Sandra Heath: Mistletoe Mischief

"I know your prejudice, if that's what you mean," Rupert replied in a tart tone that was not all that unlike his aunt's.

Greville coolly returned to a previous topic. "Radcliffe House is empty, you say?"

"Yes. Well, except for Master Rollo Witherspoon, I suppose, unless he's gone to Bath as well." Rupert smiled. "Aunt E is delightful company and I adore her, but I also think she is slightly dotty, increasingly so over the past six months. Rollo Witherspoon is in her imagination, nothing more and nothing less."

Greville pursed his lips. "Except we know he existed because we looked him up in the old records at the Theatre Royal. He was the grandnephew of the Bard of Avon, and a member of King Charles IPs Company of Actors."

"Agreed, but have you ever actually seen proof that his spirit is now dwelling at Radcliffe House?" Rupert demanded.

"No," Greville conceded. "I just think that Aunt E has become so obsessed with all things theatrical that she has conjured him out of the ether. It's damned embarrassing at times, especially when she seems to answer him."

Rupert gave a sheepish grin. "I know. Actually, when I went down to breakfast at Radcliffe House one morning this summer, I could have sworn I saw a rose drop on the carpet. It must have been a trick of the light, because the rose was probably lying there all along. Anyway, I picked it up and began to put it back in the vase on the table, but Aunt E asked me to give it to her, because Rollo wished her to have it. I obliged, of course. If it pleases her to believe in a ghost, then it does no harm to humor her."

"That's a matter of opinion," Greville said. "There are times when I feel we should tackle her about it, because she'll do it in the wrong place one day, and find herself in the nearest Bedlam! Anyway, why would a Restoration actor haunt a mid-eighteenth century house on the Steine in Brighton? If he belongs anywhere, it's at the Theatre Royal, where he was once such a leading player. Oh, it's too ridiculous to talk about." Greville adjusted his top hat a little crossly. "Anyway, to go back to the business of Radcliffe House not being in use until New Year's Eve. What say you we both hie ourselves down there without further ado? It can't be that closed up if everyone is descending upon it until after Christmas, so we can insert ourselves quite nicely. That way I can escape Sybil Garsington's amorous intentions, and you can see what's what between Chloe and March."

Rupert's face brightened. "I like the sound of it, coz."

"But be warned that I intend to be sharply away from there before Aunt E et al arrive. Nothing, but nothing will induce me to run the risk of Malvolio."

Rupert glanced at his fob watch. "If we make all our travel arrangements tonight, we can leave first thing in the morning. It's only fifty miles or so, and I doubt if the storm the day before yesterday will have damaged the best turnpike in England. We should be there some time in the afternoon."

Greville gave a satisfied sigh. "And if we feel like it, we can indulge in a shampoo at Mahomed's Baths before dinner!"

"We can indeed," Rupert agreed. "Come on, we must send a messenger ahead. It wouldn't do to arrive there and find the fires unlit."

After a delay caused by one of the horses casting a shoe, it was the early evening of Thursday, December 18, before Greville's traveling carriage bowled down toward Brighton from the windmill heights of the Downs. The team's hooves rang on the hard road, and the carriage lamps cut cleanly through the darkness as the final mile was covered to the fashionable spa that had once been the insignificant fishing town of Brighthelmston.

The wide grassy area known as the Steine had originally been on the eastern extremity of the old town, and was where the local fishermen had mended and dried their nets. Then the Prince of Wales chose adjacent Great East Street in which to build his seaside palace, the Palladian villa called the Marine Pavilion. The rear of the Pavilion looked out on the Steine, and in order that the royal view should not be spoiled, the locals and their unsightly nets were banished. Equally unsightly Great East Street, at least that part which had the audacity to pass the Pavilion, had been purchased and was being pulled down apace, and where it stood there would soon be tranquil gardens.

The Steine had become the beau monde's favorite promenade outside London. No longer was it on the edge of the town, but was surrounded on three sides by new streets of smart town houses and exclusive shops; the fourth side opened directly on to the crumbling low-cliffed shore, where fishing boats and wheeled bathing huts cluttered the beach. Carriageways and rails enclosed the beautifully clipped grass, and stone-flagged walks were laid out for the fashionable to stroll without fear of puddles or mud.

Immediately to the south of the Marine Pavilion stood the Castle Inn and its grand assembly rooms, which would in all probability one day suffer the same royal fate as Great East Street and Radcliffe House. A few buildings further on was Garsington House, then the pretty villa of Mrs. Fitzherbert, who was either the Prince of Wales's wife or his mistress, according to one's political persuasion. Like the Pavilion, her house was in darkness because she was in London with the Price Regent, but Garsington House was ablaze with lights, and from it drifted the sound of indifferently played Vivaldi.

Radcliffe House stood directly against the Pavilion and, like the Castle Inn on the other side, its looming redbrick sturdiness dwarfed the royal residence's pale elegance. It was isolated on the northwest corner of the Steine, its access from Great East Street now lost in the frenzy of royal improvement. Fortunately its main entrance was to the north, and it was here that Greville's town carriage drew up. The illuminated fanlight above the door signified the servants' anticipation of guests, and the horses had barely come to a standstill when two of Evangeline's liveried footmen hastened out to attend to the luggage.

Greville alighted, and took a deep appreciative breath of the sea air. Brighton was renowned for its mild winters, but it seemed to him that this year there was an underlying chill, even a hint of snow, perhaps. Snow on the Steine? That would be a novel thing. He looked across the fine open grass toward the terraces of handsome houses opposite. In the middle of them, on the corner of new St. James's Street, stood Donaldson's Circulating Library, a single-story wooden building, painted white and fronted by a columned verandah. It was here that everyone entered his or her name in a register, so that those already in town knew who had just arrived, and in the past he had always signed it. But not this time, oh, no, not this time. Rupert could sign what he wanted, but Sir Greville Seton wasn't about to broadcast his presence to the Garsingtons.

His glance moved to a house in the northeast corner of the Steine. There was a lighted lantern and a Christmas wreath at the door. It was the home of Admiral Sir Jocelyn Holcroft and his daughter Chloe, and outside it stood a dashing red curricle that Greville recognized as belonging to one Oliver March.

Rupert alighted as well, and scowled as he too saw the curricle. "Damn March!" he breathed, and tugged his top hat low over his forehead.

Greville clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. "He'll soon be saying the same of you," he declared, and ushered Rupert into the house.

Warm air, chandeliers, and the welcome flicker of firelight greeted them in the cream-and-blue hall, where touches of gilded plasterwork set everything off to perfection. The floor was tiled in black and white, and there was a sky-blue velvet sofa and a table on which there would by now have been an arrangement of Christmas greenery if Evangeline had been in residence; indeed there would have been seasonal decorations everywhere, but yuletide was a barren business for Radcliffe House this year.