Christine Merrill - A Yuletide Invitation - The Mistletoe Wager / The Harlot's Daughter

‘Very well, Harry. Consider my good behaviour to be a Christmas gift to you. Let us hope, by the end of the festivities, that the only cooked geese are in the kitchen.’

For the next two days, Rosalind found herself buffeted along with the increasing speed of events. Harry’s carriage was unpacked, and servants were set to preparations. But they seemed to have no idea how to proceed without continual supervision, or would insist that they knew exactly what was to be done and then do the tasks in a manner that was obviously wrong. It was just as it had been since the moment she had stepped over the threshold and into Elise’s shoes. At least she’d managed to gain partial co-operation, by begging them to do things as Elise would have wanted them done, as proof of their loyalty to her and in honour of her memory.

It sounded to all the world as if the woman had died, and she’d been left to write her eulogy instead of run her house. But the servants had responded better to her moving speech then they had to anything she could offer in the way of instruction. At some point, she would have to make her brother stir himself sufficiently to retrieve his wife from London. For Rosalind was not welcome in the role of mistress here, nor did she desire it. But it must wait until after the holidays, for she had made Harry a promise to help him for Christmas and she meant to stick to it, until the bitter end.

At last the house was in some semblance of readiness, and the guests began to come—first in a trickle and then a flood. Arrivals were so frequent that the front door was propped open, despite the brisk wind that had arisen. A steady fall of snow had begun in the late afternoon and followed people across the stone floor in eddies and swirls. She busied herself with providing direction to servants, and praying that everyone would manage to find their way to the same room as their baggage.

Couples and families were talking loudly, shaking the snow from their coats and wraps and remarking in laughing tones about the deteriorating condition of the roads and the need for mulled wine, hot tea, and a warm fire. It seemed that Rosalind was continually shouting words of welcome into an ever-changing crowd, promising comfort and seasonal joy once they were properly inside, making themselves at home. Just to the left, the library had been prepared to receive the guests, for the sitting room would be packed solid with bodies should she try to fit all the people together in that room. The great oak reading tables had been pushed to the edges of the room and heaped with plates of sandwiches and sweets, along with steaming pots of tea, carafes of wine and a big bowl of punch.

There were sounds of gratitude and happiness in response, and for a moment she quite forgot the trouble of the last week’s preparation. And although at times she silently cursed her brother for causing the mess, she noticed that he was behaving strangely as he moved through the hubbub, making many restless journeys up and down the stairs. It was as if he was anticipating something or someone in particular, and his pleasure at each new face seemed to diminish, rather than increase, when he did not see the person he expected.

And then the last couple stepped through the open doorway.

‘Rosalind!’ Elise threw her arms wide and encompassed her in an embrace that was tight to the point of discomfort. ‘So you are the one Harry’s found to take the reins.’

‘Elise?’ The name came out of her as a phlegm-choked moan. ‘I had no idea that Harry had invited you.’

‘Neither does Harry,’ Elise whispered with a conspiratorial grin. ‘But how can he mind? This was my house for so long that I think I should still be welcome in it, for a few days at least. And since he made such a kind point of inviting my special friend, he must have meant to include me. Otherwise he would have left me quite alone in London for the holidays. That cannot have been his intention.’

‘Special friend?’ Elise could not mean what she was implying. And even if she did, Rosalind prayed she would not have been so bold as to bring him here. If Elise had taken a lover, Rosalind suspected that it was very much Harry’s intention to split the two up.

‘Have you met? I doubt it. Here, Nicholas—meet little Rosalind, my husband’s half-sister. She is to be our hostess.’

When she saw him, Rosalind felt her smile freeze as solid as the ice on the windowpanes. Nicholas Tremaine was as fine as she remembered him, his hair dark, his face a patrician mask, with a detached smile. It held none of the innocent mirth of their first meeting but all of the world-weariness she had seen in him even then. And, as it had five years before, her heart stopped and then gave an unaccustomed leap as she waited for him to notice her. ‘How do you do, Mr …?’

But it was too much to hope that he had forgotten her. ‘I believe we’ve met,’ he said, and then his jaw clenched so hard that his lips went white. He had paused on the doorstep, one boot on the threshold, snow falling on his broad shoulders, the flakes bouncing off them to melt at his feet. His clothing was still immaculate and in the first stare of fashion. But now it was of a better cut, and from more expensive cloth than it had been. It hardly mattered. For when she had first seen him, Nicholas Tremaine had been the sort of man to make poverty appear elegant.

If his change in tailor was an indication, his fortunes had improved, and wealth suited him even better. In any other man, she would have thought that pause in the doorway a vain attempt to add drama to his entrance, while allowing the audience to admire his coat. But she suspected that now Tremaine had seen her he was trying to decide whether it would be better to enter the house or run back towards London—on foot, if necessary.

The pause continued as he struggled to find the correct mood. Apparently he’d decided on benign courtesy, for he smiled, although a trifle coldly, and said, ‘We met in London. It was several years ago, although I cannot remember the exact circumstances.’

Liar . She was sure that he remembered the whole incident in excruciating detail. As did she. She hoped her face did not grow crimson at the recollection.

‘But I had no idea,’ he continued, ‘that you were Harry’s mysterious sister.’

Was she the only one who heard the silent words, Or I would never have agreed to come? But he was willing to pretend ignorance, possibly because the truth reflected no better on him than it had on her, so she must play the game as well.

‘I am his half-sister. Mother married my father when Harry was just a boy. He is a vicar.’ She paused. ‘My father, that is. Because of course Harry is not …’ She was so nervous that she was rambling, and she stopped herself suddenly, which made for an embarrassing gap in the conversation.

‘So I’ve been told.’

‘I had no idea that you would be a guest here.’ Please , she willed, believe I had no part in this .

If the others in the room noticed the awkwardness between them, they gave no indication. Elise’s welcome was as warm as if there had been nothing wrong. ‘How strange that I’ve never introduced you. Rosalind was in London for a time the year we … the year I married Harry.’ She stumbled over her own words for a moment, as though discovering a problem, and Rosalind held her breath, fearing that Elise had noticed the coincidence. But then the moment passed, and Elise took Tremaine’s arm possessively. ‘I am sure we will all be close friends now. I have not had much chance to know you, Rosalind, since you never leave home. I hope that we can change that. Perhaps now that you are old enough, your father will allow you to come to London and visit?’

‘Of course,’ she replied, fighting the temptation to remind Elise that Rosalind was her senior by almost two months. Her age did not signify, for her father would never let her travel, and certainly not to visit her brother’s wife. If Elise meant to carry on a public affair, no decent lady could associate with her. And the identity of the gentleman involved made an embarrassing situation into a mortifying one.