Mistletoe Mischief

mistletoe, and hid it in the wall. Then he turned to face her. 'I think perhaps I should tell you why I do this.'

'There is no need.'

'I think there is, for I want you to know, to understand… Well, to understand me, if nothing else.' He put his gloved hand softly to her cheek for a moment, then looked at his mother's tomb again. 'You already know that my father left my mother for her companion, but you do not know that my parents first met through just such a sprig of mistletoe. The then vicar was a stuffy fellow whose sermons were interminable, and a group of young gentlemen, my father being one, delighted in playing tricks on him. My father's turn happened to fall at Christmas, so he hid some mistletoe behind the altar, knowing the vicar had expressly forbidden it anywhere in the church. My mother happened to see what he did, and went to remove the offending pagan article. Unfortunately, the vicar caught her in the act and accused her of putting it there. My father gallantly confessed and was duly castigated, but he fell in love with my mother, and she with him.

My parents were married within the year, I was born eighteen months after that, and every Christmas they hid a sprig of mistletoe on each of the twelve days of the festival. They were happy together until I was about five, but then my mother's health began to fail. My father could not abide illness, and in order to avoid spending too much time with her, he salved his conscience by employing a companion for her. The woman he selected was too much to his liking, and just after my sixth birthday he decamped with her. That Christmas my mother came here alone with the mistletoe. She brought me with her, and I sat in that pew over there, watching as she sobbed her heart out for what she had lost. She continued to come here every Christmas until her death, and I have carried on the tradition ever since. This would have been the first year I had missed because I originally intended to stay in London, but my plans changed at the last moment, and I have been able to place the mistletoe as always.'

Megan gazed at him with tear-filled eyes. 'It is a very sad story.'

'Aunt E doesn't know I come here like this, and since she and I do not view my mother's situation in the same light, I would rather she did not hear of it.'

'I won't tell her.'

He took both her hands. 'Well, now you know my reason for coming here today, but what of yours?'

'Oh, just the walk and the view,' Megan replied.

'Indeed? So your intense interest in Belle Bevington's memorial has nothing to do with it?'

Her lips parted. 'How-?'

'I saw how closely you were examining it.'

Her cheeks warmed. 'I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean any disrespect to your mother.'

'Nor was any perceived. Why are you interested in Belle?'

The warming increased. 'You will think me mad if I tell you.'

'Will I?'

She nodded. 'Yes, because you already think Lady Evangeline slightly, er, eccentric.'

His lips parted. 'You aren't going to mention that wretched ghost of hers, are you?'

'Yes, because Master Rollo Witherspoon really does haunt Radcliffe House. I have seen him, heard him, and spoken to him. I believe he is unable to leave because of Belle Bevington.' She led him over to the brass. 'I think the bee and the spoon inside the rings are their badges, and that the initials at the end of the inscription refer to him.'

'But the initials could stand for anything. Ronald Worthington, Robert Walters, Reginald Wycliffe, Raymond Wibblefarthing…'

'Wibblefarthing?' she repeated with a laugh, then shook her head firmly. 'Indeed not, for I am sure it's Rollo Witherspoon.' She told him everything that had happened since she met his aunt, including the fact that Rollo could not go anywhere except with Evangeline.

When she had finished, Greville was silent for such a long time that she felt quite foolish, but then he exhaled slowly. 'I think I can furnish an explanation for his adherence to my aunt.'

'You can?'

'Yes, but it is only an informed guess. Forgive me if it is also a little indelicate, but it concerns Charles II’s, er, prowess, which resulted in offspring who were granted surnames such as FitzCharles and Fitzroy. Another such name was Charrel, which is based upon the Anglo-Saxon pronunciation of Charles, and the lady upon whom he sired this line was called Isabella Beaventon, whom I now have to wonder was Belle Bevington, spelling being somewhat random in those days. Aunt E is a Charrel on her mother's side.'

Megan's lips parted with growing excitement. 'That would certainly explain Rollo's interest in her.' She sighed. 'But how am I going to persuade her to come here? It isn't her church.' A thought struck her. 'Rollo says she must perform the task without knowing what it is about, and he has also forbidden me to speak to her about it. But he didn't tell me I couldn't tell anyone else, so what is there to stop you informing her that he needs her to come here to the church?'

'It's worth a try,' he answered with a smile, then glanced at his fob watch. 'We must go, for it is more than our lives are worth to miss the grand unveiling of the royal sleigh.'

They kissed for a last time before emerging into the sunshine and snow, and as they walked back down Church Hill toward Radcliffe House, Megan felt happier than she had done since her parents were alive.

The appearance of the royal sleigh soon attracted an admiring crowd on the Steine. It was an elegant little vehicle, exquisitely lacquered in purple with gilded embellishments, and its curved, flowing runners became the horses' shafts. Two gleaming black Arab horses, jingling with bells, were in harness, and they had Prince of Wales plumes on their backs and heads. There was a front-facing bench seat inside, richly upholstered in velvet, and the sleigh was driven by someone seated on a raised dickey seat at the rear. At first that someone was Rupert, and his passenger was Evangeline, who was thoroughly enjoying the envious stir she was causing among Brighton's elite. The bells tinkled rhythmically and the plumes streamed as the sleigh skimmed over the snow, and to it all was added the Christmas music from the Marine Pavilion. Several snowmen had now been built by excited children, a snowball fight was in progress, chestnuts roasted on glowing braziers, and there were cheers and clapping as Rupert tooled the sleigh expertly around the Steine. It was a wonderful scene, and very conducive to Yuletide spirit.

After a while Evangeline surrendered her place in the sleigh to Chloe, whom Rupert conveyed away at a spanking pace. Today Chloe wore mulberry wool trimmed with black fur, and she was positively brimming with exuberance as Rupert urged the horses past Donaldson's, which was closed because it was Sunday. Chloe's eyes danced with delight, her cheeks were pink, and her lips were parted in laughter as she waved to two ladies who were observing from a chariot that had halted on the corner of St. James's Street. But then her smile vanished as she suddenly saw Oliver in his curricle behind the chariot. He was bruised and battered from his drubbing at the hands of the Garsington siblings, and he winced as he shifted his posterior on the curricle seat. Chloe felt nothing for him now, not a wish to forgive and forget, nor even any compassion for his very public misfortune. He had shattered all her illusions when he walked away from Megan at the ball, and the subsequent scene with Sybil had been the final straw. Today Chloe could not believe she had ever been taken in by him, and when Rupert leaned over to smile down at her as the sleigh skimmed through the snow, it was as if the past few months had never been. All was right in both their worlds again, and she knew that by this time next year she would be Lady Rupert Radcliffe.

Oliver knew it too. He gazed after the sleigh, his face twisted with bitterness. Chloe was the woman he wanted, but she was now denied to him forever because of Sybil Garsington. If ever a man rued something, it was Oliver March, because if he hadn't made the salutary mistake of using his charm and subtleties upon Sybil, her mother, and Mellish, in order to make trouble for Cousin Megan, Sybil's interest in him might never have been reawakened. Now it had come to this! Success had been handed to Rupert on a veritable platter of gold, and he, Oliver, was going to find it very difficult indeed-if not impossible-to wriggle out of marrying Sybil, whom he had certainly never bedded! He had only paid court to the awful creature because Ralph Strickland had wagered him he wouldn't dare! Dear God, Oliver wished he had just paid up cravenly, for if there was one thing he didn't dare now, it was to defy Sigismund Garsington! Even thinking the fellow's name made his knees tremble, so he looked nervously across to Garsington House on the other side of the Steine. To his dismay he saw Sybil standing at an upstairs window. She had seen him, and was waving and beckoning. He could see her lips moving, and did not need to hear her to know what she was saying.

'Cooee, Oliver! Cooee! COOEE!'