Here is your sneak peek into my Christmas Regency novella 'A Christmas Surprise' which you can buy now for less than the price of a cup of coffee!
“Utterly preposterous!”
Lord Robert, the Viscount of Marchwood was not happy,
and he wanted all to know it. The fact that it was only himself and his valet
in the room had not occurred to him.
“Indeed,” said his valet smoothly, holding out an array
of cravats for his lordship to choose. “Most preposterous.”
“At my time of life!” Marchwood fumed. “To think that I
am incapable of organising my own affairs – little though they are – and to
instruct me on proper etiquette! It should not be borne, Thomas, and I will not
stand for it!”
Thomas knew better than to offer any words of advice,
or any words at all for that manner. The Viscount was often fractious in
winter, and this winter had been one of the coldest and more miserable in
living memory. Even the thought of the Marchwood Christmas Ball had not been sufficient
to raise his spirits.
“Thirty years!” The Viscount of Marchwood boomed.
“Thirty years Thomas, that I have celebrated Christmas in this fashion, and yet
I am still considered a babe in arms!”
“I am sure that is not the case.” Thomas handed over
the blue cravat that Marchwood had gestured towards, speaking in the pause that
his lordship had left. “The butler here ...”
“The butler here knows nothing,” Marchwood said
petulantly, trying unsuccessfully to tie his own cravat, and trapping his
finger in the process. “If I had known that such an ingrate idiot was running
Scotchmore Castle, I would never have chosen it as our Christmas Ball
location.”
Thomas said nothing, but reached over and released
Marchwood’s finger, which was starting to turn the same shade of blue as the
cravat. His lordship grunted his thanks, and Thomas bowed slightly.
In all of the five years that Thomas had been the
fourth Viscount of Marchwood’s valet, he had never seen him in such a state. Of
course, if the rumours that were currently circulating were true, then
Marchwood had much bigger problems than a simple festive party.
Scotchmore Castle, nestled in the centre of the
Scottish Highlands, was large and dominated the landscape in which it sat. A
dramatic looking castle, nestled between two large mountains and surrounded by
a loch it had two tall towers were pinched together in the north, and the high
crenellations were peppered with statues of gargoyles and grotesque goblins.
And yet, somehow, in the thin and weak winter light, Scotchmore Castle still
seemed to be a haven of safety and of warmth in the barren Highlands landscape.
It had been in a warm, summerly light admittedly that
Marchwood had first seen Scotchmore Castle. He had been visiting his sister,
who lived nearby, and on a ride on a blustery June day had happened upon the
place. It had seemed then like a fairy tale castle, hidden just out of sight of
the ordinary visitor. Marchwood had felt as though he had disturbed a dream.
When he had returned home to London, it had not been difficult for him to
discover the name of the inhabitants, and from there to contact them, anonymous
at first, naturally.
The current owners were celebrating the joys of the
season in Bath, and had let out their seat to the Viscount – though they had
insisted on payment before he took possession for the month, considering the
news that they had recently heard about his finances. Nothing was certain, of
course, and no one would dream of saying aloud in company that the Viscount of
Marchwood was in dire straits and short of more than a little money ... and yet
in every coffee house and every private home in the land, such unmentionable
things were, quietly, mentioned.
“My lord,” Thomas said gently. “If the funds to host
such a lavish festive ball are not ... immediately to hand, then perhaps –”
“Immediately to hand?” Marchwood repeated, eyes wide.
“I have not the faintest clue what you are referring to, my lad.”
Thomas ignored the term ‘my lad’ – it had not been true
for over a decade, but then, at the age of twenty six, he was barely his
master’s peer either. Evidently any mention of financial circumstances were
simply not to be borne. Instead, he cast a discerning eye over his lordship’s
current attire.
Although Marchwood clung slightly to the older ways of dressing
– lace poking out of the cuffs of his sleeves, and much looser fitting breeches
– Thomas had managed to bring him back to modernity in small, subtle ways. His
pantaloons were cropped, as were those of all fashionable men in society, and
his leather boots had been polished to reflect the candlelight. The silk shirt
had been perfectly cut by the Viscount’s tailor to match the coat’s lapels –
though it could be midnight before Thomas managed to get him into it.
Thomas coughed. “’Tis still a week before Christmas, my
lord; I am sure that McGerald –”
“It takes more than a week to train a butler, Thomas,
you of all people should know how much training it takes to work well,”
Marchwood interrupted. Three different blue silk waistcoats were lying on the
bed, and he spoke absentmindedly as he perused them. “You would think that I
pay these people enough to offer myself and my guests true service.”
Smiling, Thomas stepped forward and ignored his master.
“The dark blue waistcoat I think, my lord. Anything lighter would remove the
attention from one’s face.”
Marchwood nodded, his long grey hair becoming more and more
unkempt as he rushed around the room. “I need this Christmas ball to be
perfect, Thomas, absolutely perfect. For Audrey’s sake, it must be perfect.”
Thomas was just finishing the Viscount’s toilette, and
as Marchwood spoke those particular words, he was holding a large bottle of
scent – which he dropped. He was fortunate, though: the large Aubusson rug was
soft, and caught the glass bottle safely, with no part spilled.
“Careful, Thomas!” Marchwood was not cross, but was too
worked up about his disagreement with the Scotchmore Castle’s butler to
moderate his tone.
Cheeks flaming red, Thomas picked up the bottle,
muttering apologies. He put the glass bottle back onto the side table, and
caught a glance of his reflection in the giltwood mirror. His blush deepened.
The Lady Audrey, as Thomas knew her, had just turned
eighteen. The Christmas ball was her first introduction to society, and it was
well known by all that this was probably her first, best, and only chance of
securing a husband – before the Marchwood money coffers ran completely dry.
Every young lady of her age had a coming out ball, or
an event hosted by her family to formally introduce her to society. In
attendance would be all the normal people – family, godparents, friends of the
family, people that she really did not need to be ‘introduced’ to – and then
those who were important, and influential. A good report of a young girl’s
first society ball could dramatically increase her chances of attracting the
most promising of suitors.
Clearing his throat, Thomas lifted the dark blue
waistcoat, unbuttoned it, and helped his lordship into it.
“Her ladyship’s entrance into society will certainly be
a success, my lord,” Thomas said, and he was proud to hear that there was no
tremble in his voice. “You know from many sources that she has been a great
triumph in the small gatherings where she has appeared over the last
twelvemonth; indeed, I have heard from many other valets of my acquaintance
that there have been countless people desirous that her coming out into society
had occurred more than a year previous.”
Marchwood raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, Thomas?” His
voice sounded hopeful, and he seemed to have forgotten about his momentary
quarrel with the new staff that he was to use for his sojourn in Scotchmore
Castle.
Thomas nodded. “It can be no surprise to you, my lord,
as she takes after you in all the best ways. You should be,” and here there was
only the smallest catch in his voice, “should be very proud of her. She is a
real credit to you.”
The Viscount was not impervious to compliment and
charm. “Well, Thomas, I thank you for your words, they are kindly received. I
will admit, raising that poor child as a widower was certainly not the way that
I thought I would see the end of the family name. It has not been without its
problems.”
Carefully folding and hanging various elements of
clothing that Marchwood had rejected for that evening, Thomas could not help
but smile. The Lady Audrey was certainly a strong character – and yet she had a
softness about her that only those who lived within her home would ever see.
“She will make a good match,” Marchwood had continued
talking. “It will do my bones good to see her go to a good home, and become a
mother herself.”
Thomas clenched the silk cravats that were in his
hands, and thanked God that he had his back to his master. The thought of Lady
Audrey leaving her father’s house was one that had crossed his mind, every now
and again, but it had always been a far off moment, a time that would never be
reached by mortals. And now that time was at hand.
“And it must be perfect,” fretted the Viscount.
“Perfect, I tell you Thomas!”
“I can see no reason why perfection cannot be attained,
my lord,” he said smoothly, “and you have a full week, as I have said, in order
to demonstrate your high and exacting standards to McGerald, and the rest of
the staff here.”
Marchwood looked at him hesitantly. The years had not
been kind to the Viscount; the early loss of his wife, the main culprit. His
grey eyes peered out from a deeply wrinkled brow, and his whiskers had been
grown long.
“You truly believe so, Thomas?”
“I know so,” the valet said comfortingly, placing the
thick velvet black jacket over his master’s shoulders. “Each Marchwood
Christmas ball is a triumph, and I see no reason why this should be any
different.”
Marchwood nodded slowly, slightly falling, slightly
sitting into a silver gilt and silk embroidered chair. The remaining set of
five were placed around the room, with the rug forming the centre piece of the
room, perfectly reflected in the painted ceiling, a myriad of colours and
geometric patterns. Not, perhaps, the most modern interpretation of household
décor, but considering the age of the castle, it was a miracle that it was
still intact.
It was, in fact, the second best chamber that
Scotchmore Castle had to offer. The first, naturally, had gone to the lady of
the house.
Before either of them could cry out or exclaim in
shock, the double doors to the chamber that opened out into the corridor were
thrown open with such force and violence that they both smacked into the walls.
Thomas could see a large dent in the wooden panelling on the left hand side,
and winced. The Viscount would have to find the money to pay for that.
A woman stood in the doorway, cast into shadow by the
lack of candles that Marchwood had instructed for all corridors in the castle
whilst he was its occupant. As she took a step forward, she moved into the
light. She was not as old as she had immediately appeared; her hair was blonde
and neatly tamed; her features slight and delicate; her frame petite – and yet
there was a fire burning in her eyes that Thomas had seen many a time.
“Audrey,” her father said in delighted tones.
“Father.” She spoke angrily. “I find you at last.”
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