An Ivy Hill Christmas, Page 2

The boy shook his head.

  “No? You’re a wiser man than I.”

  Wally strained in Richard’s grasp, leaning eagerly toward the boy.

  “He wants to come over and greet you. Do you mind?”

  “No, sir. I like dogs.”

  Richard released him. Wally jumped up on the boy’s lap and licked his cheek. Too bad he didn’t lick the kid’s runny nose while he was at it. With a regretful look at his pristine handkerchief, Richard handed it to the boy with a significant tap to his own nose.

  The lad wiped with gusto, then handed it back.

  Richard waved the offer away. “Keep it. An early Christmas present.”

  He’d said it in jest, but the boy beamed. “Thank you, sir!”

  “What is your name?” Richard asked.

  “Jamie Fleming.”

  “And where are you off to today?”

  The lad told him he was on his way to begin an apprenticeship to a printer in Wiltshire—a commitment of seven years.

  Richard raised his chin. “So you’re to be a printer’s devil, ey?”

  “Yes, sir. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “Don’t worry. I am often called a devil myself. You’ll get used to it. Where is this printer?”

  “Wishford, near Salisbury.”

  “Ah. I know it. Very near where my family lives.”

  Hope shone on the young face. “Then perhaps I shall see you sometime.”

  Richard hesitated. “It is possible. Now, no more falling off coaches, and I wish you every success in your future.”

  The boy’s eyes dimmed. “Yes, sir.”

  The old woman leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Your parents must have been sorry to see you go, especially so near Christmas.”

  Jamie shook his head. “No, ma’am.” He looked away. Petting the dog, he murmured, “My parents are both gone.”

  “I am sorry to hear it.”

  After a respectful moment of silence, Richard asked, “I’m curious. What does an apprenticeship cost these days?”

  “Twenty pounds.”

  “Good night. How did you manage it?”

  “The St. George Orphan Refuge paid the fee and my coach fare too. Have you heard of them?”

  Richard answered dryly, “I am somewhat familiar with that institution, yes. They often ask me for money.”

  Earnestly, the boy said, “Then, I have you to thank as well.”

  “Heavens no. Don’t thank me,” Richard hurried to reply.

  Pickering’s wiry eyebrows rose. “You, sir? I didn’t take you for a philanthropist.”

  “I am not. I said they asked. Never said I agreed.”

  After that, Richard lapsed into silence, provoked by this turn of events. That an orphan from that woman’s charity would be seated across from him? Was some ironic fate at work here . . . or God? A shiver passed over him. Only the cold, he told himself and forced his attention back to his book.

  CHAPTER

  Two

  Lady Brockwell, formerly Miss Rachel Ashford, kissed her husband and straightened his cravat. “Come, my dear. We don’t want to be late for dinner and annoy your mother.”

  “You are the lady of the house now, my love, and the woman whose happiness I am most interested in.”

  “I know. Yet I do hope Richard does not disappoint her again.”

  Sir Timothy kissed her cheek. “So do I.”

  They went downstairs and joined the other family members gathered in the drawing room: Lady Barbara and Justina.

  No Richard.

  The dowager lifted her pointy chin. “It is as I expected. He has defied me yet again. But this time I am serious. I have never understood why Justin agreed to maintain him in London. Richard is nearly thirty, and it is time we made some changes. It would be different if he were married, or if we were going up for the seasons, but we rarely go to Town.”

  Justina spoke in defense of her wayward brother. “I had such a lovely time during my season, Mamma. And Richard was an absolute darling about hosting me and escorting me to all the important balls and operas. I had a jolly time.”

  “That may be, but since then we have barely seen him. Or before, truth be told. You are head of the family now, Timothy, so do tell me if you disagree. But I cannot help thinking this long absence from his family, not to mention access to a seemingly bottomless purse, have not been good for Richard.”

  “I don’t disagree. But let us enjoy Christmas before we worry about all that, hm?”

  Her mother-in-law’s face puckered. “I shall try. But without Richard here . . . Oh, I knew he would not come!”

  “Wrong again, Mamma, for here I am.”

  Lady Barbara turned with an audible gasp. “Richard! My dear boy. I knew you would come!”

  Rachel saw her brother-in-law’s eyebrows rise doubtfully at her words.

  Lady Barbara waved dismissively. “Oh, you know I always think the worst, to protect myself from disappointment. But here you are!”

  She held out both hands to him. He took them and dutifully kissed her cheek.

  Rachel did not know Timothy’s brother well, although they had met several times over the years. He was handsome, charming, and a few years younger than Timothy. Both men were tall with high cheekbones and dark hair, but Richard’s eyes were blue, whereas Timothy’s were brown.

  A small dog came tap-tapping into the room. A fluffy tan-and-ginger terrier wearing a waistcoat and cravat.

  Lady Barbara frowned at it. “Who let this creature inside?”

  “He’s mine, Mamma,” Richard replied. “I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

  “He had better be house-trained and not harass my pug.” She gestured toward the plump dog asleep on the sofa. As if in reply, the pug gave an obligatory growl before closing its eyes once more.

  “He shall be a perfect gentleman, unlike me,” Richard said, then glanced around. “I did ask Pickering to hold on to him until I could greet you properly, but—”

  A man stuck his silvery head into the doorway, expression mildly offended. “I should like to see you hold on to that cur when he’s bent on wriggling from your grasp.”

  Lady Barbara seemed nearly as surprised to see the older man as she had the dog. “Pickering? Are you still alive?”

  “Appearance to the contrary, yes, my lady.”

  “Good heavens, you look old.”

  “A pleasure to see you too”—he added a little jab—“dowager.” Then the gruff valet continued up the stairs with case and valises.

  A second man stood waiting awkwardly just outside the doorway, hat in hand. Lady Barbara looked from him to Richard, brows high in question.

  Noticing, Richard said, “Pray forgive me! Come in, Murray, come in. Mamma, allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. David Murray. Murray, this is my mother, Lady Barbara.”

  “How do you do.”

  Richard continued the introductions. “My brother, Sir Timothy, and his wife, Lady Brockwell.”

  “Rachel,” she interjected with a smile.

  “And you remember my sister, Justina.”

  Justina curtsied. “We met in London, yes. Good to see you again, Mr. Murray.”

  “And you, Miss Brockwell.”

  Richard addressed his mother. “I have invited Mr. Murray to spend Christmas with us. I knew you would not mind another guest.”

  His mother hesitated. “Oh. I . . .”

  The other man said earnestly, “I hope it is not too much of an imposition. Richard was most persuasive in his invitation.”

  Richard clapped his shoulder. “Murray here has no family to spend Christmas with. I knew you would want to make him welcome.”

  “I . . . see. Then by all means. We shall make up the numbers, somehow.”

  Rachel added more warmly, “You are very welcome, Mr. Murray.”

  Richard looked at the long-case clock and grimaced. “Sorry to be late. Our coach was delayed. A boy fell from the roof, and the coachman felt it necessary to stop for him.”

  �
�I should hope so!” Justina said on an indignant laugh. “Is he all right?”

  “Remarkably unscathed. Though he has a lump the size of a cricket ball.”

  His mother asked, “No one we know, I hope?”

  “Does that make it less concerning? No—an apprentice bound for Wishford.”

  The butler, Carville, entered to announce, “Dinner is served.”

  “Shall we go and change, Mamma?” asked Richard. “Or will you put up with us as we are?”

  Again she hesitated. “We don’t want the meal to be spoilt, so we will make an exception about dressing for dinner this once, especially as our houseguests don’t arrive until tomorrow. Let Carville take your coats and hats, and perhaps Mr. Murray might like to . . . freshen up a bit?”

  Richard looked at his friend and noticed his untidy hair and chapped face.

  “Mr. Murray was goodness itself and gave his inside seat to the fallen apprentice,” he explained.

  “That was well done, Mr. Murray,” Timothy said with a nod of approval.

  Richard shepherded his friend toward the door. “Just give us five minutes.”

  When the men left them, Rachel’s mother-in-law sighed. “Leave it to Richard to bring home not one stray but two.”

  “Mamma,” Justina mildly objected. “Mr. Murray is very amiable and a successful publisher. And the dog is adorable.”

  “Well, we will make the best of it.” Lady Barbara pointed emphatically toward the door. “But if he bothers my pug, out he goes.”

  Justina’s dimples appeared. “The stray dog or the stray man?”

  “Either one!”

  A short while later, Richard and his friend rejoined the others and sat down to dinner.

  His sister-in-law smiled at their guest and said, “Mr. Murray, do tell us something about yourself.”

  The man shrugged modestly. “I wish there were more to tell. I operate a small printing and publishing company in London. Just like a hundred other hopefuls.”

  “Do you publish books?” Rachel asked, an appreciative gleam in her eyes. As the proprietor of Ivy Hill’s circulating library, his sister-in-law had a special interest in books.

  “No. A magazine and other small publications.”

  “I see. Well, those are important too.”

  Lady Barbara looked from Murray to Richard. “And how do you two know each other?”

  Murray began, “Richard here is one of my—”

  Richard nudged his foot under the table. He had asked Murray not to mention his writing. The articles he wrote were published anonymously.

  “. . . friends,” Murray blurted. “And a great reader.”

  “And Mr. Murray is all modesty,” Richard added. “His magazine is very popular in London.”

  “Among a certain set, yes, though I could wish for more subscribers . . . and profits.”

  His mother smiled coolly. “Perhaps we ought to leave discussions of business until after the ladies withdraw.”

  “I don’t mind,” Rachel said. “I find publishing most interesting.”

  “My wife started our town’s circulating library,” Sir Timothy explained.

  “Commendable. I salute you, Lady Brockwell.”

  “Thank you. I had a great deal of help in getting started. I still review the accounts and subscriber lists regularly, and give the manager a few hours leisure each week, but I am not as involved in the day-to-day as I used to be before our child was born.”

  Richard felt David’s surprised gaze on his profile. Had he failed to mention the addition to the family? Apparently.

  He cleared his throat. “That reminds me. How is . . . my little nephew?” Richard squirmed. What had they named him? His mother had written with the news, but it had been months ago.

  His mother replied, “My grandson is in excellent health.”

  Would no one remind him of the boy’s name?

  Rachel smiled, apparently taking pity on him. “Frederick will soon be asleep if Nurse Pocket has her way, but I will introduce him to you tomorrow.”

  Frederick. That was it. At least they had not named the child Justin, after their father. Richard smiled back. “I shall look forward to making his acquaintance.”

  The meal progressed. While they were eating dessert, Justina asked, “Are you still writing, Richard? When I stayed with you in London, I remember you scratching away at something every morning. A novel, was it?”

  Richard shrugged, feeling uncomfortably warm. “My laundry list, no doubt.” He preferred to keep his writing secret until if and when his book was published.

  His mother looked doubtful. “A novel? Really, Justina. Your brother has long been a gentleman of leisure, spending his time as he wishes.”

  “Very true, Mamma,” Richard said. “Until now.”

  Sir Timothy turned to their guest, perhaps hoping to divert the conversation and its undercurrent of familial tension. “What is the name of your publication? Perhaps I have heard of it.”

  Murray told him.

  “Ah. Political satire, is it not?”

  “In part, yes. As well as other articles of interest to gentlemen.”

  “Gentlemen who share your political persuasion?”

  “Well, yes. Though we do try to be fair and objective.”

  “Fair and objective?” Richard snorted. “Sorry, did I say that aloud?”

  Lady Barbara rose. “And when the topic of politics is raised, then it is definitely time for the ladies to withdraw. Forgive me, Rachel, I know it is your place now, but I must insist.”

  “Very well.” Rachel rose too, and Justina followed suit.

  When the women departed, the three men talked for a while longer. Then Richard tried to interest his brother in a game of cards, but Sir Timothy begged off, saying he had an early morning. “The house party begins tomorrow.”

  Already? Richard inwardly groaned.

  After his brother had left them to bid the ladies good night, Murray said wistfully, “If I had a wife as beautiful as Lady Brockwell, I wouldn’t spend the evening with the pair of us either.”

  Richard said nothing. He’d spent a great deal of energy making sure he did not end up with a wife.

  He and Murray lingered for a time over port and pipes, discussing parliament, news, and upcoming article ideas.

  Eventually his friend claimed fatigue and retired to the guest room assigned to him.

  Richard went to join the others in the drawing room but found only Justina within. They sat down to a game of draughts.

  “What have I missed?” he asked. “Mamma wrote and told me you threw over Sir Cyril. That was well done.”

  “I am glad you approve. My friend Miss Bingley married him instead. Did Mamma also tell you I admire someone else?”

  “No.”

  “Not surprising. She doesn’t think he’s good enough for me, which is silly. I think he’s wonderful, and I hope you shall agree. In fact, I have been longing to introduce him to you.”

  “If it’s Horace Bingley, I already know him as well as I need to.”

  “No, not Horace. He is a relative newcomer to Ivy Hill. Nicholas Ashford.”

  “Ashford?”

  “Yes, a distant relation of Rachel’s. He inherited Thornvale after her father died.”

  “Ah yes, I remember hearing about that. What does Mamma object to?”

  She shrugged. “No title. New money. Worked for a living . . .”

  Richard smirked. “Yes, drat those men with professions. How tedious. They make us men of leisure look bad.”

  Her dark eyes danced with humor. “Oh, Richard.”

  “Is Mr. Ashford to be one of the house party?”

  “Yes. Thankfully Rachel wrote up the guest list rather than Mamma.”

  “Good, then I shall look forward to meeting him. Though, I will find it hard to think any man is good enough for you, Justi.”

  He reached across the games table and tweaked her chin.

  She grinned. “And what about you, Richa
rd? When are you going to meet someone and fall in love?”

  “I do both regularly, I assure you. But if you are talking about marriage, I have no plans to fall into that trap.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Why do you call it a trap?”

  “Well, we didn’t have the best example where happy marriage is concerned.”

  She blinked wide eyes. “Did we not?”

  His little sister looked sincerely perplexed. She had been so young. Too young to understand.

  “Never mind. I am just a confirmed old bachelor—that’s all.”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment. You just haven’t met the right woman yet. Perhaps you will fall in love during the house party. Wouldn’t that be a grand surprise?”

  “A surprise indeed, especially as I believe I am already acquainted with everyone on the guest list.”

  “True. And our numbers are even smaller than expected. Sir Cyril and his bride were supposed to join us after their wedding trip, but we’ve received word their ship has been delayed.”

  “Lucky escape for us.”

  She ignored that. “However, his sisters will both be here—Penelope and Arabella Awdry. Both excellent women and unattached, though I believe Horace admires Penelope.”

  “Talk about grand surprises . . .” Richard murmured.

  Justina went on, “Their mother, the dowager Lady Awdry, will join us because she would otherwise be alone at Christmas. Horace Bingley will be here, but his parents are entertaining relatives, so they will stay home, though we are all invited to their house on New Year’s Eve.”

  “I see. Then I think it is safe to say that the only romance in the offing this Christmas will be between Horace and Penelope and you and Mr. Ashford.”

  Her dimples blazed. “Oh, I hope there will be romance. I hope so indeed!”

  Lady Barbara walked in and stopped near the games table, her speculative gaze moving from one to the other of her offspring.

  “I overheard you two talking. I also hope for romance during the house party. Not for Justina, perhaps, but for you, Richard.”

  Richard grimaced, thinking, Oh no, here we go. . . .

  He tried to divert her. “Yet Justina tells me she is quite taken with one of the young men coming to the house party. There is no need to waste time on me, when she is already inclined toward matrimony.”