Mistletoe Mischief

stepped forward with an affable smile.

'Don't be hasty, there's a good chap, sir,' he said to Sigismund.

'Hasty? Hasty?' cried Sigismund. 'I am about to blast these two to kingdom come!'

Oliver and Ralph squeaked again, and their flannel tents trembled visibly.

Sir Jocelyn glanced at them. 'They have offended you, sir?' he inquired of Sigismund.

'I heard them poking fun at my sisters.'

'Ah. Well, sir, it may interest you to know that we have come here to, er, acquaint these same fellows with the extent of our disapproval.'

'You have?' The pistols were lowered, but Oliver and Ralph still looked fit to expire of fright.

Sir Jocelyn came to put a tactful arm around Sigismund's pudgy shoulders. 'Yes, we have,' he said urbanely, 'but our notion of suitable punishment differs a little from yours. Allow me to explain.' He whispered what he had said to Greville and Rupert in the vestibule, and the held up the blanket bundle.

Sigismund's rage began to disappear, and his face lit up with a broad grin. 'By gad, I like it!' he declared.

Sir Jocelyn cleared his throat a little awkwardly. 'I haven't quite finished, sir. You see, we thought we would impose our victims upon the soiree musicale at Garsington House.' He held his breath, wondering what the reaction would be. To his huge relief, Sigismund gave a grunt of approval.

'I see nothing wrong in that! I've been wriggling like a damned worm on a hook for years now because I'm expected to play that damned hautbois.'

'You have?' Sir Jocelyn said in surprise, for he had always believed Sigismund to be a dedicated musician.

'Yes. That's why I came here this evening. I didn't mean to fall asleep, but I'm glad I did because they'll be chasing around like headless chickens wondering where I am.'

'I had no idea,' Sir Jocelyn murmured.

'To be honest, I've always wanted to play Sybil's harp, but the old pater and mater won't have it. They think I'll look like a prize daisy.'

Sir Jocelyn choked back his laughter. 'Indeed? How very fortunate,' he managed to say.

Sigismund smiled again. 'So it will serve them right if we, er, brighten things up a little, eh? Right, I'll take my dear brother-in-law, and leave you three to toss a coin for March!'

Greville insisted upon the right to deal with Oliver, and soon he and Sigismund went to work. Never had there been two less gentle masseurs, and never had there been two more cowardly victims. Oliver and Ralph squealed and yelled as the rough flannel showed no mercy to their recently steamed bodies. The squeals became howls when Sir Jocelyn poured the odoriferous cologne in around their necks, and the rubbing began all over again.

The craven pair were permitted out of the tents after five minutes, but if they thought they would be permitted to don their own clothes again, they were in error. Soon Oliver was togged in Feste's bell-bedecked hat, Malvolio's yellow stockings, and a towel to hide his modesty, and Ralph wore the knee-length hose and Henry VIII codpiece. They both looked utterly ridiculous, and Sigismund delightedly likened their aroma to that of a Newgate privy. Then, when he had dressed again, they all went downstairs.

The sheikh's eyes widened as he saw the strange procession, and two of his assistants sniggered from a doorway as Oliver and Ralph were herded out into the icy night. There some fly-by-nights were engaged, and the prisoners conveyed to Garsington House, each with a pistol to his head to deter him from any notion of escape.

Astonished footmen did not dare to refuse entry, and Oliver's bells jingled foolishly as he shuffled unwillingly across the gleaming entrance hall toward the double doors of the music room, from beyond which issued the twanging of Sybil's harp as she sang 'Where the bee thuckth, there thuck I.' Her racket bore off as Sigismund flung the doors open and strode in. 'Ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for a very different kind of entertainment!' he announced, and everyone turned with gasps as Greville and Rupert pushed Oliver and Ralph into the glittering room.

'Dance, my good morris men,' Greville breathed, and prodded Oliver warningly in the back. Oliver hastily began to leap about, and Ralph followed suit.

Lord and Lady Garsington gaped, Sybil looked as if she needed to hold on to the harp for support, and Sophia slipped from her chair in a dead faint. The rest of the room fell about, helpless with laughter.

Chapter 33

As the Garsingtons' soire disintegrated into farce, Megan was experiencing a very different world. She could see Rollo, and he was as real as any living man as she stood next to him by the porch of St. Nicholas's. The wind was blustery, and there wasn't any snow. Nor were there any outside steps up to the church galleries, and when she looked at some of the old tombstones, they seemed oddly new and freshly inscribed. She glanced toward Brighton, and saw with a start that it had shrunk. It was without the Marine Pavilion and the fine new streets, and was just a small fishing village that ended where the wide-open grass of the Steine began. The church bell was tolling, and a funeral procession was wending its slow way from the lychgate. The black-draped coffin was carried shoulder high by four men, and a long column of mourners followed behind it, many of them sobbing unashamedly. Like Rollo, all were dressed in the fashion of the mid-seventeenth century.

Rollo's cheeks were wet with tears. He wore black plumes in his hat, black ribbons around his elbows, and black lace upon his clothes. He was very tall and handsome, and his grief was palpable as he removed his left glove to kiss the betrothal ring that shone on his fourth finger. Then he donned the glove again and took his place immediately behind the coffin as the procession entered the church. Megan knew why the old tombstones no longer seemed old, for this was Christmas Day, 1666, and the funeral was Belle Bevington's.

She lingered at the door to watch the simple service. Tribute was paid to Brightelmston's most famous daughter, whose beauty and talent was lost to the world forever. She had been trapped as the great fire of London burned all around, and although Rollo had rescued her, she had never recovered. Now she had come home to be laid to rest in the church where she and Rollo were to have been married. The congregation watched as the coffin was lowered beneath the flagstones, then the bell tolled again as everyone except Rollo left the church.

When the church was empty, he again removed his glove in order to take a sprig of mistletoe from inside his coat. Carefully he dropped it down the side of the coffin, where it would not be seen by the men who would come shortly to complete the burial. 'For thee, my beloved, in memory of our first kiss,' he said softly, the words carrying in spite of the booming of the bell. It was then that Megan saw his betrothal ring had gone.

As he went to don his glove again, something small and golden fell into the grave, and she heard it strike the carved oak. He walked from the church, passing right by her, but although she tried to tell him what had happened, no words would come. She followed him outside, and saw him hurry after the other mourners, who had now gone out through the lychgate and were on their way down the old original road into the town. Open grass, trees, and bushes had replaced the streets and houses of modern Brighton, and where Church Street would one day be, there was only a narrow deserted path that led toward the distant Steine. As she looked, a gang of footpads fell upon Rollo. Some of the mourners ran back to help, but the footpads had already scattered.

She could see Rollo lying dazed on the ground, but suddenly his voice spoke in her ear. 'Mistress Megan, Belle and I vowed never to remove our betrothal bands, not even in death. I did not know I had lost mine in the church, believing it to have been stolen by the thieves. Without the ring, my vow was broken, condemning me to a lonely everlasting unless the ring be placed on my finger again. Only now that I have found Lady Evangeline can I be saved. She is my beloved's descendant, blood of her blood, and when she gives me the ring, all will be well once more.

Because Sir Greville hath requested it, she hath promised to go to St. Nicholas's before the end of Christmas Day. When she enters the church, I will receive my redemption.'

Everything faded, and there was only the warm coziness of the bed in the blue chamber. Megan felt pleasantly drowsy. Someone was holding her hand. 'Canst thou hear me, mistress?'

'Master Witherspoon?'

'Indeed so, sweet lady. How dost thou feel now?'