A Christmas Conspiracy Read online

  Rationally, she knew that Giles would neither seek a divorce nor expose his affairs in such a public way. Still, if she were correct in her suspicions, then the girls must be championing their mother’s cause. Darlings! What resourceful, audacious darlings! What sort of mother would she be, if she did not do everything she could to further their schemes?

  “I have found everything you need, my lady,” Sally said as she came up beside her, carrying an armful of clothing.

  Fanny turned away from the bed, her heart full of conflicting emotions: jealousy, love, gratitude, and, above all, amusement. It was now entirely clear she must stay on for at least a little while—if only to satisfy her own curiosity, she told herself.

  “Now,” the maid continued as she led Fanny from the room, “we shall have you set to rights and tucked in nicely in just a moment. Would you like me to bring up some tea for you when you are settled?”

  Fanny wondered whether the servant would be shocked if she asked for a decanter of brandy instead. She rarely touched spirits, but tonight they seemed more tempting than usual. As they reached her chamber, she merely smiled, however, and said, “Thank you, Sally, but I think I shall just retire for the evening.”

  The servant nodded and, after making sure the chamber had been appropriately prepared, helped Fanny into the girlish flannel nightrail.

  “Good night, then, my lady,” Sally said with a curtsey. Pausing at the door for a moment, she turned and added, “Welcome home.”

  Alone at last in her chamber, Fanny stretched languorously before the fire. How good it felt to be welcomed home, if only by a servant. And how good it felt to have a purpose—joining her daughters in their mission to “thwart Miss Walleye.” What fun they would have! How disconcerted Giles would be!

  She crawled beneath the covers and burrowed deep into the pillows. The room was silent. Her eyelids soon began to droop, and as she dropped off to sleep, her last thought was that the room was entirely too silent. Had not Flops followed her back then?

  * * * *

  Sir Giles came up to his bedchamber a half hour after the door of the adjoining chamber closed upon his wife. Having submitted to his valet’s ministrations, he was soon prepared to retire, but did not immediately do so. Instead, he stood before the window and stared blindly into the winter night.

  The wind had begun to blow quite ferociously by now and, although it was too dark to see, he somehow sensed that the silent snow was falling even more heavily than before. Unless there were some respite, it seemed the household would be snowed in for Christmas. It was not as if they expected visitors beyond the duty calls of the rector and neighboring gentry, but the notion of such seclusion made him feel his habitual loneliness even more keenly. Perhaps, however, the isolation would foster more intimacy with his daughters. It was clear they needed him, but until recently, he had cravenly evaded his responsibilities to them, leaving their training to strangers.

  His daughters, he realized with a sudden, uneasy consternation, had been models of propriety all evening. They had even essayed to entertain him with a duet after dinner. Tavie, however, had forgot most of the words and repeated the refrain several times to fill the gap while, at the keyboard, her sister appeared to be biting her lip to keep from laughing.

  Sir Giles smiled ruefully. His fear that he had reacted too harshly to their most recent escapade continued to grow steadily. True, he did not like to see them act the part of hoydens. Still, the notion of their following in his own staid footsteps was just as ineligible. Could they not somehow strike a balance?

  Outside, the wind whistled more violently and the window-pane trembled. Sir Giles shivered involuntarily as he glanced back at his empty bed. For years, he had foolishly thought that his loneliness would fade, but instead it had increased. These were hard nights to be alone. They were all hard nights to be alone.

  Sir Giles picked up the candle and carried it to his bedside, hoping he would be able to sleep. Sometimes, weeks of sleeplessness went by before he was at last exhausted enough to drop into a long, dreamless slumber. He could sense that another such ordeal was soon to be upon him. Before him, the counterpane was already turned back invitingly. You think too much, he told himself harshly. He extinguished his candle and crawled into bed.

  Sir Giles stretched beneath the crisp linen sheets. Even though they still held the heat of the bed warmer, he could not help but feel cold on this stormy night. He pulled the covers further up over his shoulders and rolled onto his side. Then he froze. What was that noise?

  An odd, snuffling sound was coming from extremely close range and, accompanying it, the slight odor of—could it be wet fur? In the darkness, something moved next to him on the bed. The next thing he knew, a cold, wet caress touched his face.

  Entirely unnerved, Sir Giles leapt from his bed, fumbling at the bedside table for a candle. Once he had grasped it (and inadvertently pitched several other objects into the night), he made his way quickly to the fireside where he kindled a light. He held it up and then scanned the bed from where he stood. A pair of eyes flickered back at him. Sir Giles felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He picked up a poker from the fireplace and approached the bed slowly.

  As he did so, Sir Giles was entirely at a loss to formulate a single theory as to what waited in his bed. There were a few cats in the kitchen and barn, but this, he knew, was not a cat. He had not kept hunters in years, and the thing was certainly too large for any sort of rodent—or so he firmly prayed.

  As he neared the bed, the intruder’s form began to take shape. But for its shining eyes, it looked for all the world like an oversized, unkempt lady’s muff. How extraordinary, to be sure! He took another step closer, his poker still raised. The thing emitted a low, despondent whine.

  Sir Giles frowned. Now that he had seen the size of the thing, it was clear he was in no danger. Tentatively he reached out and prodded it gently with the poker. The creature rolled onto its back, paws in the air and tongue lolling. A dog! A singularly unattractive beast, but a dog nonetheless. What, in heaven’s name, was this disagreeable, odoriferous, damp excuse for a canine doing in his bed?

  In his mind’s eye, two mischievous faces appeared. This was his daughters’ doing, he fumed inwardly. No wonder they were so well-behaved all evening—they had this trick up their sleeves.

  Sir Giles picked up the animal, strode to the door and flung it open. “Octavia!” he shouted into the darkened hallway. “Eugenia!”

  Their door opened immediately. So, they had been waiting for his response, had they?

  “What,” he asked coldly as they approached him, “is the meaning of this trick?”

  His daughters looked at him and the animal he held before him with wide-eyed innocence. Then they looked at each other blankly. Cool little creatures, were they not? he thought with grim displeasure.

  “What is it?” Genie asked.

  Tavie reached her hand out. “Can it be ... a dog?”

  “It is no mystery why you sought my permission to go into the village today,” he said coldly. “Has life been so tedious for you of late that you must plague even me with your antics?”

  “Father!” Genie cried. “I do not know—”

  “You do not know what I am talking about, I suppose?” he asked scornfully.

  “Why, no indeed,” Genie answered.

  “We haven’t the least idea, Father,” Tavie concurred.

  “You imagine I will believe that, do you? Do you expect me to believe that Bently, in a rare fit of drollery, or my valet, perhaps, has secreted this wretch in my very bed?”

  “What?” Genie cried. “In your bed?”

  To his decided consternation, both of the girls broke into laughter. “We did not do it,” Tavie told him through her giggles, “but what a famous trick it was!”

  “That will be enough!” he thundered. At his harsh tone, the dog took umbrage and began to squirm, nip, and bark quite vehemently. This, naturally, prompted the twins to convulse in peals of laugh
ter once again, despite their father’s pained expression.

  Just then, a door opened onto this scene and a lady garbed in nightrail and cap stepped out into the hall. “I have had an extremely trying journey,” she complained. “Now what is all this to-do?”

  “Fanny?” Sir Giles croaked.

  “Mama!” the twins cried together.

  Chapter Five

  “Flops!” Fanny exclaimed as she stepped forward. “Why, there you are, you bad dog! Whatever do you mean, Giles, by ill-using my Flops? Do not just stand there gaping at me—hand him to me at once!”

  Giles was indeed gaping. Whether the sudden appearance of his wife—in flannel, no less—was more astonishing or the apparent lapse in her ordinarily impeccable taste, as represented by the noxious canine he held squirming before him, he did not know. Without a single word, however, he handed the furry bundle over to her.

  “Good night, then,” she said tersely, tucking the creature under one arm. “No doubt I shall have the pleasure of seeing all of you at breakfast.”

  With that, she turned and re-entered her chamber, somehow managing to close the door behind her with a snap which seemed to mark the end of all discussion.

  None of the three who stood staring after her uttered a word—aloud, at least. Between the twins, the air buzzed with their mental tête-à-tête.

  It worked! Genie exulted as she squeezed her sister’s hand. Mama is here—and just look at Father!

  Oh, dear! Tavie glanced at her parent to see a mixture of surprise, indignation, and—could it possibly be?—yearning. He does look rather . . . stricken.

  Stricken!? Her sister rolled her eyes. You make it sound like the gout! Surely this must be love!

  I suppose it must be. Tavie frowned thoughtfully as she scanned her father’s pale visage. If only he did not look so very much as if he were about to be sick.

  It is lovesickness, to be sure, Genie sighed, just like in the novels.

  At that moment, their father suddenly shook himself and looked about. “To bed, girls,” he told them in a dazed voice.

  “But, Father,” Genie began, “surely—”

  “We shall speak of this another time,” he cut her off brusquely. “Now, do as I say.”

  As the girls turned to go back to their chamber, however, Genie could not help but say somewhat self-righteously, “You see, Father, I told you we had not set anything in your bed—nor would we!”

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “Your pardons. Now good night.”

  More of this and I shall begin to believe in Father Christmas again! Genie smiled and tucked her sister’s arm under her own. He actually begged our pardon.

  Indeed, Tavie returned cautiously. Not in the most gracious manner, you must admit, but still, ‘tis something entirely out of the ordinary.

  If he had turned a somersault, I should not have been more surprised. Oh, Tavie! I have high hopes we shall prevail.

  For shame, Genie! This is the first I have heard that you had harbored any doubts. At any rate, the battle is pitched. Now it is time to refine our plans!

  Oh, come now! I am convinced there must be very little else for us to do now except go to bed and wait for love to find its course!

  Buffleheaded romantic! Tavie teased. I expect you are correct—what a good thing, too, for I am almost dead with fatigue. What a busy day we have had. And what a heartening end to it!

  * * * *

  Fanny sat in bed, the covers pulled well up to her chin and her hands clasped to her burning cheeks. What perverse humor had taken hold of her, she wondered wretchedly, that she must behave in such a high-handed, shrewish manner?

  And what a droll sight she must have been! Surely Giles must think she had become the veriest dowd, decked out as she was in this vestal gown and foolish cap, making such a fidget over a badly comported mound of fur. Why, she must have looked at least as preposterous as he had, holding the disgruntled pug before him as if it were a bundle of squirming refuse.

  It was all quite amusing, really. At least, it promised to be so by morning, she amended. The notion of the offensive Flops ranging about in her husband’s bed had enormously taken her fancy, as, apparently, it had her daughters’. Indeed, that must explain her untoward behavior just now—Giles had no business taking the dear girls to task over such a trifle, still less, blaming them with no more evidence than their past history. Little wonder she had reacted uncharitably.

  However, she sighed, it was ever Giles’s custom to jump to conclusions. If only he had never sent her off to London those years ago. If only she had not . . .

  Enough! she told herself sternly. She had long since determined she must live her life beyond its lost possibilities, if she were to live it at all. But still, the very walls which surrounded her were replete with the past. How could she avoid such thoughts?

  “Fanny?”

  Giles had entered quietly from the dressing room which connected their chambers. She looked up at him, holding back with difficulty the smile which threatened to betray a sudden, unlooked-for surge of tenderness as he stood before her in his nightclothes.

  “Good evening, Giles,” she said evenly.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown and stood silently as he surveyed her. In the hush that lay between them, Flops sighed noisily and rolled over on his back.

  “How came you by that singularly unappealing mongrel?” he asked after an awkward moment.

  Fanny raised her eyebrows. “Mongrel, Giles? I assure you, Flops’s pedigree puts mine to shame, or so Hillary assures me.”

  “What?” he exclaimed. “Is that useless Hillary still hanging about? I should have thought some civic-minded person would have dispatched him by now.”

  “Alas! The age of chivalry is past—or so I gather. It seems we must learn to live with dragons in all their various and annoying guises. However,” she went on in apparent calm, “I cannot think you sought me out merely to disparage my dog.”

  Giles paced a moment in front of the fire before he turned and approached the bed. “I cannot say I know quite why I came in, Fanny—except, perhaps, to assure myself I had not imagined your being here.”

  She reached her hand out to him. “You may see for yourself whether or not I am corporeal.”

  He shook his head and turned away. “Fanny, Fanny,” sighed wretchedly. “What brings you out of the night like some cruel dream?”

  Fanny lowered her hand slowly, swallowing back the ache in her throat. A cruel dream? Was that what she represented to him?

  “Perhaps I shall tell you one day,” she said, forcing a teasing sound into her voice. “For the present, let us say I have returned out of curiosity—merely to see how things go on without me.”

  “And that is all?”

  “Why no,” she laughed with forced gaiety. “Hillary and Madcap threatened to invade my home for the holidays. You must surely see that such a circumstance would have been entirely ineligible.”

  “Well, if that is all,” he said stiffly, “then I shall ask you not to cut up our peace here. We have got on quite well without you, if you must know.”

  “I am so glad to hear it!” she returned brightly. “In that case I shall rest easy. Now, if you do not mind, I have already been sufficiently chilled this evening and I am weary far past civility. Good night.”

  Giles looked for a moment as if he might say something more, but he turned instead and silently left the room. In the deadening quiet which ensued, Fanny buried her face beneath the pillow and cried as if her heart would break.

  * * * *

  Giles threw himself into a chair by the fire and kneaded his temples. How could he have acted so stupidly? There Fanny had sat, looking so ridiculously beautiful in that ludicrous cap and, first thing, he must ask about that wretched dog—as if it were in the least important!

  Why could he not simply have said what was really on his mind? What, he should have asked, did this unprecedented return mean?

  He had asked
, of course, but in terms so uncivil she must have had no choice other than to make light of him. For all he flattered himself that he knew Fanny, he had not made the least use of his knowledge of her. He had said exactly the wrong things.

  Giles brought himself up short. What did this self-chastisement mean? That he wanted Fanny back in his life, in spite of all the sorrow and recriminations that had passed between them?

  It could not be! Surely, he was not thinking rationally. He was in shock, that was all. Seeing Fanny so close to Christmas, when his thoughts so often found their way back to her, must, for a moment, have unhinged his ordinarily disciplined mind.

  Giles rose and poured himself a large brandy. Snowbound in the country with Fanny! He shook his head. What would his daughters make of it all? he wondered. What did they remember of those tender, early days? Probably nothing, he sighed. It was undoubtedly just as well that their perception of their parents’ marriage be founded on memories of the later years, a mechanical life of chilly civility, punctuated occasionally by the wintry rage of silence. Let the burden of a remembered happiness rest on his shoulders, he determined. He stared into the fire as he sipped the golden brandy. It would be a long night.

  Chapter Six

  Genie and Tavie bounded from bed as soon as they were awake and pulled back the curtains to find the last pink light of the winter sunrise gleaming through a break in the clouds. Piled high with snow, the grounds had taken on the appearance of a glistening confectionery. In spite of the loveliness of the scene, however, the twins did not greet it with unmixed pleasure.

  “Confounded weather!” Genie muttered darkly. “The sun is shining!”