Elizabeth Rolls - Unlaced At Christmas

But perhaps a little cruelty had been needed. The sharpness in her tone was as effective as a slap to her daughter’s face. The girl sat up, staring at her in alarm, and wiped the tears from her eyes as if to get a clearer view of her own mother.

Generva took another breath and was back in control again. ‘I have no intention of forcing you into a marriage you do not want. But you must come down to dinner and meet the man to thank him for his concern. Perhaps you will feel different at the end of the evening. Perhaps not. But you must not shed another tear over a man who has proved unworthy. Now wash your face and put on your best dress. Tonight you will dine with the Duke of Montford.’

From there, she went to Benjamin’s room, relieved to see that the duke was absent from it. But her son remained, and she dragged him to the basin and scrubbed the boy within an inch of his life before forcing him into his best suit.

‘I do not see why we must wash, Mama,’ he said. ‘The duke has seen me dirty already.’

She gritted her teeth and ran a comb through the boy’s tangle of straw-coloured hair. ‘And now he shall see you clean, for the sake of your mother’s pride, if for no other reason. The man is a peer, not a greengrocer. I cannot have your dirty neck spoiling his appetite for supper.’

‘He has said I may call him old Tom.’

Generva flinched. ‘Well, I say you may not. You will call him Your Grace, and bow when you meet him, just as you would when meeting the vicar.’

‘I do not like the vicar,’ Benjamin announced.

‘Well, do you like the duke?’

The boy thought for a moment. ‘I think so.’

‘Then bow,’ she said, giving another tug on his hair.

From outside the bedroom door, she was convinced she heard a deep, masculine chuckle.

* * *

A short time later, they were gathered round the table, the meat steaming on a platter in front of them. The scene was a perfect picture of domestic bliss. Or it would have been, had not Gwen been sagging in her chair like a drowned Ophelia, her face wan, her eyes red rimmed and her shoulders drooping.

It was all Generva could do to keep from kicking her under the table.

The duke seemed to take no notice of the girl’s unwelcoming posture and smiled from the head of the table. ‘May I offer the blessing?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she murmured, surprised that he seemed so eager.

After a moment’s thoughtful silence, he began to sing. ‘Come, let us join our cheerful songs with angels round the throne...’

She had known his singing voice was lovely, but nothing she had heard thus far compared to this. For the brief space of the hymn, even Benjamin was spellbound and Gwen’s frown replaced with awe.

Then, as though nothing unusual had happened, the duke reached for the platter and helped himself to a large slice of beef.

When Generva could find her breath again, she said with sincerity, ‘You have a beautiful voice, Your Grace.’ The compliment hardly did it justice. The hairs on the back of her neck were still standing in awareness of the rumbling basso.

He gave a shrug and a smile. ‘I had little choice in the matter. My mother was a Wesleyan, you see. She sang morning and night. My father was a different sort.’ His smile broadened at the memory. ‘There is a Christmas tradition, in our holdings, that the lord of the manor should be able to match mummers and wassailers verse for verse to make them earn the cup they are begging for.’ He was positively grinning. ‘I have upheld it, as well. They will miss me this week, I’m sure, for we have a fine time of it.’

‘I like the song about the dead boar better,’ Benjamin said with a firm nod. ‘The one you sang to me in my room.’

‘The boar’s head in hand bear I, bedecked with bay and rosemary.’ Montford thundered out the first line as though there were nothing unusual about singing during dinner. ‘I shall teach it to you later, if your mother allows it. I suspect you have a fine singing voice.’

He turned his attention to Gwen, trying to draw her into the conversation. ‘And you, my dear. Do you sing, as well?’

Generva leaned forward, all but crossing her fingers under the table.

Her daughter gave an indifferent shrug. ‘I have little reason to sing.’

Damn the girl for being such a wet hen. Desperate to keep the conversation going, Generva spoke for her. ‘She is simply being modest. Gwen has a lovely soprano tone and has, on occasion, sung solos in our church.’

The girl’s eyes rose to meet her, in shock at the bald-faced lie. Their vicar, the Reverend Mr Allcot, had strong opinions concerning Methodists and their desire to turn the church into what he deemed little better than a Covent Garden music hall. He preferred rites celebrated in respectful silence, or with a minimum of plain song. He’d have resigned his living before allowing a soprano soloist.

The duke nodded sagely as though he could think of nothing better. Then he turned to her. ‘I am sure it is a perfect match for your voice, which is deeper.’

‘How would you know?’ It was true, of course. But she’d had no idea that he had noticed anything about her, much less the timbre of her voice.

‘You were humming in the kitchen just a while ago. And as you combed your son’s hair.’ He smiled fondly at her. ‘You have a fine voice. I do not suppose you have a pianoforte or a spinet?’

‘I am sorry, Your Grace, but no.’ It was not precisely too dear for the budget, but she had not thought, since John had died, to spend on such an extravagance.

‘A pity. I suspect that we would sing quite nicely together, should we attempt it.’

He must mean the four of them. What else could he mean? But for a brief, irrational moment, she imagined a duet. What was it about the man that made her so foolish? There was nothing in his manner or his words that was provocative, but she could not seem to stop seeking a hidden meaning in them.

It was a good thing that he would be gone in a day or two. If Gwen rebuffed his offer, what reason would he have to remain? And if he did, what was she to feed him? He had demolished the better part of the roast and taken a second helping of the tart, as well. She was unused to a having a man with a hearty appetite under her roof.

Her thoughts strayed back to appetites of a different sort and she stifled them behind a tight, hospitable smile. ‘But tonight you are likely too tired after your long ride to visit us.’

He smiled back at her, in no way encumbered by dark thoughts. ‘Not so very tired that I would not enjoy the port I see on the sideboard and some conversation before the fire in the parlour,’ he said.

Here was another problem. ‘I am sorry, Your Grace. Of late, we’ve had to retire early because of the cold. We cannot seem to get the chimney in the parlour to draw. Until I can find a man from the village to see to it...’

He stood and spread his arms wide. ‘You have a man here, Mrs Marsh. Let us go and have a look.’

‘But, Your Grace...’ At moments like this, there was nothing genteel about the poverty they lived in. It was humiliating. And it made her fantasies about the duke all the more ridiculous.

But again, he did not seem bothered by their circumstances. ‘Please, I will hear no spurious arguments about my rank, my dear Mrs Marsh. What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not offer aid to a lady in distress? Lead me to the problem and I shall endeavour to fix it.’

As Mrs Jordan hurried ahead of them with a taper, the family retired to their best room, which was dark despite being in the centre of the house. Once lit, it was cheerful enough, but unwelcoming because of the cold. Thank the Lord and the housekeeper that the hearth was clean. The Duke of Montford was on his knees in an instant, strong body half inside the fireplace, his head disappearing up the chimney. A hand appeared, waving a vague gesture into the room. Then came his deep voice, amplified by the chimney. ‘Hold the candle close, boy. I can almost see the problem, but I need more light.’