Free Christian Regency Romantic Suspense
This post is part of my serialized novel, The Spinster’s Christmas.If you’re new, you can begin with the summary and complete chapter list on the Intro Page.
Chapter 7
December 25th
“You look pretty,” Ellie said to Miranda.
“Thank you.” She stood in front of the small mirror on the wall of Miss Teel’s room, pinning her dark hair. She had made several narrow braids and coiled them in a simple pattern that looked like a more complex one, at first glance.
Miss Teel had already dressed and was helping some of the older schoolgirls with their toilettes, since the entire family were to dine together again tonight before the ball. Miranda normally took very little heed of her own dress, but tonight she wanted to look … different. Even though she knew there was no reason for it.
Not that she had much choice in what to wear. When she had been living with her parents, they had attended parties and dances, but Miranda had not always accompanied them—the crowded rooms made her feel as though she couldn’t breathe, and her conversation became even more insipid than usual. So her wardrobe even then had been small. Now, she had but two evening gowns, the dark blue one she had worn last night and this one.
It was her favourite. She had altered it herself from a gown her mother had no longer wanted, a pale green silk with the fuller cut that had recently fallen out of fashion. Miranda had trimmed it with emerald green ribbon, and then embroidered the fabric in a delicate pattern of gold leaves. It was old, and it did not fit her quite as well as she would have liked, but she was pleased at how the embroidery looked and took pleasure in the feminine way the skirt swished about her ankles.
“I must take this from you now, you scamp.” She removed the necklace from around Ellie’s neck, which she had been allowed to wear while Miranda finished dressing. It had been set with real emeralds when her mother first owned it, but their finances had forced her to sell the gems and replace them with paste. The paste stones were rather unnaturally colored and fitted badly into their settings, but Miranda liked they way they matched her eyes.
She tried to tell herself yet again that she ought not to try to impress anyone. Gerard’s opinion of her appearance shouldn’t interest her in the least, because she would never consider opening herself to someone else. No one had ever understood her, and there was too much about her that could never come to light.
She would always be who she was, she would always be how she was. So it would always be just herself.
“Shall we collect the other children and go downstairs?” she asked Ellie. The little girl jumped off the low cot on which Miranda had been temporarily sleeping while the house was so full of guests and servants.
The other nursery-maids were herding children out of the other bedrooms in the nursery wing, and Miranda helped wipe hands and faces with a damp cloth, retie sashes that had gone askew, and find a couple of lost shoes. Then they all went down to the drawing room.
Even though she was surrounded by excited children and all the family gathered for dinner, she looked up and met Gerard’s eyes as soon as she entered the room. His injury had caused him to lose some weight, but he still stood tall and proud, exuding a vitality that made all other men look weak and sickly. His dark evening coat set off his wide shoulders, and his snowy cravat was simply tied with modest shirt points, which revealed the strong line of his jaw.
He smiled at her, which made her blush and look away. Then she was embarrassed to have responded in so missish a fashion.
There was a cry as two boys began to argue over who would get the largest piece of roast beef at dinner, and she turned her attention to her charges.
She dissuaded some of the children from starting a game of jack-straws, since they were to dine soon, and directly on time, the butler opened the drawing room doors to announce that dinner was served. While the other guests proceeded into the dining room, Miranda kept a watchful eye on Paul, who delighted in playing with the greenery over the fireplace and had already caused an entire bough to tumble to the floor this morning after church.
She was one of the last to be seated, and she saw an opportunity. Her Great-Aunt Lavinia had arrived only this morning, and the elderly woman had traded seats with someone—most likely offending Felicity’s sense of propriety—and was near to the children’s chairs. Miranda traded seats with Paul in order to sit next to her great-aunt.
“Hello, Aunt Lavinia.”
“Oh! Catherine—no, Miranda, isn’t it? You look just like your mother,” Aunt Lavinia shouted. She was not the oldest person at table, but she probably had the worst sense of hearing. However, she could read lips, so Miranda made an effort to face her when speaking.
“Have you been enjoying yourself, Aunt?”
“Most certainly, dear. So many friends have returned to the neighbourhood for Christmas, so in the next few days, I shall call upon them.”
And, knowing her aunt, gossiping and collecting news. She was sister to Miranda’s grandfather and had married Sir Justin Skinnerton, whose estate bordered the Belmoore lands. A lifelong resident of the area, she was close to all the local families.
Cecil harrumphed enough that silence slowly filtered down the long table until all eyes were upon him. Then he gave a most respectful prayer, giving thanks for the food, for the Christ child, for the past harvest, for the harvest to come, for everyone’s good health, for everyone’s continued good health, and he might have continued if Paul had not whispered loudly, “When can we eat?”
Cecil cleared his throat and concluded his prayer, then stood. It signaled the servants to scurry about and serve steaming cups of wassail to all the company, including a special version using apple cider instead of ale for the children. Extra servants had been hired for the ball after dinner, so it only took a minute or two before everyone had a cup to raise.
“A toast to family and friends,” Cecil said solemnly.
The company replied, “Family and friends!” and drank.
Miranda savoured the flavour of the sweet wassail, a secret recipe passed down to each of the baronets’ wives in the Belmoore family. Felicity had made the wassail every year since Cecil’s mother had died, and Miranda admitted Felicity had a knack for it. She perhaps used less ale and more sherry, which brought out the flavours of the roasted apples, nutmeg, and ginger.
The servants began to serve the food, and Miranda was hard pressed to keep Paul, seated on her other side, from taking an entire leg of pheasant onto his plate. There was also roast beef, venison, goose, pork, pigeons, chicken, and fish. Miranda forced Paul to take some vegetables, which was much less difficult than it might have been had there not been so many to choose from, including carrots, lettuces, parsnips, celery, leeks, and cabbage.
Paul attacked his plate like a savage. Miranda considered admonishing him, but then decided that surely bad table manners were excused at Christmastide. Instead, she turned to her great-aunt. “Did Mrs. Seager’s son and his family come up from London?” She did not wish to open with the question she most wanted answered, and hoped to distract her aunt with her favourite topic—her neighbors’ affairs.
“No, not this year, for they are promised to his wife’s family. Mrs. Seager was feeling quite low when last I heard from her. And her nephew is in the navy, apparently fighting off a horde of mosquitoes in India, so her family gathering is small this year.”
Aunt Lavinia rambled on, not only about Mrs. Seager’s family, but also about the Drews, the Barnes, and the Wilsons as her mind wandered down its twisting trail of news.
During a lull in the conversation, Miranda asked, “Aunt, would any of your friends perhaps have need of a companion or governess?” She would prefer to accompany Ellie to the Foremont home, but she must still continue to search for a paid position that would enable her to escape Felicity, or the Beattys.
Her aunt’s eyebrows rose as her fork halted halfway to her mouth. “Good to see some pluck in you after all, my dear.”
Miranda smiled. “You will not mention this to Cecil?”
“Good gracious, why should I do that? I try to avoid speaking to the blockhead as often as possible. And his termagant of a wife is just as bad.”
“I do wish to find a position as soon as may be, perhaps even before Twelfth Night.”
“I know of nothing at the moment, my dear, but I shall speak to my friends about it when I visit them. You should have written to me earlier.”
“I feared Cecil would intercept your reply.”
“Ah, yes, the nosy man still goes through all the post, does he? He’s just like his father.”
Except that Cecil’s mother had been a soft woman, indolent but not unkind. Felicity had run roughshod over her mother-in-law.
“Have you spoken to the rector’s new wife?” Aunt Lavinia asked. “Mrs. Barnes wrote to tell me all about her. Mrs. Peterson apparently married to disoblige her well-connected family, at least until her husband’s older brother unexpectedly became heir presumptive to an earldom. She may have friends in need of a companion or governess.”
“I believe she is attending the ball tonight.” Miranda need only attend to the children after dinner before she could return downstairs to the ball.
Miranda had not attended the ball last Christmas, during her first year with Cecil after her parents died. Felicity’s youngest son had developed a putrid sore throat and so Miranda had nursed him throughout Christmas Day. He had complained bitterly at missing the Christmas pudding.
“Speaking of Mrs. Barnes, her great-nephew is now a lieutenant in the army,” Aunt Lavinia said. “She just heard from him in a letter. He was foolish enough to be bitten by a dog. She is quite concerned, for she wrote to me, ‘Lavinia, you never know about these foreign dogs. They may carry exotic diseases.’ And I must say, I do believe she is correct.”
Finally, the servants removed the dinner dishes and the candles were extinguished. The children began squirming in their seats and whispering to each other.
With dramatic flair, the butler entered the dining room bearing the large, mounded Christmas pudding on a platter, aflame with a blazing blue light, with flickers of scarlet and orange. Miranda could smell the burning brandy, which also carried the scent of citrus peel and sugar. The adults applauded while the children cheered. Carefully, the butler set the pudding on the table.
The enormity of the pudding ensured that everyone had a generous portion. As happened every year, there were cries of delight and dismay as people found on their plates the trinkets that had been stirred into the pudding. This year, Felicity was delighted to find the silver shilling, signifying wealth, while Lady Wynwood found the button for a lucky life and one of Aunt Augusta’s younger sons was disgusted by the ring he found, which predicted marriage. Perhaps most appropriately, Gerard received the miniature anchor, meaning safe harbor found.
Paul eyed Miranda’s plate, which had a larger portion of pudding than his own, so she traded with him. And then her fork hit something hard, and she pulled out the silver thimble.
She stared at it. Although she knew it was only a game, just a silly tradition, she wanted to burst into tears—she, who tried never to show her emotions, to simply present a mask of calm to all the world, as if the barbs and stings did not bother her in the least. This barb was perhaps one of the worst, and yet it was entirely accidental.
One of the children crowed, “Miranda’s got the thimble!”
There was a single heartbeat of surprised, uncomfortable silence around the table. Then Miss Church-Pratton giggled.
Felicity quickly hissed at her, and she was silenced, but her laughter caused some of the children to mimic her. Sniggers and whispers erupted, and while one or two adults hushed their children, they responded slowly to the reprimands.
Miranda’s face flamed like the brandy-soaked pudding. Yet why should she be embarrassed? She was a spinster, as the thimble signified, and it was no secret that such was her fate. Her own parents had not been able to induce a man to offer for her when she had had a dowry, before the crops had failed and her father mortgaged the farm.
But a clawed hand gripped her heart, squeezing and digging into it. She closed her eyes, focused on her breathing, tried once more to reclaim the equanimity that was the only comfort she now had.
She opened her eyes. She picked up the thimble with fingers that shook only a little and wiped it with her napkin. She said the first thing that came to mind. “How fortuitous. I had need of a new thimble.”
A different type of laughter rippled along the table, with perhaps some relief that the moment had passed.
She did not know why, but she dared to look down the table at Gerard. He was staring at her, his eyes thunderous, concerned.
Miranda held his gaze, then gave a small smile. The lines along his brow relaxed, although he did not smile back.
“Good show, my girl.” Aunt Lavinia patted her hand. “The thimble is not only for spinsterhood. It also is for thrift, a woman who saves.”
She gave a short bark of laughter, which might have had a hint of hysteria in it. “I have no money to save, Aunt Lavinia. And no household to save it for.”
“It is not always money. Women save many things.”
A small hand crept into hers from her other side. She turned to meet Paul’s fierce look.
“When I am old enough, I shall marry you, Cousin Miranda,” he said. “Then they shall see they ought not to have laughed.”
“You darling boy.” She kissed the top of his head and wrapped her arm around him briefly.
Then she bent low to whisper in his ear. “Let’s play Snapdragon near Miss Church-Pratton’s skirt.”
Chapter 8
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