A Very Selwick Christmas: Chapter Five
Another week, another chapter of That Selwick Christmas Novella! To refresh your memory of Chapters One, Two, Three, and Four, just click on those bright pink numbers.
Just to give you a hint of what else is to come, it turns out that Eloise and Colin wanted to get in the game, so there is now a Prologue and Epilogue that will be released once our historical story has run its course. I know it seems a little upside down to have the Prologue appear after the body of the story, but… oh well. Eloise does have a habit of running late.
Finally, before we move on to the chapter at hand, I have a brief mea culpa to offer. Eloise might be late, but the carol I used as the heading for this chapter is early; thirteen years too early, to be precise. The song Silent Night wasn’t written until 1816. But it was too perfect not to press into service, considering that Uppington Hall was having an anything but silent night. Apologies to you music historians out there who must be gnashing your teeth at the miraculous pre-occurrence of the song a full thirteen years before it was actually written.
Now on to Chapter Five….
Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright.
— “Silent Night”
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
Amy flung out an arm and felt along the empty space next to her. The sheets were cold, the mattress smooth, not dented by the weight of a human form. Richard still hadn’t come to bed.
If she went to France, the other side of the bed would always be cold.
That was another problem with an empty bed; there was too much space for thought to creep in. Never a good idea late at night. Groaning, Amy rubbed her face in the pillow before levering herself on an elbow to peer at the clock on the mantel. The fire had burned down, but there was just enough of a glow left to make out the faint shape of the hands of the clock, angled somewhere past three.
The snow had died down sometime after midnight, lending the landscape outside the draperies an eerie calm. The branches of the trees were stark and black beneath their white tracery, and the moon glinted blue-white off the frost-crisped snow. There were already tracks across the ground, the double dots left by deer and the longer, blurrier footprints left by their two legged peers, the gardeners and the gamekeepers.
Where was Richard? She had left him playing billiards with Miles, after Henrietta had made sure that the pointy sticks were going to be used entirely for hitting the balls and not each other. It wasn’t like him to stay up so late. On the other hand, it also wasn’t every day that he broached the possibility of her moving to the side of the Channel.
Did he want her to go, or was it simply that he believed that she wanted to go? Amy felt a twinge of guilt at the memory of all the times she had made careless comments about how unfair it was that he had got to spend seven years playing hero, while she had three measly months, all the times she had grimaced over the appearance of the Pink Carnation’s name in the illustrated papers, or sighed over the atlases of places she might never see again.
But just because she said she wanted to go didn’t mean she actually wanted to go—at least, not on those terms. Didn’t Richard realize that? Oh, heavens, how did she expect him to make sense of it when she couldn’t make sense of it herself?
It was useless! Amy flung back the covers. There was no point in even pretending to sleep. She would get herself some pie. That was what she would do. Pie. Lots and lots of pie. And maybe some of the gingerbread, too, unless Miles had already demolished the lot. Then she would wash it all down with hot, buttered milk. By the time she ate her way through all that, she would be too full to do anything but sleep. Either that, or she would have enough of a stomach ache to distract her from less pressing worries.
It might not be a brilliant plan, but at least it was a plan.
Amy thrust her feet into her slippers and flung a dressing gown over her night rail. She wasn’t quite sure where the kitchens were, but it was no matter. A kitchen was a kitchen. How hard could it be to find? After tracking down secret agents and hidden dispatches, a large, stationary object like a kitchen should be no challenge at all.
Amy marched boldly out into the hallway and immediately pressed back into the safety of her own doorway as she heard the creak of another door being opened. A nightcap poked its head out of one of the bedroom doors, looked to right and left, and then dashed across the hallway. A brief knock and another door opened. Amy heard a muted giggle as a pale hand reached out and the man was abruptly whisked around the doorframe.
Hmm. Amy looked back and forth from one door to the other. Clearly someone was having an interesting evening.
She started forward, but the slow whine of another doorknob in motion sent her scurrying back for safety. Goodness, was everyone in Selwick Hall out and about tonight? At that rate, why not just light all the candles and call it Christmas Day already? After a few cautious moments, a door halfway down the corridor opened. Out stalked a tall, spare woman in the most alarming confection of a nightcap Amy had ever seen, bristling with bows and lace in a garish shade of purple.
As Amy watched in puzzlement, Miss Gwen strode the length of the hall, one hand shading her candle, back straight, bows on her nightcap flapping gaily, looking neither left nor right. Reaching a door at the very end, she put one ear to the wooden panel, gave a little nod of satisfaction, and coolly let herself in.
Stranger and stranger.
It was certainly a busy Christmas Eve at Uppington Hall. All that was missing was Father Christmas and Amy had no doubt he would be about sooner or later. With a shrug, Amy appropriated one of the candles from the hall table and resumed her aborted journey.
This time, she didn’t even have the warning of a whining doorknob; whoever occupied this room must have brought their own oil. Instead, Amy gave a start as she found herself face to face with yet another pale-gowned figure.
“Jane!” she gasped.
Jane held a warning finger to her lips. Her pristine white nightcap perched on top of her smooth brown hair, which had been braided into a single long tail that fell nearly to her waist. She gave a quick look around. “So you figured it out, too.”
Figured what out? Other than the way to the kitchen, that was. Not wanting to admit ignorance, Amy gave a quick, decisive nod.
“She just left her room,” said Jane, in a hurried whisper. “If we move quickly, we can catch them before we miss too much.”
Miss what? Amy wondered, nodding furiously in agreement. Catch whom? It was all very confusing. What had Lady Uppington put in those pies? Had everyone run mad except her?
“Come along,” said Jane. “There’s no time to be lost. Miss Gwen is searching her room as we speak.”
“Whose room?” Amy blurted out.
Jane looked sharply at her. “Lady Jerard.”
“Of course,” muttered Amy. “I knew that.”
Fortunately, Jane was in too much haste to enquire further. “Here. Take this.” Jane extended the large object she had been holding, adding matter-of-factly, “I have my pistol.”
Pistol? For Lady Jerard? What?
Automatically putting out her hand, Amy felt her wrist sag under the weight. “What is it?” she hissed, squinting in the dim light.
“A warming pan,” said her cousin calmly.
“A warming—” On inspection, that did, indeed, appear to be what it was; a warming pan, with the coals removed. Amy turned it over in her hands, peering closely at the copper casing. Miss Gwen did have that sword parasol and Jane a reticule that doubled as a grenade…. “Does it turn into a crossbow, or have a sword concealed in the handle?” she asked eagerly.
“Well, no,” said Jane apologetically. “But it does make a rather satisfying thunk when you clunk someone over the head with it.”
Fair enough. Amy shouldered her weapon and scurried after her cousin down the length of the hallway and around a curve to a stairwell Amy hadn’t been aware existed. It twisted downwards in a dizzying spiral of whitewashed walls.
Amy caught at Jane’s arm as they bypassed the landing and started on a another flight. “How do you know where we’re going?”
It was Amy’s own ancestral-home-by-marriage and she hadn’t had the foggiest idea of where half the corridors led. Other than the path between her bedroom and the main reception rooms, of course.
Jane just looked at her. Amy could see her right eyebrow beginning to rise.
Not the eyebrow. She couldn’t take the eyebrow just now.
“Never mind,” Amy said hastily. “Forget I asked.”
Silly her. Jane undoubtedly had the entire floor plan of Uppington Hall committed to memory, outbuildings and all. Just an average precaution in the day of a professional spy. That was, Amy was forced to admit, one reason why she herself hadn’t lasted terribly long in the trade. She was very good at the whole dashing escapades bit, but very poor at advance planning. After all, how was one to know what one wanted to know until one was in a position to want to know it? Unless one was Jane, that was.
The winding stair spat them out onto an intricately inlaid marble floor that Amy recognized as belonging to the first floor. Jane led the way soundlessly down another corridor, pausing in front of an ornate door with a curved top, that Amy recognized as the door to the library. Richard had taken her there the other day to show her his favorite globe, the one that he had accidentally launched out the French doors and into the duck pond as a scapegrace little boy. The thought made Amy smile. But only for a moment.
How many more stories would they have time to exchange if she were to go back off to Paris?
A sharp hiss of indrawn breath brought her back to the business at hand. With a warning look, Jane held a finger to her lips and angled her head to the door.
* * *
Marlowe… Marvell…. Richard’s finger followed an alphabetical line across the shelf of verse, but it was no use. Dead poets were all very well in their way, but their cold hands couldn’t lend talent to the living.
It had really been quite poor planning on his part, his mother had opined with that irritating touch of maternal smugness, to write poetry to a teenage infatuation but not to his bride. Richard’s pointing out that “teenage” and “infatuated” were the general prerequisites for the writing of poetry had left his mother unmoved.
“But Amy doesn’t want poetry,” he had argued.
“Don’t be silly,” his mother had said, as though he were closer to eight than twenty-eight. “All women want poetry. Especially when you’ve been writing it to someone else. I saw the look on her face when that dreadful Deirdre announced that she had poetry from you.”
How could he explain that the look had been there already, product of homesickness for a life he had taken away from her—and then offered back to her. Somehow, the giving back hadn’t worked quite as he intended. She had seemed, in fact, more upset by the cure than by the disease. Richard frowned at the elaborately embossed bindings. He knew he was missing something, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what. With a sigh, Richard tossed Marvell and his winged chariots aside. Poetry wasn’t the remedy. But since he wasn’t quite sure what the remedy was, here he was, on the second floor balcony of his parents’ library at three in the morning on Christmas Eve, culling the shelves for inspiration.
Merton… Milton…. Paradise Lost hit a bit too close to home right now. Richard picked up Paradise Regained, but it appeared to be entirely devoid of useful tips on how to get back to a state of grace.
Below, the library door slid inward. A female figure stepped hesitantly in. Richard glanced eagerly down, but it was the wrong woman. She was too tall, fair rather than dark. Her blonde curls glowed like a nimbus in the light of her candle. Pushing the door closed behind her, she looked from left to right, as though she were looking for something or somebody.
Blast. Deirdre. He bloody hoped she wasn’t looking for him. Richard ducked behind a bust of Horace. He felt like a fool, hiding behind the statuary, but he really wasn’t in the mood for another tete-a-tete, particularly not at a singularly compromising hour of the morning. With any luck, she had just come for a book to wile away the sleepless hours, and, having found one, would depart forthwith.
Funny, that. He didn’t remember Deirdre being much of a reader. Of poetry or prose. But that had all been seven years ago. They had all changed in seven years. Perhaps Lord Jerard had awakened her to an appreciation of the joys of good prose. Or perhaps she was just very, very bored.
She moved purposefully towards the far end of the room. Purposeful was good. Go on, Richard thought, sucking in his breath and pushing as far back against the wall as he could. Horace rested on a very pointy plinth, which was doing its best to put a permanent dent in Richard’s midsection. Pick a book. Pick a book and go.
Instead of heading for the shelves, she made for the French doors that opened out onto the snowbound garden. Richard stifled a sigh. Brilliant. That was all he needed. Soulful staring into the moon-bright night while he found himself punctured in places God had never intended.
Pushing aside one of the heavy brocaded drapes, she leaned close to the glass panel, so close that her breath left a fine fog on the glass. Holding up her candle, she moved it first to the right, then to the left, as though she were… signaling. Signaling whom?
Before Richard could speculate further, she unlatched the door with a quick, decisive motion, yanking it open with one hand. The draperies blew back as a frigid gust of air rushed into the room, and with it, the androgynous form of someone shrouded in a thick black cloak, a hood pulled low over his or her head.
“I thought I was like to freeze out there!” said in a female voice, in very colloquial French.
“English, please,” said Deirdre coldly, in the sort of voice he had never heard her use before. “And keep your voice down. We don’t know who else is about. The house is simply swarming with Selwicks and their brats.”
Richard’s jaw had relocated to somewhere in the vicinity of his waistline. What in the devil? An irreverent part of his brain speculated on exactly what his mother would have done to his former ladylove had she heard her darling grandchildren being referred to as brats. A more useful part of his brain was wondering what the devil she was about and exactly why she was conducting rendezvous with French speaking persons in his parents’ library in the wee hours of the morning.
“I need more time,” Deirdre was saying. “I haven’t got it yet.”
The cloaked figure made a gesture of displeasure. “I thought you said it would be an easy job.”
Deirdre frowned. “It should have been. The wife was an unanticipated complication.”
“You mean,” said the other woman, with Gallic directness, “that he no longer has the infatuation for you.”
“Nonsense,” said Deirdre, with a smile that sent a chill right through Richard’s wool coat, brocade waistcoat and assorted layers of linen. “It’s simply a matter of reminding him.”
Richard and Horace exchanged a look of masculine disgust.
“It will just take me a little more time to persuade him to confide in me, that’s all. But he will,” Deirdre concluded, with insulting assurance. Had he really been that much of a pushover seven years before? Apparently, yes. “For old time’s sake.”
Their old times hadn’t been that good.
Below, the library door appeared to be moving of its own accord. It slid slightly and then stopped again. Their backs to it, neither Deirdre nor her companion noticed. Richard frowned down at the portal, but it appeared to have decided to stay still.
The other woman arrived at a decision. “I shall return tomorrow, then. The same time. Shall you be able to stay another night?”
Deirdre gave a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t see why not.”
“But I do!” This time, the door was definitely in motion. It careened open, bumping into his mother’s wallhangings before rebounding back. As Richard watched, his wife charged into the room like a very short Valkyrie, waving a—was that a warming pan?—over her head like a battle axe.
His wife skidded to a halt, warming pan at the ready, and confronted the two startled conspirators. “Don’t even think of trying to escape. I heard everything. The game is up!”
To move on to Chapter Six, click here….
Why do I get the feeling Amy somehow bungled the burtsing-in bit?
GO Amy! I am glad she is asserting herself to Deidre, but it could come back to bite her, if you know what I mean.
I knew it! I knew that retched woman was a spy. I love poor Amy having no idea what Jane was talking about but going along anyways. Jane was always the brains of the operation. I actually think it might work in Jane’s favor to have Amy bursting in. Everyone already knows Amy is the Purple Gentian’s wife. So if by chance Deidre escapes or there was someone else watching (who wasn’t Richard) then Jane’s cover isn’t blown. Although, we got to get Amy something better than a warming pan.
Plus, totally excited about Eloise and Colin. And will Eloise ever finish her dissertation?
Oh no! Where was Jane? I feel the need to cringe. This sounds like something that would happen to me. Thinking I am saving the day but really I am doing something embarrassing.
This is why Amy would not have made it as a spy. She needs control. It would be much more effective to give Deidre a false sense of security and catch her later. Too bad Jane couldn’t stop her. Can’t wait to see how it all works out!
Oh, Amy! I know that it’s vindicating to find out that the wretched tart’s a spy, but a little more discretion please dear? When this moment is all over however, Richard needs to sweep Amy up in front of a captured Deirdre, give her a big snog, and declare his love for her outshining anything he felt for the evil minx and march her straight off to the war office.
I think the whole point is that Amy will realize spying is not for her. She is too impetuous and stealth isn’t in her vocabulary.
I love how Amy, who has no real spy experience,is the one barging into the library in the middle of the night. While the other two, very well trained spies, are hiding in the shadows!! GO Amy!!
WOW! What is Richards reaction?! Jane probably sent her in so she does not blow her cover. Jane could have also gone outside to visit the other person.
I knew that wench was bad.
Richard and Amy need to talk!!!!!! Neither of them will say anything it will be up to his mommy to point them both in the right direction.
I’m loving this. 😀 I can’t wait to find out what happens.
This will help hold me over until Night Jasmine.
Thanks so much Lauren.
Loving the story and and very excited that Eloise & Colin will be making an entrance.
OMG! this one is really great. Poor Richard was try to find some poetry for Amy so she won’t leave him. They are so mixed up. I knew Deirdre is an evil wench, i can’t believe she thought she could get information from Richard. Like HELLO, Richard hates you Deirdre. I wonder who her secret guest is. I just see Amy bursting in the library with the warming pan, that hilarious. Although i dont know what Jane was thinking letting her do that. I want to know what Richard is gonna do. I can’t wait for more.
I love that Eloise & Colin are gonna be in here too.
YES!!! Finally Deidre is going to get whats coming to her! I knew she was somehow involved! I cant wait to see what happens, maybe there will be a big fight scene between Amy and Deidre and Amy will kick her butt! 🙂 or maybe she will kick Deidre’s butt, but will get hurt and Richard will have to romantically come to her rescue!
Hmmmm….I’m feeling like everything isn’t as it seems.
Is she REALLY talking about Richard?
I love how we’re all like ‘Ahhh, that horrid wretch!’ re: Deirdre! ^.^
Thanks so much for writing this Lauren!I love it!
LOL warming pan…..please tell me she hits deirdre!!!
I have been looking for this all weekend!!
Ur awesome lauren!!
There has to be more than what we are all thinking. I do think that Deirdre is an evil wench but there has to be more to this than we are catching onto.
I love Amy and where is Hen? This wouldn’t be complete without Miles and Hen.
Ummmmmm…… I LOVE IT!!!!! This is a great novella, it should be published because I know that I’m definitely going to want to re read it!!!
I want more Hen and Miles. PLEASE!!!
I just got caught up in the novella reading. Cudos!!! You were absolutely right, Lauren. Amy and Richard were in their “honeymoon” stage. Nine months later, reality sets in. It’s nice to see that Richard is upset that Amy would leave at the first suggestion, while Amy is upset because she blames herself for Richard having to retire from the espionage game. They do need to talk, which I’m sure you are already planning for them to do. As for Deidre, it is my thinking that the visitor is… I won’t say because, if I’m right, I’ll spoil the story! I’ll let you know if I was right.
Thanks so much for the extra read, Lauren. This is a great Christmas gift that keeps on giving!!! Have a great new year, too.
Oh, I also think that Deidre is a spy for the French. It is only my opinion, but I think that she was fishing to find out if Richard was up to his old tricks as the Purple Gentian. As I said, that is only my opinion.
Amy wielding a warming pan is an image that will keep me laughing until the next chapter! Thank you for another exciting installment and I can’t wait to see if Amy gets to knock anyone over the head, particularly Deidre!
And I also can’t wait to see what Colin and Eloise have been up to recently!
That ending with Amy does make me cringe. A little more subterfuge really is necessary for the spy business. I can’t wait to hear from Colin and Eloise as well.
Thanks for the novella! I’m loving it. Congrats, Lauren, on another wonderful story.
On another note, I am looking forward to reading the Temptation of the Night Jasmine … I just hope I can get it onto my e-book before my baby decides to make her appearance!
This is getting better and better. Amy and Richard are the cutest things ever. I just know Amy is jumping up and down with joy to get back at Deidre.
Oh, I would SOOOOO love to see Deirdre tied up the way Theresa was at the end of the Black Tulip. You know, with Amy and Richard making declarations of love over her head and occasionally kicking her to shut her up.
Oh how I’ve missed Richard and Amy!! I simply must finish your novels in one sitting, so the time between these chapters is torture! Thank you so much for giving us a wonderful story to look forward to.
The way I see it with the ever changing news its hard to keep up to date on current facts. Most of these commenters arent taking into effect the change of the global economy and how much of a different it has on news technologies / medical growth / economic / political issues. But anyways nice read, defiantly enjoyed your post. Found your blog on google search engines btw… most people always wonder how people are finding them.