Regency Christmas Wishes(66)

“Damn your insolent hide! When I get my hands on you next, I’ll—” But there was no point in elaborating upon the intricacies of James’s punishment, for the footman was almost out of earshot and clearly didn’t care anyway. He obeyed Lady Marchwell and only Lady Marchwell.

Incensed that Juliet’s aunt should play such a trick upon him, Charles stood there in the windswept darkness. Well, she wanted to avoid the revival of old scandals, and this was one way of achieving it. With him safely on the island, her entertainment at the big house could proceed serenely without unwelcome interruption. The absence of lights at the Retreat now began to assume a different meaning. Dear grandniece Rebecca and her entourage had probably never been expected, therefore there weren’t any servants on the island, and if he wished to eat he would have to wrestle with the store of Durand’s canned food that he hoped was still kept in the kitchens. If not, he would be reduced to a diet of bottled fruit until her ladyship saw fit to set him free. Dear God, he was hungry enough to eat a mountain of the hottest curry Madras could provide, but he’d settle for anything to fill the yawning pit in his stomach. Resigned to his fate, he began to walk up the gently sloping grass toward the dark outline of the fishing lodge.



Back at Marchwell Park, Lady Marchwell was using a spyglass to observe proceedings on the river from the window of her private apartment on the second floor. She smiled as James left Charles stranded on the island, and only straightened from the spyglass as the latter’s lantern began to bob slowly up the island lawn toward the Retreat.

“Oh, Jack, I do hope I’m doing the right thing,” she murmured to the magpie on her shoulder, and the bird tilted his head to one side, as if listening. “I could not in conscience stand in Charles’s way, even though I know how Juliet feels. After all, a Christmas wish is a Christmas wish, is it not?”

“Chak-chak.” The sounds were uttered sympathetically.

“I know you understand,” she said with a smile, and put a hand up to touch the bird’s glossy plumage, but Jack fluttered down onto the window ledge and tapped at the glass. “You want to go out?” Lady Marchwell said in surprise. “But it’s hardly the night for a little stretch of the wings.”

He tapped the window again and fixed her with his single eye, so with a shrug she leaned forward to open the window. “Very well, off you go, sir, but don’t you get up to any mischief, do you hear? Stay away from the Retreat, for I doubt if your presence will be welcomed.”

With a staccato volley of cries, the magpie launched himself into the windswept night.



Charles continued to make his way toward the lodge. How many times had he walked here in the past? How many times hand in hand with Juliet? Refreshing spring days of new green leaves and daffodils; lighthearted summer days of love, sunshine, and roses; crisp autumn days of gossamer and Michaelmas daisies; and joyful winter days of snow, Christmas, and holly berries. Yet here he was, lonely, cold, and empty, trudging through a vile December storm to a cottage orné that was also lonely, cold, and empty, and all without the guarantee of being able to see Juliet. Some Christmas this promised to be.

Magpie chattering echoed through the air behind him, and Jack descended from nowhere to flutter onto his shoulder. The bird dug his claws into the greatcoat’s costly astrakhan collar, then huddled close to Charles’s head, as if to shelter beneath the brim of his top hat.

“What are you doing out here?” Charles muttered, in half a mind to brush the bird away, but then taking pity on the shivering bundle of black-and-white feathers.

“Chak-chak.” If a magpie could sigh, then Jack did.

“The same to you,” Charles muttered. “Well, in spite of Lady M’s assertion to the contrary, it would seem you do indeed go abroad at night, but at least you’ll be company of a sort for me, I suppose, and if she forgets I’m here, I can always eat you.”

“Chak-chak.”

“Aha, my friend, you think I’m joking, but I’ll have you know that spitted magpie is a great delicacy.”

Snowflakes patted Charles’s face as he continued toward the fishing lodge, and he marveled that he was actually glad of the bird’s presence. “You can be Man Friday to my Robinson Crusoe,” he informed the bird.

As if not thinking much of the role expected of him, Jack uttered a loud squawk and flew off again. Charles did not see where.



Meanwhile, Juliet continued to slumber on her warm sofa. Memories of Charles had slipped away, and she heard nothing as a log shifted in the fireplace and sent countless bright sparks up the chimney toward the stormy heavens. A glowing pinecone rolled onto the hearth and lodged against the polished brass fire screen just as Jack came to perch beside her. The empty chocolate cup rattled a little in the strong draft of the magpie’s wings, and Juliet sat up in confusion, still trammeled with sleep as she pushed her hair back from her face. “Jack? What on earth are you doing here?”