Regency Christmas Wishes(61)
There was only firelight inside as he entered the library, which to his relief was deserted. He became aware of the slow ticking of the long-case clock as he closed the door behind him, then looked around at the holly-decked shelves where gilt-embossed book spines shone in the dancing light. Had any of the more learned tomes been opened since Lord Marchwell’s demise? Probably not, for Lady Marchwell preferred novels. He almost feared to let his eyes wander above the fireplace, where the portrait of Juliet had always hung, but at last he gazed again upon the gentle face that haunted him.
It was so exquisite a likeness that the living, breathing woman might be on the point of stepping down into the room. She was wearing a low-cut white silk gown and the emerald drops and necklace that had been his wedding gift. Behind her the grounds of Marchwell Park reached to the Thames, where Magpie Eyot and the Retreat were clearly depicted. He went closer and reached up to touch the canvas. “Oh, Juliet, my dearest darling, I was such an eeyot; such a very great eeyot . . .” he murmured.
A slight movement in the corner of the room made him turn sharply, fearing he wasn’t alone after all, but all he saw was Jack the magpie perched on the lip of a silver tray endeavoring to dislodge the stopper of a decanter of dark amber liquid. For a moment man and bird looked at each other in the firelight, then the latter returned his attention to the stopper.
Suddenly finding himself face-to-face with his old foe—or should that be face-to-beak?—Charles was surprised to realize that his animosity toward the magpie was not as virulent as might have been expected. “So you’re still around, you plaguey old cyclops, and still possessed of a taste for Lady M’s best sherry.”
Jack ignored him, the stopper being of infinitely greater importance, and Charles watched resignedly. What point was there in blaming a magpie for his woes? If he, Charles Neville, had not strayed so shamefully from the marriage bed there wouldn’t have been any unsavory secrets to expose. As this thought struck him, he went to the table, removed the stopper, and poured a measure into one of the crystal glasses on the tray. “There you are, since you’ve probably been wrestling with that decanter for the past hour or more you deserve a reward for your endeavors. Merry Christmas and pax vobiscum for the New Year.”
The magpie blinked his one eye, as if fearing to awaken at any moment and discover the stopper wedged in more tightly than ever.
“Well, go on,” Charles urged.
Needing no further bidding, the bird plunged his beak into the glass and took a long draft, tilting his head back with pleasure as the sherry trickled down his throat. Charles didn’t hear Lady Marchwell enter the room, and knew nothing until her sharp voice suddenly addressed him. “So you have the audacity to still behave as if you reside here, do you, sir?”
Once again he turned quickly, his heart sinking at her tone, which did not bode well for his chances. Somehow he managed to execute what he hoped was a suitably respectful and placatory bow. “The compliments of the season to you, Lady M.”
Juliet’s aunt, dressed as Queen Elizabeth to the very last curl of her elaborate red wig, inclined her head civilly, no more, and her sapphire-and-silver brocade gown, stiff with a farthingale, rustled as she advanced from the door. “Why have you returned after all this time?” she inquired coolly.
“To make full atonement.”
“Then you may not be comforted to know that Juliet hasn’t intimated a change in her attitude toward you.”
His heart sank more. “She still despises me?”
Lady Marchwell went to scoop the reluctant magpie onto her finger. “That’s enough of that, you drunkard,” she muttered, and Jack hung his head forlornly as he realized his tippling had been curtailed for the moment. Lady Marchwell stroked the bird’s gleaming back as she looked at Charles again. “Juliet has never despised you, Charles, she has simply been unable to forgive you for hurting her so much.”
“I know the extent of my sins, Lady M, but I also know the extent of my love for my wife. It is endless, believe me, and I have come back to try my damnedest to win a reconciliation.”
“Have you indeed?” Her attention wavered again as Jack, deeming her attention to be sufficiently diverted, hopped back to the tray and took another swift sip. Lady Marchwell was incensed and tapped him imperatively, at which he gave an indignant squawk and flew up to a holly-swathed bust of the Emperor Tiberius that was set in a niche above a topmost shelf of books. Some sprigs of holly were dislodged, and to show the extent of his annoyance the magpie threw the rest down as well, then shuffled about, muttering horribly.