Page 35 of The Virtues of Christmas
Did she care that he’d come to call on a house where she dwelled just days after waving her on her way?
“You’ll have to see to him,” Isabel said with a glance at the baby. “Izzy does not care for the company of her grandpapa, and the squire doesn’t think to lower his voice around a small child. He walks into the room and she fusses. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
Voices and heavy footsteps sounded in the hall above.
“Henrietta Eloisa! I know you’re here because your coach yet sits in the carriage house at the livery. Show yourself this instant and prepare to go calling with your family!”
“Has he been drinking?” Henrietta muttered, gathering up her shawl. “I cannot tolerate an intemperate man.”
“He never drinks to excess. Go see what he wants, and recall that it’s Christmas, Henrietta. Dredge up some charity for a lonely old man, because when you leave here, the rest of us have to put up with his moods and demands.”
“You don’t have to, actually,” Henrietta said, taking a moment to arrange her shawl before starting for the stairs at a decorous pace. “You never did.”
* * *
Michael closeted himself in the library—the last place Henrietta had kissed him—but he couldn’t focus on work. He’d written to Beltram, one sentence informing his lordship that the book had been destroyed by fire before Michael’s very eyes.
Had Michael’s future with Henrietta been destroyed as well?
The door opened, revealing Michael’s butler. “You have callers, my lord. Squire Josiah Whitlow and company. I put them in the family parlor because it’s the only one with a fire.”
Wright’s words held reproach, for a proper lord would expect callers at the holidays and keep the formal parlor heated for the vicar and the second parlor toasty for the neighbors.
“Thank you, Wright,” Michael said, turning down his cuffs and shrugging into his coat. “Please send up a tray on our best everyday service with a few biscuits or some shortbread. Did the squire bring his sons?”
“He did, sir.” Wright bowed and withdrew on a soft click of the door latch. Wright would have made a good spy, except a palpable air of consequence enveloped him whether he was polishing the silver or lining the staff up to welcome Michael home.
Back to Inglemere—not home.
Perhaps Squire Whitlow was visiting for the purpose of calling Michael out, which occasion would necessitate the presence of the sons, who’d serve as seconds. Hardly a holiday sentiment, calling on a man on Christmas Eve to announce an intent to end his days.
Would Henrietta care? Other duels had been fought over her, but she was retired, and the last thing Michael wanted was to give her more cause for upset.
Then too, Michael was a baron now, and strictly speaking, a titled man did not duel with his social inferiors. He paused for one fortifying moment outside the parlor, then made a brisk entrance and stopped short.
“Mr. Whit… low.”
Michael remained in the doorway, gawping like an idiot, for Henrietta graced his family parlor. She was resplendent in yards of purple velvet with red trim. Her father and brothers were so many drab grouse compared to her, none of them looking particularly comfortable to be paying this call.
Michael was pleased. Cautiously pleased.
“Welcome to you all,” he said. “Squire, introductions are in order.”
The squire cleared his throat, harrumphed, then stood very tall. “Henrietta, may I make known to you Michael, Lord Angelford, who has taken possession of Inglemere since last you bided in Amblebank. His lordship paid a call on me yesterday, hence our neighborly reciprocity of his gesture. My lord, I make known to you my daughter, Henrietta, and her two brothers, Philip and Thaddeus Whitlow. You can thank the mighty powers that my grandchildren did not accompany us, else they’d be climbing your curtains and breaking yonder porcelain vase by now.”
Whitlow had introduced her with all appropriate decorum, even knowing Michael was not a stranger to Henrietta.
The strategy was brilliant, did Whitlow but know it.
“Miss Whitlow,” Michael said, taking the lady’s hand and bowing. “I am honored by your company.” He bowed in turn to Philip and Thad, who were younger versions of the squire. The tray soon arrived, and much to Michael’s surprise, the squire carried the conversation.
He inquired regarding crops and tenants, drainage—ever a fascinating subject to the English gentry—and game. Henrietta presided over the tea tray with perfect grace but added little to the conversation.
What did it mean that she’d come to call? Was her family treating her well, and how could Michael find five minutes alone to ask her if she’d forgiven him?
He’d watched every crumb of shortbread disappear down the gullets of the Whitlow menfolk and was about to embark on a discourse regarding the construction of a ha-ha bordering a hayfield—about which he knew not one damned thing—when Wright interrupted again.
“More callers, my lord, and I hesitate to bring bad tidings, but they’ve children with them. Noisy children.”
