The Holly and the Thistle
The Holly & the Thistle
Regan Walker
Copyright 2012 by Regan Walker
Smashwords Edition
The Holly & the Thistle
A chance meeting at Berry’s wine shop, a misunderstanding and Christmastide all come together to allow the most handsome Scot in London to give Lady Emily Picton the best Christmas gift ever: a marriage not of convenience, but of love.
The Holly & the Thistle
Regan Walker
www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.
THE HOLLY & THE THISTLE
Copyright © 2012 Regan Walker
All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.
Digital edition created by Maureen Cutajar
www.gopublished.com
ISBN 978-1-938876-32-5
To my father, William Walker, who decided my mother was the woman for him the very first time they met.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I must acknowledge the gracious assistance of Mr. Simon Berry of Berry Bros. & Rudd still located on 3 St. James Street in London. He patiently answered all my questions and even reviewed the scenes that take place in his historic wine shop so they would be authentic. And, he allowed me to use the storefront on the cover! Thank you, Mr. Berry!
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
THE HOLLY & THE THISTLE
Author’s Note
Also by Regan Walker
Author Bio
Of all the trees that spring in wood,
The holly bears the crown.
—from “The Holly and the Ivy” by Harrison S. Morris
In Scotland grows a warlike flower,
Too rough to bloom in lady’s bower.
—from “The Thistle’s Grown Aboon the Rose” by Allan Cunningham
THE HOLLY & THE THISTLE
*
London, December 1818
Lady Emily Picton hurried along St. James Street, drawing her cloak tightly around her and tugging her bonnet down against the driving rain. Hoping no one would recognize her in the downpour, she’d sent her carriage on ahead to the next stop. Ever in a hurry, she’d made the unusual decision of going to Berry’s wine shop alone.
A glance down showed her half boots splashing mud onto the bottom of her cloak. She shrugged. No matter the mud, she must persist if she was to procure a bottle of the Dowager Countess of Claremont’s favorite Madeira. She always brought a bottle of the Portuguese wine to the countess’s dinners, and she would not disappoint the old dear tonight, even if the countess was engaged, once again, in unwanted matchmaking efforts on her behalf.
A speeding carriage lurched toward Emily, splashing dirty water onto her cloak. She stumbled sideways in an effort to avoid the vehicle’s wheels but only received another volley of mud for her effort, this time onto her face.
“Argh!” She gasped, wiping the cold brown liquid out of her eyes with her gloved hand. As she struggled to recover, her foot caught on the edge of her cloak and she tumbled to the ground, landing hard on her hip. St. James would have to be one of the streets in London with pavement. Her bonnet, dislodged in the fall, sagged to one side of her face. In a rare fit of temper, Emily ripped it from her head, dragging pins from her hair. The bonnet sank into the same puddle from which she now labored to rise. The day had turned disastrous.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” a portly gentleman said as he stopped to assist her. She took his offered hand with her muddied glove and rose. Reaching for his handkerchief, he wiped the grimy liquid from his hands then offered her the cloth.
“Thank you, yes,” she said with a sigh, accepting the handkerchief and using it to scrape mud from her kid gloves. She handed it back. “I’ll be fine. Just a bit tousled.” That was putting the cap on the donkey, but she’d spare the kind stranger the details. She could already feel a bruise forming on her hip.
He picked up her mud-soaked bonnet and handed it to her with a sympathetic look. “Your bonnet seems a loss, I’m sorry to say.”
“I do agree, sir.” Stuffing it into the pocket of her cloak, heavy with the filthy water of the street, she thanked him, bade him good day and walked on in the rain, now at a slower pace, toward George Berry’s wine shop.
A most disastrous day, indeed.
* * *
“Egads! What a deluge!” William Stephen exclaimed as he stepped into Berry’s wine merchants. There was only a hint of a burr in his words; his years at Cambridge had allowed him to drop it when he was not among his fellow Scots.
As he brushed the rain from his shoulders, the smell of coffee and spices rose to greet his nostrils. He inhaled deeply of the rich aroma, a small but welcome consolation for his troubles. Today’s weather could compete with any rain in Dundee. Rain or no, he was determined to have a drink of the best cognac he could procure before he forced himself to endure the Dowager Countess of Claremont’s Christmas affair. There, he suspected, would be a bevy of English maidens looking to snag a wealthy husband.
Not for the first time he wondered why he had allowed his father to talk him into spending the holidays in London. His father hated the English. London was populated by the English. Though William called some Englishmen friends and even did business with their government, on the whole he considered the English a plague on the Scots people. Still, his father had mentioned he approved of William’s friend Lord Ormond whose family owned lands in Scotland, and when his father mumbled something about fate, William had decided it would be good to see his friend after all.
A young clerk looked up from the wooden counter where he was dusting bottles that would likely soon be filled with wine. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Ah, yes, you can. But first, might you find somewhere to put my sodden coat where it will nae render your floor a loch? I did not think it possible for England’s weather to outdo Scotland’s, but it seems London’s giving it a go.”
The clerk stepped around the counter and accepted William’s coat, drenched from the sudden downpour and dripping on the floor’s oak wood planking. “It’s a bad storm, no doubt about that, sir, the worst London’s seen in a fortnight. I’ll just hang your coat over here by the fire. It might be somewhat drier when you leave.”
William strode to the fire and handed the helpful clerk his hat, which joined his coat on the stand, leaving him in his brown waistcoat and damp breeches. Miraculously his shirt and cravat were still dry, but his boots bore splashes of mud.
Noticing what appeared to be a scale in one corner, but much larger than any he’d seen in a wine shop, William asked, “What is that used for?”
“That is our coffee scale, but it is used as much to weigh our customers as it is our coffee. Lord Byron himself has been weighed there, along with the royal duke
s and the Honourable William Pitt, our former prime minister. Half the nobility have found their way to that scale,” the clerk said proudly.
William shrugged. Only the English would engage in such foolishness.
Returning to his side the clerk said, “Mr. Berry is out this afternoon, sir, but I would be pleased to serve you. Would you like a cup of hot coffee? I just put some on to brew. Or a cup of tea, perhaps, while you look about?”
“I have only one item in mind, lad, and I am told Berry’s is the place to find the best.”
“And that would be, sir?”
“A fine French cognac. I picked up a fondness for the brandy on a trip to France.”
“I was just unpacking some this morning. It’s in the cellar. Do you mind a short wait while I fetch it?”
“Not at all, lad. Take your time. I’d welcome some time in front of the hearth.”
William had just faced the crackling fire when the door opened with the jingle of a bell. He turned. Standing inside and cursing under her breath was a ragamuffin of a female in a soaked gray cloak that clung to her body, revealing what he thought might be a decent figure. Black hair, wet and dangling loose to her shoulders, hid most of her face. All of her was splattered with mud.
Taking in her appearance, he wondered if it was a banshee, a witch or a woman. He had yet to decide when she swore again and brushed her hair from her eyes. “All of this for a bottle of Madeira!” she gritted out under her breath.
“Can I be of assistance…madam?”
She looked up, startled, seeing him for the first time. “Why, yes, my good man, you can get me a bottle of Madeira.”
It was her pale purple eyes that convinced him to head for the shelf where he’d seen the Portuguese wine. She might be a charwoman who hadn’t bathed in weeks, but those eyes were remarkable, the color of thistle blooming in the Highlands in spring, framed by the thickest lashes he’d ever seen. “I believe I have one for you just over here.”
He walked to the shelf. As he reached for the bottle, however, he noticed there was a choice. It was unlikely she could afford the most expensive, this bedraggled chit, so he selected the one he knew would cost the least.
“Will this do?”
He handed her the bottle, which instantly drew a frown.
“No, sir, it will not do. I’d like”—she studied the shelf behind him—“that one.” She pointed to the most expensive, rarest bottle, the one with the beautiful handwritten label, The Spy in script, named after the ship that imported it to England.
“If you insist, madam,” he said, fighting a grin. Perhaps she was purchasing the wine for the lady of the house.
“I do,” she affirmed with ill temper. And with that she plunked sufficient coins on the counter to more than cover the item’s price. Abruptly she turned, taking her rumpled state to the door and leaving a trail of water and mud behind her as she went. Through the glass of the paned windows, William watched the bedraggled figure struggle with her cloak and bottle, gather herself together and trudge down the street.
William laughed out loud, a great belly laugh. For a charwoman she had quite the attitude. Extraordinary cheek!
Only the English.
* * *
Emily glanced at her reflection in the oval mirror and shook off the memory of her dreadful afternoon. The final stroke had been the brawny clerk’s laughter as she left, so loud she could hear it through the shop window. Such broad shoulders he’d had, and that amused expression… Insufferable man! She’d be seeing Mr. Berry about him. Why, Berry’s catered to even the Prince Regent, and the clerks were always polite. Until today.
The face of Emily’s maid appeared in the mirror, her eyes fixed on Emily’s hair, which was now clean but still wet. Seeing her concerned look, Emily said, “It will just have to do, Sarah. My hair is only damp; it will dry by the time I arrive.”
“’Tis lovely, my lady, and the curls are set, but I worry ye’ll find yerself with a cold in the head come morning. Christmas is less than a week away. It would not do for you to be down ill.”
“I’m healthy as a horse, Sarah, and you know it. It wasn’t the rain I minded; it was the mud—and the fall.” And that clerk! He might have been tall and broad and, she grudgingly conceded, handsome, but he was insufferable all the same.
The Dowager Countess of Claremont was known for her balls and parties. No one in the ton would dare refuse her invitation, and certainly not Emily, one of the countess’s favorites. The bad weather would not keep her away if the countess’s misplaced good intentions couldn’t. Since Emily had been widowed three years before, the countess had made her raison d’etre finding Emily another husband, preferably, the countess told her, a wealthy one. Emily, however, was not anxious to wed. Not after the cold Sir Thomas. Their marriage had been no love match. And though she shared it with only a few, he had been cruel. Not at the beginning, of course. He had been very polite, perhaps too polite. But soon he’d become overly critical and then simply ignored her, treating her like a hunting quarry he’d captured and preserved for his home. Men were not to be trusted, and certainly not to be given authority over one’s life. No, she’d remain the virtuous widow. At twenty-four, one might even say she was content. Any dreams she’d had for a loving husband had died with Sir Thomas, and she was determined to leave her dreams buried with his memory.
“’Tis a nasty bruise on yer hip, to be sure,” said Sarah.
Emily turned and placed her hands on her maid’s shoulders, wanting to reassure her. “It will heal, Sarah. Now we must see to my jewelry.”
“The pearls would go nicely with the lavender gown, my lady.”
“The pearls it is. And bring the amethyst pendant. It might add the right touch, hanging from that necklace, don’t you think?”
Sarah slid the pearls through the small pendant and placed them around Emily’s neck, securing the clasp. The purple jewel dropped to just above her breasts in the low cut but still appropriate gown. “Perfect,” the maid announced.
Emily stood back, content with the overall effect of understated elegance. She wanted to please the countess but not overdo it. “I’d best be off, since I want to arrive early.”
To her delight, she did. Her carriage arrived before the crush, and Emily carried the wine nestled carefully against her. She wanted no further accidents this day. Crossing the threshold into the entry hall of the estate, she looked up to see a kissing bough of mistletoe as she handed the butler the bottle of Madeira.
“For the countess, Cruthers.”
He took the bottle and her black velvet cloak. She followed him into the parlour as she tugged her long white gloves over her elbows.
The countess was gowned in emerald silk with a headpiece towering above her gray curls featuring a peacock feather. The older woman loved feathers. Holly and other greens of the season decorated the room. Candles burned on shelves and tables, their light bringing out the sheen in the Pomona green brocade sofas. A fire blazed in the white marble fireplace, the overall effect one of warmth. Emily acknowledged the countess with a smile as she approached.
“Emily, I am delighted you have arrived early! We shall have a glass of sherry and”—her voice became serious— “I need a word with you.”
“I brought your favorite Madeira,” Emily offered cheerily, knowing the countess would prefer that.
“Of course you did, you sweet child.”
Recalling the curses that had escaped her mouth in uncharacteristic anger earlier that day, Emily wondered at the label “sweet,” but she decided not to share the ugliness of her afternoon. Instead, she went to stand in front of the fire, her hands extended toward the flames.
The countess picked up her jeweled quizzing glass and perused Emily’s gown. “I approve of your attire this evening, my dear. You look quite lovely.”
“It’s kind of you to say so, Muriel. You’re a picture of the season yourself.” The countess had insisted Emily address her by her given name since the two had grown close.
The countess looked toward her butler standing at the door. “Cruthers, see that Lady Picton and I have a glass of the Madeira. Then you may leave us until the other guests arrive.”
The butler poured them each a small glass of the rich red wine and retreated, leaving them in private.
“The decorations are splendid,” Emily remarked. “Mine will go up on Christmas Eve.”
“When I decided to stay in Town for the holidays this year, I thought to start early, hence this soirée. While most of the ton have retired to the country for the season, a few remain. Tonight’s dinner will put our guests in the mood.”
“I daresay it will,” Emily agreed, taking a sip of the Madeira. She relished the wine and the warmth of the room. She still shivered when she thought about the cold rain she’d endured.
“Now, my dear.” The countess gestured to a chair, indicating Emily should sit, and took the one next to it in front of the roaring fire. “You are to be introduced to a gentleman this evening. Quite the unusual man, I’m told. A Scotsman. Try to be nice to him.”
“A Scot, Muriel?” Emily was surprised. “Are you so desperate to see me wed that you’ve scraped the barrel searching for that elusive next husband? You know I have no desire to marry again. Couldn’t I just remain the lone widow as you have?”
“Certainly not! You are beautiful and young. Your family never should have married you off to old Sir Thomas, decorated war hero or no. It was a good thing he was seldom in London. I never did like the look of that man. Reminded me of an old bull my father kept at our country house. Meanest thing I ever did see. Well, at least Sir Thomas got no child on you. You must have children with a husband who cares for you, not some arrogant cold fish. I will settle for nothing less than the right man.”
Emily decided to humor her friend. “How did you choose this candidate, may I ask?”