The Christmas Cuckoo

  The Christmas Cuckoo

  JACK Howard, late a major in the 51st Regiment, gave a depressed sigh as he folded his large frame into the chair nearest the fire. After eight weeks of nonstop travel, he was rumpled, tired, and in dire need of a haircut and a shave. He had looked forward to reaching the Red Duck Inn so he could eat, sleep the rest of the afternoon, eat again, then perhaps enjoy a spot of socializing in the taproom before retiring for the night. By morning he would have been sufficiently recovered from the rigors of travel to endure the ordeals ahead.

  Instead, no sooner had Jack set foot from the stagecoach than he had been intercepted by a small gray clerk. The aptly named Mr. Weezle was secretary to the countess—everyone always called her "the countess," as if she were the only one in England—and he had been meeting the Portsmouth Courier every day for the last week. After the barest minimum of civil greetings, Mr. Weezle had swept Jack off to the coaching inn's private parlor, then pulled a paper from his pocket and begun reading through the items, ticking each off with a pencil. And the more the secretary talked, the more depressed Jack became.

  Weezle punctuated his monologue by pulling, a card case from his pocket and handing it to Jack. "The countess took the liberty of having new cards made for you."

  "The countess has taken rather a lot of liberties," Jack said dryly as he glanced at the top card before slipping the flat gold case into the single piece of baggage by his feet. At least the spelling was correct. But then, it was hard to mistake a name as common as John Howard.

  Ignoring Jack's ungracious remark, Weezle adjusted the spectacles on his nose and consulted his list again. "There are some people the countess wishes you to call on before you leave London, but of course you cannot do so until you are properly attired. After we leave here, we will stop at Weston's. Though this is a busy time of year, Mr. Weston has promised to produce some decent clothing for you overnight. Naturally, the garments won't be done to his usual standards, but at least you will be presentable. A more appropriate wardrobe will be sent to Hazelwood within a week."

  "Obliging of Mr. Weston, but I have no intention of visiting any tailor this afternoon. When I do go to one, it will probably be Scott."

  "The countess would not like that," the secretary stated, as if that settled the matter. For him it did. "Of course you need a valet, but it's impossible to hire decent servants at this time of year. A pity you didn't reach London last week, when you were supposed to. With Christmas just three days away, there simply isn't time to accomplish all that should be done before going to Hazelwood. One of the countess's cousins here in London has agreed to instruct you on how to get on in society, but there will be time for only a single lesson."

  Among his friends Jack was famous for his imperturbable good nature, but Weezle's words triggered a slow burn of anger. "No," he said flatly. "My manners may be rough by her ladyship's standards, but I'm too old to learn new ones."

  Weezle peered over his spectacles. "No one doubts that your manners are gentlemanlike," he said with a belated attempt at tact, "but since you've spent so many years in the army, the countess thought that a bit of polish would not go amiss. There will be a great deal of formal entertaining at Hazelwood."

  Jack sighed, knowing that it was a waste of energy to be annoyed with the countess. She was his great-aunt by marriage and he had known her since he was in short coats. Usually he had been able to shrug off her domineering ways, so why was he so irritated today?

  Perhaps because he'd had no chance to eat since hastily swallowing a slice of bread and a mouthful of ale at dawn. He stood and walked across the room to ring for a servant so he could order food and drink.

  The secretary's gaze fell on Jack's shabby top boots. "Those boots will have to go."

  Jack stopped in his tracks, once again terminally exasperated. "These are the most comfortable boots I have ever owned, and where they go, I go."

  Ignoring the remark, Weezle said, "Perhaps Hoby can find time to fit you for new boots tomorrow morning." "No."

  Belatedly noticing Jack's dangerous tone, the secretary said, "Would you prefer the afternoon? Perhaps before visiting the countess's cousin."

  "No, and no, and no again. I have no desire to visit Hoby or Weston or any of the people on the countess's list, nor be drilled in etiquette like a raw lad up from the country. All I want is a meal and a hot bath and a decent night's sleep. Come back tomorrow morning and we can talk about your wretched list."

  "Very well, if you insist," Weezle said stiffly. "I've reserved rooms for you at the Clarendon. I'll summon the carriage to take us there."

  "What is wrong with staying here?" Jack glanced around the inn's clean and thoroughly comfortable private parlor.

  "This is hardly a suitable place for you."

  Jack laughed, his good humor restored. "There have been nights when I've haggled with a cow for the right to share her straw, and been grateful to have that much."

  Weezle's nose twitched like one of the lesser rodents'. "You must be most grateful to be returning to Hazelwood."

  "Not particularly." His brief amusement fading, Jack said, "I'm not sure that I want to spend Christmas at Hazelwood."

  Weezle looked shocked. "But the countess expects you."

  "She may expect me," Jack said recklessly, "but she is not my commanding officer and has no power to order my presence."

  "The countess said you might prove recalcitrant," the secretary said with ill-concealed irritation. "But where could you possibly spend the holiday except at Hazelwood?"

  Until now Jack had intended to fall in with the countess's plans, but Weezle's remark was the last straw. "There is a whole world of possibilities out there"—he pulled his heavy greatcoat on, then stooped to pick up his bag—"and I'm going to discover what they are. Good-bye, Mr. Weezle. Tell the countess that I'll pay a call on her after the holidays."

  Ignoring the secretary's outraged sputtering, Jack left the parlor and strode out into the courtyard. A fine, saturating rain was beginning to fall, and the bleak prospect made him hesitate while he considered what to do next. A pity he had no friends who would be in London this close to Christmas. Winter gales had blown his packet from Lisbon several days off-course, the journey up to London had been made interminable by muddy roads, and Jack was heartily sick of traveling. All he wanted was to enjoy a little peace and warmth after too many years away from his homeland.

  His brief burst of temper cooled. He was about to return to the inn to make his peace with Mr. Weezle, when the secretary's sharp voice sounded from the doorway. "The countess will be most displeased if you don't come to Hazelwood."

  Disapproval revived Jack's flagging resolve. He had no particular destination in mind, but he'd be damned if he would let himself be bullied by the countess and her minions. His gaze fell on a heavily loaded stagecoach that was preparing to leave. Impulsively he called to the guard, "Have you room for another passenger?"

  The guard was busy stowing parcels in the front boot, but he paused to consult the waybill. "Aye, there's one outside place left." He shoved the waybill in his coat pocket and returned to his task. "But if you want it you'll have to move smartly, 'cause we're ready to roll."

  As Jack turned toward the booking office, Mr. Weezle said, aghast, "You don't even know where that coach is going!"

  "No, I don't," Jack said cheerfully. "But anywhere is bound to be better than the countess's demanding hospitality."

  After hastily buying a ticket, Jack tossed his bag up to the guard, then began to ascend the ladder leading to the seats at the back of the carriage's roof. The vehicle lurched into motion, and Jack would have fallen if a helpful fellow passenger hadn't reached down to steady him. "Thanks," Jack gasped as he swung up to safety.

&
nbsp; He turned and looked back. The last thing he saw as the coach left the yard was Mr. Weezle's slack-jawed face. The sight was almost worth the knowledge that Jack's grand gesture was going to cost him hours of cold, wet misery.

  The seating consisted of two facing benches with room for three passengers in each. That is, there was room if one considered sixteen inches' width per passenger adequate, which it wasn't for most people, especially not men as large as Jack. As he squeezed into the middle place on the backward-facing seat, four of the other five passengers regarded him dourly, obviously regretting the amount of space the newcomer would occupy.

  The fifth passenger, a rotund gentleman dressed as a farmer, was the one who had helped Jack up, and he offered the only friendly smile. "Going to be a cold ride to Bristol, brother."

  "That it will," Jack agreed. So Bristol, where he didn't know a single soul, was his destination. He was going to spend hours in the freezing rain, squeezed as tight as a herring in a barrel, all for the dubious privilege of ending in another inn that would be no better than the Red Duck, and likely a good deal worse. It wasn't the first time his stubborn streak had gotten him into trouble, he thought philosophically, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

  Silence reigned as the coach rumbled through the crowded city streets, swaying like a ship at sea. Jack adjusted his hat in a vain attempt to keep rain from running down his neck. The raw cold bit to the bone. On the Continent, severe winters prevented coaches from having outside seats. Fortunate Britain, whose milder climate wouldn't kill outside passengers. At least, not quite.

  An hour later Jack was thinking that he hadn't felt so cold since the retreat to Corunna when the rotund farmer reached inside his coat and pulled out a flask. "Me name's Jem," he said, addressing his words to all his companions. "Anyone care to join me in some Christmas cheer?"

  Four of the passengers fastidiously ignored the offer, but Jack said, "Don't mind if I do." Though he knew that drinking on an empty stomach was a mistake, it was a little late in the day to start acting rationally. As he accepted the flask, he added, "My name is Jack."

  Expecting brandy and water, Jack took a deep swig, then burst into strangled coughing as raw fire scalded his throat.

  "Prime stuff, ain't it, Jack?" Jem said cheerfully.

  "Quite unlike anything I've ever drunk before," Jack said with absolute truth. After a more cautious sip, he decided that the beverage was undiluted whiskey of a potency that should have dissolved the container. "Certainly takes the chill off."

  Jem took a swig, then passed the whiskey back to Jack. "This is nothing compared to the winter of eighty-six. Why, I remember ..."

  Jack settled back contentedly. Cold and wet he might be, but Jem was certainly better company than Mr. Weezle.

  THE striking of the kitchen clock informed Meg Lambert that she couldn't delay any longer. She glanced at the kitchen window, where rain had drummed relentlessly since midafternoon. Ordinarily Meg did not mind bad weather, for the contrast made her appreciate the comfort of her farmhouse even more. Tonight, however, when sensible people were staying by their fires, she must go out into the storm.

  She drained the last of her tea and set the cup down, then ordered, "Out of the way, Ginger." When the calico cat ignored her, Meg unceremoniously jerked her brother's letter out from under the furry feline rump. Ginger raised her head and gave the mistress of the house an injured glance, then tucked her nose under her tail and returned to slumber.

  Meg scanned the letter once more, wishing the contents might have magically changed, but no such luck. It still said:

  Dear Meg,

  Please excuse my hasty scrawl, but the courier is waiting for this and impatient to leave. I'm most dreadfully sorry to say that I will be delayed and won't be home in time to meet Jack Howard myself. The colonel has asked me to perform a commission for him, and one doesn't refuse one's colonel!

  Jack will be arriving in Chippenham on December 22 on the evening coach from London. You won't have any trouble recognizing him—he's tall and dark and handsome and looks just as an officer ought. I expect Phoebe to be most impressed with him. (And vice versa, of course!) Jack is a great gun and will fit right in. I swear I will be home as soon as possible, though I fear it won't be until after Christmas. Save me some of your special pudding and say all that is proper to Jack.

  Love to all, Jeremy

  As Meg folded the single sheet again, her younger sister floated into the kitchen. Phoebe didn't walk like normal females; she had the drifting grace, ebony hair, and porcelain features of a woodland fairy.

  "I'm going to take the gig into Chippenham now," Meg said. "I imagine the little girls are asleep, but you should probably look in on them later. And keep the fire up—I'm sure that Captain Howard and I will need it when we return."

  Phoebe went to the window and peered out, her blue eyes concerned. "With a storm like this, perhaps Captain Howard has been delayed and won't arrive tonight."

  "Perhaps not," Meg admitted, "but I still must go as long as there is any chance that he will be there."

  Her sister frowned. "You shouldn't be driving alone on a night like this. Since Philip isn't home. I'll go with you."

  "Thank you, darling, but there's no need. It's scarcely three miles, and Clover and I have made the trip hundreds of times. Besides, you're just recovering from one chill—it would be foolish to risk coming down with another one."

  Phoebe started to protest, then stopped. "I expect you're right. But be careful."

  Swaddled in cloak, bonnet, scarf, and gloves, Meg squashed her way to the barn, her pattens sinking into the mud as sheets of icy water swept across the farmyard and wind rattled the branches of nearby trees. She should have left earlier, for it would be a slow trip into town.

  It took only a few minutes to harness Clover. Before climbing into the gig, Meg pulled a carrot from her pocket and gave it to the pony. "You'll get another when we're home again."

  The pony flicked his ears back in acknowledgment of the bribe and they set off for Chippenham. Fortunately Meg knew the route well, for the slashing rain made it hard to see even the hedgerows that lined the lane.

  The farmhouse stood on top of a large, gradually inclined hill with a brook winding around the base. Usually the water was scarcely more than a trickle, but now the ford was over a foot deep and a strong current rocked the gig as it splashed through the water. The lane beyond was soggy, and soon one wheel bogged down in the mud.

  Meg sighed as she climbed down to push the vehicle free. Everything was going wrong, which was what always happened when one wanted matters to be exactly right. Even to herself, Meg hated to admit how much hope she had pinned on this visit of Jeremy's friend. Phoebe was twenty and it was high time she married, but it was hard for a girl to find a husband when she never met any suitable young men. Given the disastrous state of the family finances, Phoebe would never have the London Season she deserved. Meg had been deeply concerned about her sister's future. Then her brother wrote that he would be able to come home on leave at Christmas, and he had invited his best friend to join them.

  Judging by Jeremy's letters, Captain Howard was the answer to Meg's prayers: honorable, good-tempered, and from a well-to-do family in the Midlands. Now, if the captain would just cooperate and fall in love with Phoebe. There was an excellent chance he would, for the girl was so beautiful and sweet-natured that any normal young man was bound to lose his heart to her.

  Phoebe herself always greeted Jeremy's letters with an excitement that was more than sisterly fondness. Though the sisters had never discussed the matter, Meg suspected that the younger girl was halfway to being in love with her brother's friend. Yes, Meg had high hopes for Captain Howard's visit.

  A branch slapped Meg's face, stinging her cheek and jerking her out of her reverie. As she batted the branch away, she thought wryly that Jack Howard had better be at the George, for she would feel most provoked if this journey proved fruitless.

  "CHIPPENHAM! Twenny minut
es fer dinner afore we go on to Bristol!" the guard bawled.

  There was a stampede of passengers to reach the ground. Jack yawned and stayed where he was, grateful to have room to stretch his legs after hours of cramping. Not that he was feeling much discomfort. In fact, he felt nothing at all. Solemnly he pondered the question of whether he was numb with cold or paralyzed by his companion's whiskey. Probably both.

  Before Jack could drift into full sleep, Jem tugged on his sleeve. "Come along, brother," the farmer said. "You shouldn't stay out here in the rain."

  Obediently Jack stood and followed the older man down the ladder. The ground showed a distressing tendency to rise up to meet him, and he watched it with interest.

  Jem grabbed Jack's arm and steered him into the inn. "You'll be better for some food in your belly."

  Jack hiccuped. "Very likely."

  The warmth of the inn hit him like a steaming blanket and he began wavering again. Tolerantly Jem steered Jack through the main taproom into a smaller room beyond, then deposited him on an inglenook bench by the fire. "I'll bring you something to eat."

  "Much obliged." Jack hazily pulled a coin from his pocket and pressed it into the farmer's hand. Then he lay back on the bench and promptly fell asleep.

  Jem took the silver crown and went to order food. More than ten minutes passed before he managed to purchase two hot meat pies from the busy hosts. Munching on one, Jem returned to his companion. "Here you go, lad, a nice pork pie."

  Sublimely unaware, Jack slept on.

  Next door the guard shouted, "Time to board the ExpressV

  Jem swallowed the rest of his pie and shook the sleeping man. "Look lively or you'll miss the coach."

  Jack batted at the insistent hand, then subsided again.

  Deciding stronger measures were needed, Jem tried to pull the other man off the bench, thinking that would wake him up.

  Instead, Jack made a swift movement with his arm and Jem found himself polishing the floor with his breeches five feet away. Unhurt, he said admiringly, "Wish you were awake enough to teach me that trick, brother."