Page 2 of The Marquis, the Minx, and the Mistletoe
Tia sniffled and heaved a sigh, tilting her head up to look at her grandmother. "Can we make sweets?" she asked, her eyes large and pleading.
Nana smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and discarded the cup on the floor to pull Tia into a tight embrace. "Sweets sound like just the thing," she decided. "I shall have some too."
Cozy and huddled in that little cottage, the two of them would spend the day in laughter as the ground outside was covered in a layer of soft and powdery snow. Their laughter would warm the house as much as the fire, and the day would impress itself into their memories as a little taste of perfection, however fleeting.
As the sun began to set on that December first, its magic wove its way through the sky and landed upon another child, who had no notion that he had just appeared in a cup of tea some three hundred miles away.
This other child was a little older, but still a boy. He sat, huddled up in his favorite hiding spot, all the way on the other side of Britain, in the Scottish county of Moorvale. After visiting Tia, one must immediately notice, of course, that the lad had no doting grandparents or warm hearthfire to keep him company. Instead, he had chosen to hide in a little wooden enclave, surrounded by the nuzzling noses and warm paws of his father’s hounds.
It wasn't a proper kennel, like the one they used in the summer, but rather a makeshift nook of the stables, sprinkled with hay and sawdust, so that the dogs might stay warm as the frost came. This was Sheldon Bywater's favorite place in the entire world.
Hounds were sweet and loving companions, ambrosia to a boy with a father who was far too old and a mother who was far too young. It was a far more lively spot than his bedroom, anyhow, a drafty chamber in the crumbling shell of a medieval castle, which held no other children with whom to play.
He was big for his age, broad shouldered and dark haired, like so many of his distinguished ancestors, preserved in portraits throughout the great hall.
Sheldon loved wrapping himself in Clan Moorvale tartan and pretending he was one of them. Sometimes, when he knew no one would notice, he would borrow the very old dirk from the box in the treasury, the one with Moorvale bats carved into the hilt, circling their adversary. He would slash at the air and imagine himself a warrior, fighting in the ancient battles that had won his people the Southern Uplands, back when the bricks of Hawk Hill were still smooth and new.
It was not fun to play all alone for very long, however, and it wasn’t as though his mother or father would play with him.
The things that meant so much to the adults meant little to young Sheldon. What does a child care for words likemarquisoradultressordebt, after all? The dogs did not say such words. They were very good friends.
It had been snowing for some time in Moorvale. It had started days ago, a steady drift of snowflakes that coated the ancient bricks of Hawk Hill with a crust of shimmering white.
Sheldon liked to watch the dogs play in the fresh snowfall. It made him laugh at the way they jumped and rolled in the powder, as though discovering all of life for the first time, every time. If he could just have the dogs instead of parents, that would be very good.
He sighed, looking down at his hands, which were clasped around a bit of wrought iron, twisted into the shape of a star. He had not meant to break the new carriage. He was only admiring the decorative embellishments that led up to the driver's bench. Da had given him a swat on the back of the head when the star had broken off, but he had mumbled about shoddy craftsmanship too, which meant Sheldon was not the only one in trouble.
Still, he knew his father had been embarrassed in front of his guests, with his new prize failing upon its first presentation, and he could not help but feel he had shamed him in some way. He felt unwieldy and awkward, always breaking things on accident and misjudging his own strength. His governess sometimes teased that he had never been alittleboy.
"There you are," came a voice, booming and exasperated, as the doors to the stables flapped closed behind the man who had entered, his father's driver and stable-master, Graham. "You'd best come back to the manor, Master Sheldon. Your da thought you'd run off!"
"In the snow?" Sheldon replied, all too aware of his own petulance. "Where would I go?"
Graham frowned at him, his bushy eyebrows drawing together in a flat line over his eyes. "He will be none too pleased if you go to dinner smelling of dog."
"I am not hungry," Sheldon muttered, averting his eyes. It was a lie. He was always hungry. Yet another embarrassment in the long litany of adolescent indignities.
"There's another lad here," Graham said, knowing this would draw Sheldon's attention. "Looks to be of an age to you. Son of a viscount, I believe."
Sheldon pressed his lips together, gripping the iron star in his hands tightly enough to hurt. "Is that true?" he asked cautiously.
"Mm, yes." Graham nodded. "Lives nearby too, he does. It was meant to be a surprise."
"What surprise?"
Graham sighed, shaking his head. "Only a fool boy spoils his own surprise," he chided. "If you must know, they've come to invite you to spend Yuletide at their estate in Yorkshire. Lord knows there isn't much festivity here these days, at least not suitable for a young lad."
Sheldon was silent, stunned by this sudden flash of luck. Christmas with other children? A visit to a new manor, where it was not always cold and somber? It was almost too much to consider, too risky to hope.
Of course, at that age, one cannot help but hope when the occasion calls for it. He scrambled to his feet, shoving the iron star in his pocket, and gave each of the hounds a quick pat on the head in thanks for their company. He hoped that he did not smell too strongly, though he thought dogs were quite a nice smell, all things considered. Nicer than the horses, in any event.
Graham put his big hand on Sheldon's shoulder. He was a brusque man, but Sheldon thought him a quiet kind of comfort, and was happy to follow him out of the stables and back up the path to the old castle.
In the hours to come, Sheldon would hold his breath as he approached this other boy, a somber-faced lad with auburn hair and rigid posture. He decided that he would do whatever it took to ensure that they became friends, for he had never had a friend before, and was not of a mind that he could waste the opportunity.
For the rest of his life, Sheldon Bywater would remember that December first, and the jolly holiday season that followed in the company of his new best friend. Was it magic in the air that had brought him this good fortune? Had the iron star been a lucky omen? It did not matter, he thought, so long as he was grateful for the gift he had been bestowed on the most magical day of the year.
Chapter 1
