Regency Christmas Wishes(68)

Stillness settled over the countryside as snow began to fall in earnest, covering everything with truly seasonal white. But a certain magpie was not asleep. Far from it. Finding his way in through the ill-fitting space between washhouse wall and eaves, he fluttered at leisure from room to room, perch to perch, checking this and that, to be sure all was as it had been when last he was here. He soon came to the drawing room, where his acquisitive gaze was drawn as if by a magnet to the wedding ring Charles still held as he slept.

A pensive glint entered the magpie’s eyes, and not even a tiny sound passed his beak as he glided quietly to the sofa. For a longing moment he eyed the decanters on the table, but he knew an impossibly tight stopper when he saw it. No amount of pecking would shift either of these, so her ladyship’s sherry and brandy were safe enough. After deftly disentangling the purple ribbon from Charles’s fingers, the bird held it tightly in his beak, and flew off with his loot. He searched high and low in the lodge for a suitable hiding place, and when he found it he congratulated himself on his cleverness, although to be sure he ended up more or less back where he started, and might have saved himself a great deal of wasted effort.



A mixture of bright sunshine and magpie din aroused Charles the next morning. Jack was in fine feather, squawking loud felicitations as he shuffled obviously around the sherry decanter, hoping that as a measure had been put at his disposal the night before, the same might happen again now.

“The first tot of the day, eh?” Charles murmured, tugging the virtually jammed stopper free. There wasn’t a glass to hand, but the Wedgwood cup was still there so he used that instead. “God rest ye merry, Magpie,” he said as he got up to stretch.

The groan of his stomach reminded him that food was now a much more pressing problem, and he had better rectify the situation tout de suite if he wished to physically survive this Christmas, if not mentally. It was then that he noticed the fire had gone out, leaving just ashes in the hearth. If it weren’t for the sunshine flooding in, the room would be cold. What were the damned servants about? If they’d come to his call last night they certainly hadn’t awakened him, and now they had omitted to attend the fire. He listened for a moment, expecting to hear something that might indicate the activity of a housemaid. But there was nothing, except for the busy tapping of Jack’s beak in the Wedgwood.

Frowning, Charles went to jerk the rope-pull, but just as his fingers closed around it he caught sight of the reflections in the mirror panels, and froze. There in the doorway, staring at him as if at a ghost, was Juliet. She was wearing a fur-trimmed emerald green cloak over a crimson merino gown, and her hood was raised over her pinned-up curls. It had been her intention to walk in the sunshine and snow, instead she had been arrested by what she saw in the drawing room. Lips parted and eyes wide, she could only stand there.

He was equally robbed of wit, but at last managed to face her properly. “Juliet, I—” Instinctively he took a step toward her, but she recoiled.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“I need to see you.” He feasted his gaze upon her. How little she had changed, but how little encouragement there was in her eyes . . . He felt a fool, standing there bootless, in crumpled clothes, his hair an uncombed thatch that probably made him look half wild. What must she think?

“Why have you come?” she asked again.

“I came because I love you, Juliet. You are all I’ve thought of these past six years.”

She hesitated, a flush of color touching her cheeks.

“Can we at least talk?” he begged, sensing that she was within a heartbeat of turning on her heel.

Somehow his words decided her against him. “If you imagine you have me cornered here you are very much mistaken. The servants may have been dismissed for Christmas, but I am quite capable of returning to Marchwell Park on my own. Aunt M will have you thrown off her land.”

She fled before he could answer. Her little ankle boots sounded on the lobby floor, then the main door slammed, the noise resounding through the lodge as if through a castle. In spite of having anticipated her flight only moments before, Charles was caught completely off guard, so dumbfounded that for several moments he couldn’t move. Then he was galvanized into action. “No, Juliet, you can’t get across the river!” he shouted, grabbing his boots and hopping around frantically as he hauled them on. Then he snatched his greatcoat from the back of the chair and ran after her, still putting it on.

The cold air caught his lungs as he dashed outside and over the snow-covered lawn. He could see her ahead of him, her green cloak flapping to reveal the crimson gown beneath. Her hood had fallen back, and her brown curls had fought free of their pins. “Juliet! There isn’t a boat!” he shouted.