required the stark setting of bare trees and dark earth frost-sharpened into blades. And the mid-afternoon death of the light.
Contrasts and necessities. Starvation could make a dry crust taste like pandolce, the Genovan Christmas sweet bread.
That, too, had been part of their Christmas tradition because her mother had associated it with Genova's birth. Genova had baked it last year, though her father had refused to eat it. This year, well, she hadn't had a kitchen to try and certainly wouldn't at Rothgar Abbey.
Some things had to be surrendered to change, but even so her eyes blurred. It took her a moment to grasp what she was seeing through the window of the slowing coach.
And that meshes with the beginning of Winter Fire.
To read the published opening of Winter Fire, click here.
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