Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish

“You might have to take him that way.” Maggie rose from the chaise and started pacing. “You could be carrying, Soph. All bets are off, then. I won’t let my niece or nephew bear the stigma St. Just and I have put with our entire lives. I’ll march Sindal up the aisle at gunpoint, and St. Just will load the thing for me. I’ll see his—”

“Hush.” Sophie brought Vim’s handkerchief to her nose, finding his scent an odd comfort. “It shouldn’t come to that, and even if it did, Vim is not going to tarry in Kent any longer than necessary. He’d be one of those husbands gone for years at a time—he hates Kent—and I am bound to stay here as long as Kit is here for me to love.

“And then twenty years from now, I can see how marriage to Vim would work: we’d pass each other on the street in Paris, and he’d exchange the most civil and considerate pleasantries with me. I couldn’t bear that. Then too, something is amiss at Sidling, and now is not when Vim ought to be thinking of marriage to inconvenient ducal daughters who practice subterfuge for the worst reasons.”

Maggie stopped abruptly midpace. “Loneliness seldom inspires us to our most rational choices. Is Sindal’s allergy to the family seat related to that to-do all those years ago?”

“I think so. I could ask St. Just. He’d tell me.”

“Or he might not. Men have the oddest sense of loyalty to each other.”

They shared a look, a look such as only adult women could exchange regarding adult men, or the facsimiles thereof strutting about the livelong day in boots and breeches.

“You should call at the curate’s,” Maggie said. “It will distract you from your other problems and assure you the little creature is thriving.”

“What if he isn’t?” Awful, awful thought.

“Do we dote on our brothers?”

“Shamelessly.”

“His foster sisters will be doting on him.”

“I’ll think about it.” The idea tantalized, and Sophie would have been halfway to the stables, except the notion of having to once again part with the child stopped her.

“Come down to dinner while you think about it. The last thing you need is His Grace getting wind you’ve got trouble involving a man. Sindal will leave the shire once and for all, if that’s the case.”

Sophie stuffed Vim’s handkerchief in her pocket, rose, and accompanied her sister to dinner.

* * *

“For God’s sake, Uncle, what can you be about?”

Vim did not raise his voice, for the old man was at the top of a rickety ladder that was held in place by two equally rickety footmen, while the positively ancient butler hovered nearby.

“Hanging the damned kissing bough,” Rothgreb barked. “Your aunt will have it, and until somebody else sees fit to take over the running of this household, I will see that she gets it.”

Guilt, thick and miserable, descended like a cold, wet blanket on Vim’s shoulders as Rothgreb teetered down the ladder.

“I might have done that for you. You had only to ask.” Vim glanced up to see half a bush worth of mistletoe dangling over Sidling’s entrance hall.

“Ask? Bah. I’ve been asking you to come home now for years. What has it gotten me? You lot.” Rothgreb glared at his servants. “You’ll be dusting in here until this thing comes down.” He waved a hand toward the mistletoe. “Only the homely maids and the married ladies will be tarrying in here as long as that’s up there. I’ll not have my house looking neglected when company’s about to descend.”

“Company?” The cold sensation slithered down to Vim’s innards. “I wasn’t aware you and Aunt were entertaining much these days.”

“For a man who’s been my heir for more than ten years, you’re not aware of much when it comes to this place, except the ledgers, my boy.” Rothgreb stepped back so the ladder could be removed. This entailed the combined efforts off all three underlings, who departed at an almost comically deliberate pace.

“They’re deaf as posts when I’m calling for my coat but can hear gossip at fifty paces without missing a word.”

“What company, Uncle? Your letters never mentioned you’d be entertaining over the holidays.” Vim crossed his arms and widened his stance, aware the gestures were defensive even as he made them.

“Not company, then.” Rothgreb rested a hand on the newel post. “Family. Your cousins, all three girls and their delightful offspring. And then we’ve invited a few of the local families over tomorrow afternoon so the girls will have some fellows to catch here in the entrance hall. I’ll make my special punch; her ladyship will hold forth over more cookies and crumpets than His Majesty’s regiments could consume in a week. You’ll attend.”

He would. His uncle wasn’t issuing an order, he was stating a fact. Familial obligations were not something Vim would ever shirk with impunity.

“What time?”

“We usually start after luncheon, so everybody can get home before dark. I expect old Moreland might put in an appearance. He’s grown more sociable with his neighbors in recent years, or perhaps the maids here have grown prettier.”

And that last was offered with cheerful glee, as if Rothgreb knew damned good and well Vim was dying for even a glimpse of Sophie. “I’m going for a ride, Uncle. Don’t wait tea on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Rothgreb started up the stairs, moving not exactly quickly, but with some purpose. Going off to plot treason with Aunt Essie or make pronouncements to the old hound, no doubt.

As Vim ambled down to the stables, he considered that for all Sidling wasn’t where he wanted to be, his aunt and uncle seemed abundantly happy with their circumstances. The house was in fine shape, the estate books were in fine shape, and Vim was sure when he rode the land, he’d see it was being carefully tended, as well.

He did not need to appoint a new steward, not yet.

“Aunt?”

She sat on a tack trunk, wrapped in an old horse blanket, a carrot in her hands.

“Merciful Powers!” She hopped off the trunk, the blanket falling from her shoulders. “Wilhelm. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“You came down here in just your shawl? Need I remind you, Esmerelda Charpentier, it’s the dead of winter?” Though the stable was protected from the wind, and the horses themselves, particularly the enormous draft teams and the sturdy coach horses, kept the place well above freezing.

“I know what season it is, young man.”

“Then perhaps you’ll allow me to escort you to the house?” He peered at her, unable to read her expression. It might have been some sort of veiled exasperation; it might have been embarrassment at having been caught out wandering.

“I can find my own way up to the house, thank you very much.” She bustled off, only to come to a halt when Vim laid a hand on her arm.

“Humor me, Aunt.” He draped his riding coat over her shoulders and winged his arm at her. She’d either been waiting for her husband to come fetch her back to the house, or she’d been waiting for somebody—anybody—to show her the way home.

* * *

“What is that particularly irritating little air you’re determined to vex our ears with?”

Valentine stopped whistling to smirk at Westhaven’s question and started singing instead. “All we like sheep, have gone astraaaaaay.”

“More Handel.” Sophie interrupted her brother’s little concert. “Seasonally appropriate. You two did not have to accompany me, you know.”

“Nonsense.” Westhaven shot some sort of look at Valentine, who’d lapsed into humming. “I needed to call on the vicar since I’m in the area, and Valentine must tune the piano before the Christmas service.”

“I’m getting very good at tuning pianos,” Valentine said. “A skill to fall back on if my wife ever casts me to the gutter.”

“She won’t,” Sophie replied, patting her mare. “She’ll send you visiting your siblings and get her revenge on the whole family.”

“Now, children,” Westhaven started, only to provoke Valentine back into a full-throated baritone recital.