A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 13
Egerton ignored his father’s comment and continued. “What if men like Sir Henry and Dickens donated six pence from each sale to the poor?”
“Encouraging brotherly affection.” The Earl of Shaftesbury tented his fingers beneath his nose. “‘God bless us, every one.’” He lowered his hands, grinning. “Yes, I have read Dickens’s little book. I confess, his prose connects on an intimate level, forcing one to reevaluate life.”
Mr. Castleton groaned. “It’s high time more of us learn that it’s never too late to change one’s ways.” The barb stung Bart, even if the arrow hadn’t been nocked for him. “The topic is something I include in my Sunday sermons, though no one ever seems to believe change is possible.”
Was it? Bart couldn’t be sure. Fear of failure, of repeating history, stopped him every time.
The Earl of Bridgewater was quick to jump in. “We mustn’t overlook the facts. One book, one card, or one prayer,” he said, nodding to the vicar, “will not end poverty. Yes, Mr. Castleton, I know how fortunate I am to enjoy the wealth and privilege of my rank.” He cleared his throat. “Berkhamstead has seen its share of impoverished flood the gates. The canal and railroad drew workers here, inciting a riot at the King’s Arms; however, when construction ceased, those very same workers were left to wallow in unemployment and deprivation. Christmas Day and Boxing Day are the only two days generosity is encouraged by the government. But by God, they only come once a year. This is the very reason my wife and my sister started a soup kitchen.”
Tension inside Bart melted as his passion for the subject mounted. “Great plans are underway to remedy this in London. The Earl of Shaftesbury has already begun the process, but if we earned your support for a Poor Law Union, we could gain enough votes for it to pass in Parliament.”
“So you are here for my support,” the Earl of Bridgewater acknowledged.
Bart nodded. “Yes,” he fibbed.
“After all this time, that is what brought you here.” The earl studied his son, then returned his stare to Bart. “You are a determined young man. I cannot fault that. Nor will I forget that you saved my daughter’s life in London. I offer my humble thanks, and look forward to working with you.” The mantel clock chimed the hour, putting an end to further discussion. “Well, gentlemen,” the earl said soberly as he stood, “we cannot save humanity in one night, especially on Christmas Eve. There will be plenty of time to debate the details of this later. For now, I suggest we join the ladies. I am sure they eagerly await us.”
Chairs were pushed aside, handshakes passed around the room, and footsteps made for the door. Bart stood, content with the meeting, except for the earl’s supposition that Bart was there only to gain the earl’s support. That wasn’t the whole truth. He’d come because he could not get the earl’s daughter out of his head. He’d hoped seeing her would clear his mind, but he was beginning to doubt that was possible. Tom Fool scheme!
“Well done, old chap.” Pressure on his shoulder made him cut his gaze to Egerton. “If it wasn’t for you, we would never have gotten the Earl of Shaftesbury, Locke, Moulton, Morrison, and Starey in the same place at once.”
Bart shrugged. “I merely suggested your father’s support would hasten Parliamentary approval. You did the rest.”
“I did no such thing, and you know it.” Egerton grabbed his friend’s shoulder and drew him in. “Kitty will be most glad to hear of this. It’s a crime Father doesn’t allow her to attend our meetings.”
The nagging in the back of his mind refused to be stilled. Kitty deserved to be shown the same care the earl gave his son. But such was the way of things.
If I ever have a wife . . .
He clenched his jaw at the thought that he’d never be good enough for any woman. “Your sister deserves better.”
“Yes. She does,” Egerton agreed.
They entered the drawing room. There, the ladies perched on sofas, ottomans, and overstuffed chairs imbibing tea. Waxy tapers on the Tannenbaum had been lit, brilliantly illuminating each ornament, ribbon, and piece of tinsel tassel on its branches. A fire blazed in the hearth to brace the evening chill, and merry shadows were cast across the room, dancing with gentle fervor.
The countess quickly noted their presence. “Ah, the gentlemen have had enough of their port and have come to join us at last.” Her gaze strayed to Kitty, who was seated next to the Tannenbaum beside Miss Castleton. “Kitty, would you be so kind as to play for us?”
She nodded, rising to her feet. “It would be a pleasure, Mama. What would you like to hear?” With angelic grace, she glided across the room, her silken skirts swishing about her feet as she approached a pianoforte. The sound reminded him of his mother before wool garments were necessary to fight off the damp chill in their Marshalsea cell.
“Shall we hear ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’?” the countess asked, smiling. “It is nearly Christ’s birthday, and I should like nothing more than to make merry.”
Kitty elegantly took her place before the pianoforte, which was decorated with ferns and a potted palm. She raised her nimble hands, then carefully placed the tips of her fingers on the ivory keys. They responded to her lively touch, each note digging deeper into Bart’s soul as Kitty began to sing, her voice opening up the well of emotion he’d refused to acknowledge.
“God rest ye merry gentlemen.
Let nothing you dismay
Remember, Christ, our Savior
Was born on Christmas Day
To save us all from Satan’s power
When we were gone astray.”
Family and guests left their seats and joined Kitty by the upright instrument, their voices effortlessly blending with Kitty’s heavenly soprano.
“O tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy.”
Bart remained tight-lipped. He sat alone and discounted like the child he’d once been before Uncle Matthias had liberated him from the workhouse. Against his will, Bart’s nerves sharpened perceptibly as images of Christmases past flooded him. How easy it had been to sing and laugh before he’d known hunger, torment, and the terror of being left alone in the world. No longer. He could not abide Christmas because he’d been robbed of its joy. There was no comfort in being abandoned, alone, forgotten.
“‘Fear not then,’ said the Angel,
‘Let nothing you affright.
This day is born a Savior
Of a pure Virgin bright.
To free all those who trust in Him
From Satan’s power and might.’”
A scream lodged in Bart’s throat. Choking, he gripped the gift he’d brought Kitty, a signed copy of A Christmas Carol from Charles Dickens himself, and tried to loosen his cravat. But it was no use. The memories came flooding back. He sank into a chair, sweat beading on his brow. Uneasy but longing to hear Kitty’s voice, he gripped the arms of the overstuffed chair, not sure how much more he could withstand.
“And when they came to Bethlehem
Where our dear Savior lay.
They found Him in a manger
Where oxen feed on hay;
His Mother Mary kneeling down,
Unto the Lord did pray.”
How many times had his mother knelt down to pray for absolution that never came? How many times had his prayers gone unanswered?
“O tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy.”
Kitty stroked the keys, the pianoforte answering her dexterous fingers, augmenting and suspending each note harmoniously. Part of him was in awe of her talent. The other part wanted to shout for her to stop before he made an even bigger fool of himself. Why, he scarcely understood where the boy he’d once been ended and the man he’d become began.
He continued to grip the book and the chair, the torturous memories begging for clemency.
Miss Castleton joined him, unaware how volatile his emotions ranged. “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Fernsby?”
“Indubitably,” he ground out. “Lady Catherine is an accomplished instrumentalist.”
From abandoned heir to bottle washer and companion of scamps, he never dreamed he’d find himself in such respectable company. He’d done his research. The Egertons had lived in this area for hundreds of years. When the Duke of Bridgewater had died without issue, a distant relative—an Egerton—had become the Earl of Bridgewater. As such, the Egerton family had risen above their station and inherited Ashridge House, the Duke of Bridgewater’s family estate. Who was he to believe himself worthy to be in their presence?
“Indeed, she is.” Miss Castleton spoke softly and sweetly when Kitty’s divine soprano far surpassed the voices of her guests. “Will you not join in?”
“Sing a carol?” He shook his head, trying to control his panic. “Humbug.” He swallowed thickly, and toying with his collar, he was filled with the realization that he was just as curmudgeonly as Dickens’s Mr. Scrooge, after all. “I cannot remember the last time I sung a note.”
That was a lie. It had been seventeen years, three hundred and sixty-three days, fifteen hours, and ten minutes.
“Truly?” she asked, the picture of complete surprise. “I enjoy music very much. By faith, I do not know what my life would be without it. Papa chastises me for keeping my nose in a book. He insists the only way to improve my skills at the pianoforte is to practice every day.” She opened the fan in her lap, clicked her tongue, and smiled, hiding whatever emotion it was she didn’t want him to discover. “I see no reason to do so,” she added. “No matter how much I wish it, I shall never be as talented as Kitty. She is extremely gifted, don’t you agree?”
He did, most ardently. “I believe she could spin wool into gold, should she wish it.”
Just as she’d wrapped this miracle around his heart. He wouldn’t be suffering through Christmas, if not for her.
“Mr. Fernsby, if I am not mistaken”—Miss Castleton raised the fan to hide her lips—“I believe . . . Well, pardon my intimacy, but I must know. Are you smitten with my friend?”
“I would have to be deaf and blind not to be so.” Bollocks! How the devil had this slip of a woman seen so boldly into his heart? “The danger is exaggerating one’s competence, and desiring what is beyond reach.”
Miss Castleton dropped her fan to her lap. “I ask you not to be blinded by expectation. My dear friend is quite enamored of you, and it is a pity you cannot see it. I must warn you: I shall be greatly vexed, sir, if you should crush her heart.”
He bolted up in his chair. “I assure you the thought has never crossed my mind.”
“I see,” she said smartly rising to her feet. “Well, that is especially good to hear. Oh, listen! Kitty is playing ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful.’ It’s a song we Castletons sing every year. I simply must join in.” She stripped her gaze from the crowd and looked at him, expectancy shining from her eyes. “You will join me, won’t you?”
Her imploring speech made him wince. “Perhaps another time,” he said, knowing that day would never come. It was madness to keep standing here listening to the music, and torturing himself.
“O come, all ye faithful,
Joyful and triumphant!
O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem”
“I must beg your leave, then.” She curtsied hurriedly. “Mr. Fernsby.”
“Wait, Miss Castleton.”
She paused. “Yes?”
“Mr. Dickens sent this gift for Kitty. Would you see to it that she gets it?”
Her eyes widened as she took the book, then fanned herself. “Of course. I shall.”
He bowed, but by the time he raised his head, Miss Castleton had joined the others around the pianoforte.
He admired the two women whose steadfast protection of each other, and the family and friends who gathered round them, enhanced the brilliance of the Tannenbaum, the festooned hearth, and candlelight. But he didn’t belong.
“Sing, choirs of angels, sing in exultation,
Sing, all ye citizens of Heaven above!
Glory to God, glory in the highest;
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
Christ the Lord.”
Agony seized him, and he struggled for self-control. People were starving in the city, in the country. As he stood in the grandeur of Berkhamstead Place, he wondered at the right of it.
Christmas ignored his disbelief. It called him the coward that he was, filled him with loathing, and sapped the hope and desire from his bones. If he didn’t leave now, he knew he would never leave. He’d stay. Court Kitty. Live half a life, live a lie, fearing one moment to the next his secret would be discovered. The advent of that day and the disgrace to follow would completely destroy him. He’d find himself broken, rejected, worse off than when he loved no one but a memory. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—abuse his friendship with Egerton. And he’d never allow himself to break a young woman’s heart.
Uncle Matthias had reared him to make a difference in people’s lives, and by Jove, he would. He wasn’t like his father. He wasn’t as proud as his grandfather. He was a self-made man who knew his own mind. He was Bartholomew Fernsby now, not Sir George Richard Clere, Baronet.
Bart slipped quietly out of the parlor and stepped into the foyer. There, he summoned a footman to retrieve his coat and hat. Once he had the articles in hand, he thrust his arms into his greatcoat and slapped on his beaver hat, determined to exit the manse. At least outdoors, beyond the reach of Kitty’s masterful music, he’d finally be able to think clearly.
Germanic tones of “Silent Night” wafted to him. He glanced over his shoulder, drawn to the room he’d just vacated. He groaned, fighting the invisible thread yanking him toward the woman with whom he knew he was falling in love. How could he not? She was everything a woman should have been: strong, protective, cunning, compassionate, thoughtful . . .
Confound it! He truly was enamored with Kitty.
He walked out the door. He needed to put her out of his mind. His visit to Berkhamstead Place had been a test; he hadn’t passed. After seeing the world she lived in, he knew he wasn’t suitable for an earl’s daughter. Lady Catherine Egerton would lead a better life without him. She was just like any other woman.
She isn’t, his heart implored. Don’t be a fool! You know she isn’t.
His brain refused to submit. She was his best friend’s sister; he knew that well. Her elevated station in Society was a deterrent to loving him.
What does that matter? I am a baronet.
It mattered very much, indeed. He could not make his position publicly known without destroying his opportunity to court Kitty. The scandal that haunted his family name would surely damage the one thing he desired most. Isn’t that what happened to his father? Even if he did cast all caution to the wind like a senseless boob, her father would never offer his blessing. Bart would think less of the man if he did.
The Clere blood was tainted, and he’d die before dragging Kitty into the mire with him.
Not like this. Never like this. If history repeated itself . . .
But I am a Clere.
He was not his grandfather, a man falsely accused of cowardice. He wasn’t his father, who gambled everything away on horses. No! He must leave Berkhamstead Place at once. Return to London and devote himself to lobbying Parliament for the Poor Law Union before any more of his defenses were stripped away and he pined for the very thing a ten-year-old boy longed for—Christmas and its hopeful promise. He shouldn’t wish for something he didn’t deserve. Christmas was for pious folk. Kitty was a lady.
“Humbug!” he bellowed, stomping toward the stables.
The impact of his actions hit him in the face as the outdoor chill penetrated his clothes. He was not falling. He was already in love with Lady Catherine Egerton!
Why had he been so careless? Why had he opened his soul? Emotion heralded the destruction of everything he’d worked so hard for, not to mention his own sanity and peace of mind. But Kitty’s charity, her kindness had weakened him. The walls he’d erected around his heart crumbled to dust at her feet. He’d always survived by his wits, by refusing to acknowledge feelings, by endeavoring to be better than his sires.
To love and be loved was a calamitous thing. And Christmas, with its candlelight, music, laughter, and wonder clung to him like the smell of dung. One minute surrounded by beauty and wonder had altered his perceptions of life with voracious tenacity. How could he survive it?
The way I always do . . .
He’d endured the dark shadowy benches of the workhouse, washing grimy bottle after bottle, eating gruel in filthy infested timber where mercy was nonexistent. To survive, he had built his life on one principle and one principle alone: a man made his own happiness as long as he accepted the lot he’d been given.
How could he do that now?
His heart seized, and he beat his chest with his fist to offset the pain.
A moment later, a stable boy approached in the twilight. “Care for a ride, sir?”
“Now more than ever,” he said. “I apologize for taking up your time—”
“The name’s Grimes, sir.” Grimes flashed a lopsided grin. “Bah! It’s me job to help fine gentlemen like yerself.”
Bart flinched at the word gentlemen. Why? He’d fought hard all of his life to become one. Of course, the lad had no way of knowing his secret. He was just a boy, like Bart had once been, surviving what Fate had thrust upon him.
Hounds teeth, he’d grown too sensitive by half. He followed the boy through the stables with its oak stalls and timbered beams, a testament to bygone eras of influence and prosperity.
“We keep several mounts ready whenever the earl has visitors, sir.” Through an opening in the barn, Bart spied two saddled horses tethered in an open courtyard. “’Ere ye are.”
Bart walked up to the geldings and rubbed their flanks, amazed by the horseflesh before him. The large beasts were well-fed, a cut above any he’d ever seen before.
“This one will do nicely.” Remembering where he came from, he looked down at the boy to offer his gratitude. “Thank you, Grimes.”
