A Christmas Conspiracy Page 5

  Tavie bit her lower lip as she, too, stared out the window. “But the clouds on the horizon are quite thickish, do you not think?”

  Her sister continued to glower. “What a nuisance it would be if the roads were to clear and Mama was sent about her business!”

  “But you seemed so sure we had succeeded last night, Genie—why, did you not agree Father looked at Mama rather softly?”

  “For a moment, yes,” Genie nodded, “but now I have slept on it. You must own our parents’ marriage has been at nothing but sixes and sevens. No, I cannot think it at all wise to place our hopes upon what may or may not have been one tender moment. Indeed, I fear it would not be at all prudent, even after all our careful preparations. We must not leave a matter of such gravity to them. Too much is at stake. Only consider a season spent under the scrutiny of Miss Walleye!”

  Tavie groaned disconsolately as she envisioned a variety of distressing scenarios. “What do you suppose we must do, Genie?”

  “We must refine our plan, of course. There must be a simple solution, for I am far too muddled to think of a complex one.” Genie paced a moment, considering the dilemma, knitting her brows as Tavie watched.

  “The hot house!” she said all of a sudden.

  “The hot house?” Tavie exclaimed, mystified. “Why, whatever for?”

  “I have a sudden notion,” Genie grinned, “that, if we wish love to blossom, we must make use of whatever is blooming!”

  “Of course! Let me think a moment. I believe there may be some of Father’s orchids,” Tavie suggested.

  “The very thing!” Genie clapped her hands. “We shall just slip them onto Mama’s pillow while she sleeps and then she will know that Father merely has difficulty articulating his love for her.”

  “And that difficulty translates to his looking like a baffled storm cloud?” Tavie asked archly.

  “Pooh! Men are such dreadful conundrums, after all, that a nodcockish response such as Father evidenced last night must be neither here nor there for a sophisticated woman of the world like Mama. When she awakes to his prized orchids, however, she cannot help but comprehend his amorous intentions.”

  “Perhaps,” Tavie said tentatively. “I do hope you are correct.”

  “Do not be a great buffle!” Genie protested. “Of course I am correct! Besides,” she went on, taking her sister’s hand, “how clever of you to have thought of the orchids. Mama must surely know Father would never touch one were not his deepest feelings engaged.”

  “I only hope he does not have us transported when he finds out,” Tavie complained.

  “Come now! Why should he find us out at all? We shall just write Mama another little note from him praying she not make mention of it!”

  Tavie brightened. “What a good thought, Genie! Indeed, you are up to anything! But. . .”

  “But what?”

  “What if Father should notice a blossom is missing?”

  “That would be a great bother,” Genie admitted. “Sometimes I believe Father thinks more of his orchids than he does of the entire estate.”

  “Little doubt of that! Indeed, I should not like for us to spend Christmas locked in our chamber. It is only two more days, and I do not fancy he would recover his equanimity in less than three, if we are to be instructed by his past intolerance. Would it be altogether too uncharitable for us to blame Mama’s lapdog?” Tavie suggested tentatively. “After all, Father has already taken the beast in dislike.”

  “Perfect, Tavie! We are both such clever girls, are we not? And we needn’t worry, for Mama would never countenance its being punished over such a trifle. You saw how she fawned over it last night.”

  “Very clever, indeed.”

  “Come, let us steal down the stairs before anyone else is about.”

  “Indeed,” Tavie said as she drew on her dressing gown, “for we have a great deal to accomplish today. Besides everything else, we must do something to bring poor Mama up to snuff! Did you ever dream she would look so faded, Genie?”

  “The poor soul. You are right, of course. These years must have been very hard on her.”

  “Poor Mama!”

  * * * *

  The twins made their way down the stairs and through the corridors with a practiced silence, born of years of inspired escapades, and into their father’s conservatory. As always, they were greeted by warm humidity and the delicate, spicy scent of tropical foliage, overlain by the earthy scent of loam and peat. The snow had melted off the glass ceiling, of course, and now they could see that great walls of jagged icicles hung from the eaves. At intervals, braziers of coals supplemented the diminished heat provided by the pale light of winter.

  “Old Martin has been astir here already,” Tavie whispered, pointing to the coals. “We had best hurry ourselves.”

  Genie glanced over her shoulder. No one was in sight. Grasping Tavie’s hand, she led the way, creeping along the ferny aisles until they came upon a section isolated from the rest. There were several planters of what appeared to be bare branches sticking out of the soil. A few of these sported leaves. Only one bore flowers, white with pale green centers.

  “I do wish there were something more distinctive,” Genie complained.

  Her sister grimaced and nodded. “How odd that Father should set such great store by these. I wonder if we might not find a rose or two still.”

  “That would never do. They would be sadly blown, you must own, Tavie. I suppose there is nothing for it but to take this one. After all, white is not so very bad. I fancy I might even be able to compose some verse or other about the purity of love.”

  Glancing once more behind her, Genie snapped the flower at the base of the stem and tucked it up the sleeve of her nightrail.

  “Do let us hurry,” Tavie pleaded, glancing over her shoulder.

  “You are quite right. Who knows when Mama might begin to stir? After all, older persons do not seem to need much sleep. Why, remember when Mistress Wiggins caught us in the buttery and it was not even ten o’clock!”

  Tavie stifled a giggle. “To be fair, though, I venture to guess that old cat had not closed her eyes but to feign sleep in twenty years! Do come now, Genie!”

  Together the girls quickly retraced their steps to their chamber where they composed a cursory verse to accompany the stolen blossom:

  White as this Christmas bloom, my sweet,

  Doth my heart blossom with love replete.

  Of this speak not from this day hence—

  Pray keep this token in confidence.

  “Surely that should do the trick,” Genie declared. “How clever you were, Tavie, to hit upon a rhyme for ‘confidence.’ I should have spent from now until the New Year trying to find one for ‘secret!’ ”

  “Do you think she will comprehend its import, though?” Tavie asked, her brows knitted with a worry. “It would never do if Father were to discover our part in this business.”

  “Indeed it would not,” her sister was quick to agree, “but I place confidence in Mama’s quick-wittedness. Only consider—our own astuteness must have come from somewhere!”

  With this unintentioned slur against their father’s intellect, the girls neatly sealed the note and tied it to the purloined orchid with a bit of ribbon. A moment later, they stood outside the chamber into which they had seen their mother disappear on the previous night, their ears pressed firmly to the door.

  “Snoring?” Genie exclaimed in a surprised whisper. “Our mama snores!”

  “First that dreadful flannel nightrail-—I vow it looked just like those we wore at Miss Wilberforce’s—and now this!” Tavie shook her head. “Where did we ever get the notion that Mama was à la mode?”

  “It only goes to show us not to trust to general report and gossip,” Genie concluded virtuously. “However, I am certain that, before too long, we may help her to acquire some polish. We must convince her to be ruled by us in matters of fashion.”

  “And the snoring?”

  “We shall ha
ve to think on that.”

  When, at last, the girls ventured into their mother’s chamber, they were much encouraged to discover that the distressing snores they had overheard issued from the dog rather than their slumbering parent. They exchanged a look of relief.

  Together, they peered through the murky light and approached the bed on tiptoe. Their mother’s eyes were closed and her breathing even. One hand was thrown up over her brow.

  How peaceful she looks, Tavie sighed mentally.

  With a little rouge, I daresay she might be quite passable. Perhaps our task will not be so difficult, Genie mused.

  Do you suppose we dare slip the orchid into her hand? It is open just enough, I believe.

  Perhaps, her sister allowed. It would be a lovely touch, but I must bow to your superior skill here. You are the acknowledged champion at jackstraws. This undertaking seems very little different.

  I shall give it a try, Tavie agreed with a nod. But, have a care! If she stirs, we must fall to the ground and lay quietly until she is back to sleep.

  With that, Tavie crept closer to her mother and, positioning the stem of the orchid at a precise angle, slipped it between that lady’s delicate fingers with consummate skill. When Tavie had accomplished this feat, Genie, who had been standing with fingers crossed, let go her breath. Then they nodded at one another and stole once again from the room.

  Chapter Seven

  No sooner had the door shut behind the pair than Fanny opened her eyes. What a study her daughters were! Now what in heaven’s name, she wondered, was this all about? She had observed the twins’ surreptitious entrance from beneath hooded eyelids and watched their curious actions with a good deal of interest and amusement—without the least assistance from the indolent pug who slept boldly on the pillow beside her.

  True to expectation, Flops had proved to be no watch dog, but instead snored peacefully through the entire episode. She had a very good notion to send the beast away to Bath for the Season next year where he might be more in tune with the soporific atmosphere. With the right sort of hat, she mused, it seemed unlikely anyone would remark on his presence among the other languid denizens in the Pump Room.

  Sitting up in bed, Fanny at last examined the flower they had placed in her hand. Her daughters were courageous girls indeed. Unless she missed her guess, this was one of Giles’ prize orchids. Perhaps she ought to wear it in her hair when she went down to breakfast. And what was this? A note—why it must be from that thoughtful Giles, she told herself wryly.

  The room was still too dim to read the missive without drawing back the curtains, but she stretched for a moment before rising to walk to the window. Bracing herself against the morning chill, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and into a pair of waiting slippers. She chafed her arms against the cold, realizing forcibly how fortunate she was to be clad in this borrowed warm flannel, rather than the diaphanous night garments to which she was generally accustomed.

  When she at last read the note by the light of the bright, snowy day, she burst out laughing. It was all she could hope for. Whatever else her daughters might be, she decided mirthfully, it was plain they were not destined to be poets. They were, however, apparently well aware of what the repercussions might be, were Giles to discover their plunder of his prize. Only a rank villainess, she decided, would even consider wearing the bloom to breakfast—although the image of how her family’s faces must look upon her entry lent the notion considerable appeal.

  How, she wondered with a sigh, had Eugenia and Octavia contrived to maintain their high spirits and inventive connivings? It was certainly a puzzle. Both their father and the mistresses of the various boarding schools which they had been invited to depart must have evinced a dampening spirit of control. Did her blood truly run so strong in them that the repressive surroundings in which they had been reared were as nothing?

  If only she might have them with her in London, she sighed. What times they would have! Why, Almack’s would never recover!

  It had given her quite a start last night to see how much the girls resembled her. They had been laughing at their father. Indeed, he had made quite a sight as he stood in his night-clothes attempting to hold the writhing Flops, while at the same time maintaining a stern demeanor. She, too, had used to laugh at him thus, in a time when she could still tease him out of a too serious mood.

  Her smile faded and she studied the snowy grounds stretching out below her window. Her memories lay as frozen and dormant as the flowers sleeping beneath this field of snow. Few could have guessed it from her ordinarily gay demeanor, but, like an interminable, dismal winter, the chill of the past had overlain her soul. She had been resigned to it until last night, but now her spirit cried out: Could there not be a thaw in this winter of the heart?

  What, she wondered distractedly, did Giles’ brief visitation to her chamber last night betoken? Could there be some hope for them? Surely he did not come merely to stare her out of countenance and then insult her. Ah, Giles! It was ever his custom to say everything but what he meant!

  “Good morning, my lady.”

  Fanny turned away from the icy scene before her to see that Sally stood tentatively in the doorway.

  “Come in, Sally,” she said with forced brightness. “As you see, I am an early riser.”

  “Your trunks arrived after you retired last night, my lady, but if you had rather wait before I unpack them, I can bring you some chocolate.”

  “It is by far too early for choices, Sally,” Fanny exclaimed. “You had best send up my trunks and a pot of chocolate.”

  “Trunks and chocolate it will be then, my lady. And . . .” She paused a moment, her eyes growing round as sovereigns as she regarded the bloom Lady Fanny still held, then asked, “Shall I fetch you a vase?”

  “Yes, I daresay you should,” Fanny agreed as she glanced down at the orchid, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “Only, unless you wish to attend me in the dungeon, I wish you will not let Sir Giles know of this.”

  “I would not dream of it, my lady,” the maid said demurely.

  “My eternal gratitude, Sally.”

  “Also, Cook was wondering if you would be wanting to meet with her about the menus?”

  “Preparations for the holiday are already begun, are they not?”

  “Why, yes indeed, but she . . .”

  “Is it still Mrs. Partridge?”

  Sally nodded.

  “How lovely! Then please tell her I send my compliments, but she must not worry herself over my visit. I am sure everything is just as it should be.”

  “Very well, my lady. But I feel duty bound to tell you, the holiday menus were approved by your daughters.”

  “Ah! I see ... I collect a preponderance of sweetmeats and comfits must comprise the greater parts of the courses?”

  “So I understand.”

  Fanny shrugged. “Christmas comes but once a year.”

  * * * *

  In a very few minutes, Fanny saw her trunks delivered and was able to partake in a cup of morning chocolate while Sally busied herself with the unpacking. Flops had not yet stirred himself. He had opened one speculative eye when Sally entered with the tray but, as it did not contain anything like a crumpet or cake, he soon returned to his slumbers. When a light rap came at the door, therefore, he did not so much as lift his head.

  Fanny’s heart fluttered at the notion that it might be Giles, but was still touched to see her daughters peep in at her. She was also more than a little curious to watch their machinations commence. They entered the chamber shyly, but their apparent diffidence was underlain by such an unholy sparkle in their eyes, Fanny was hard pressed to keep from laughing aloud and begging to be made a part of their secret. How good it was to feel laughter bubble up from her heart again! She could almost sense it washing away the layers of protective cynicism with which she had varnished that vital organ.

  “Good morning, Mama,” they said together, curtseying as they did so.

 
“Good morning, Octavia,” she said nodding at one. Then she smiled at the other, “Good morning, Eugenia.”

  The twins exchanged an expression of sheer amazement.

  “Why, you know which of us is which!” Genie gasped.

  “I am, after all, your mama!” Fanny reminded them. “It would be a shocking thing indeed if I should not!”

  “But I do not think even Father knows for certain,” Tavie protested. “He is forever calling me or Genie ‘my dear’ or some other such substitute for our names.”

  “Fathers,” Fanny told them with elegant simplicity, “are not mothers.”

  The girls nodded their heads in worldly-wise agreement with this self-evident bit of wisdom.

  “Now, come sit here by the fire with me,” she said, indicating a pair of chairs, “and we shall have ourselves a coze.”

  “We are so happy to have you home at last, Mama,” Tavie began, “but we were wondering . . .”

  Fanny smiled, knowing full well she must play the innocent in this game of theirs. “Ah! You must be wondering why I am come home, all of a sudden,” she said ingenuously.

  “Why, no,” Tavie objected bluntly. “It is merely that...” As her voice trailed off, she darted a beseeching glance at her sister.

  “That is to say . . .” Genie hesitated, twisting the edge of her handkerchief. Emboldened by the sight of her mama’s noxious flannel gown, however, she went on dauntlessly. “We wondered if perhaps you might require some, er, guidance in choosing your ensemble today.”

  “Yes,” Tavie continued, relieved that the entree to this delicate subject had been made. “We can see that you must have lived . . . quite retired . . . and may not be up to snuff in such matters. We know you should like to look . . . presentable.”

  Fanny was forced to draw on her quickly dissolving store of self-control in order to maintain the serenity of her countenance. She had just spent the last half hour listening to Sally exclaim at the elegant trappings she was unpacking. Indeed, Fanny reflected, there was no doubt whatever that her wardrobe was the envy of half the women in society—and its emulation, their despair. With an innocent smile intended to discomfit them a bit, however, she merely said, “Indeed?”