Page 18 of The Virtues of Christmas
“You’re at a loss because as a child, you never had presents. You had no toys, no books, no pets. My father was of a similar bent, though my mother’s influence softened him somewhat.”
Michael’s diversion had been hard work and harder work. “We had a pig, a grand creature named Bridget Boru. If she had more than ten piglets, my father divided up the proceeds of sale from the extra piglets among us children. The birth of the Christ child was not more warmly anticipated than Bridget’s litters.”
But how Michael had died a little inside to see those piglets sold off, season after season, and how jealously he’d guarded his “sow bank.”
“You had dreams,” Miss Whitlow said. “Your nieces and nephews do too. I think of my girlhood dreams when I’m shopping for Christmas tokens.”
The question was out before Michael realized how fraught the answer might be: “What were your dreams?”
She took back the flask and capped it. “The same as every other girl’s: a home of my own, children, my own tea service.”
“Not books?”
“My love of books came later.”
When the hope of children and family was beyond her? How odd that Henrietta and he should share the same dream—a family, in all its prosaic, complex, dear, and exasperating variability. All of his hard work, all of the risks he’d taken, had been so that someday he’d be able to provide for a family, with no fear of potato blight, English prejudice, or hard winters.
“For Christmas, I want never to set my backside upon a coach bench again,” Lucille said. “In case anybody should wonder.”
“I was consumed with curiosity on that very point,” Michael said. “Assuming your wish can be granted temporarily, what else might Father Christmas bring you?”
Lucille’s gaze landed on Miss Whitlow. “Peace on earth. It was a fine aspiration back in Bethlehem, though we’ve yet to achieve it. Peace in Oxfordshire would be a start.”
“Lucille.” Miss Whitlow’s reproof was weary.
“I’ll hold my tongue, miss. But his lordship’s bound to hear the parish gossip. You haven’t done any more than many other country girls do when they’re—”
“Perhaps my nieces would like a tea service for their dolls,” Michael said, rather than watch the maid’s defense further erode her employer’s mood. The closer they drew to Amblebank, the quieter Miss Whitlow became.
“That’s a lovely idea,” she said. “Or a lap desk, for the older children. One with their name carved on the top.”
“What about a journal?” Michael mused. “My nieces would memorialize their brothers’ every transgression given a chance.”
“Not a journal.” Miss Whitlow tucked the half-empty flask into her sizable valise—which Michael might also have to search. “Journals can be found and their contents exposed by mischievous siblings at the worst possible moment.”
Was no topic of conversation safe with her? “You speak from experience.”
“Two brothers’ worth. My older brother showed up shortly after my parents married, and I followed less than two years later. My younger brother waited a proper five years to come along. In any case, I learned not to keep a journal. What of you, your lordship? What would you like for Christmas?”
Her question brought an image to mind of Michael in the great hall at Inglemere presiding over a long table shared with sisters, in-laws, children, the occasional cousin, and—truly, he’d been shut up in the coach for too long—Henrietta Whitlow at the far end of the table.
He wanted a holiday full of laughter, warmth, and family.
He’d get a solitary tray in the library and a guilty conscience.
“I hope the coming days will allow me to find some rest,” he said, “and peace and quiet. I’ll read, catch up on my correspondence, and consider properties in Oxford for possible purchase.” His sisters claimed there weren’t any, though Michael suspected they’d simply got used to managing without his fraternal interference.
Henrietta was at her customary place beside him, close enough that he could see the fatigue shadowing her eyes, a bleakness in her gaze, and a grimness about her mouth.
“I know it’s highly unusual,” he said, “and you must feel free to refuse me, but I’d be very grateful if you’d tarry at Inglemere tomorrow. My coachman and grooms deserve to rest, and I daresay you do as well.”
He was a cad, a bounder, an idiot, and very good thief. He did not need an extra day to paw through Miss Whitlow’s effects.
“I don’t—” Miss Whitlow began.
“What a generous offer,” Lucille said. “You’ll have the rest of your life to wear plain caps, miss, and endure sneers in the churchyard. Might as well get a good night’s rest before we embark on your penance, aye?”
“My staff is utterly discreet,” Michael said, “and I won’t think of you journeying on to Amblebank tomorrow. The roads will be safer in a day or two, and you will be fortified for the challenge of dealing with family.”
Didn’t he sound like the voice of gentlemanly reason? Miss Whitlow ought to toss him from the coach.
“One day,” she said. “One day to rest, get warm, plan my approach, and let MacFergus know what’s become of me. One day, but no more.”
One day—and two nights—would be more than enough for Michael to trespass against her trust, steal from her, and send her into the arms of the family who presumed to sit in judgment of her. They’d treat her like royalty if she were his baroness, regardless of her past, but he was the last man who deserved to be her baron.
