The Holly and the Thistle Read online

  “Here, you’ll be warmer with this.”

  “Very considerate of you.”

  “I like taking care of you, Emily, and not just for this afternoon. I want to care for you for the rest of your life.”

  Silence was her answer. She looked off into the distance at the other carriages passing by.

  The ride through the park was exhilarating for many reasons, including William having to negotiate around the other vehicles and horses careening pell-mell down the tree-lined path. Finally, however, he directed the horses into a copse of oak trees and turned on his seat to face Emily. She’d worn the blue gown he’d admired before, now covered with a dark blue cloak. Her pale purple eyes stared inquiringly at him.

  He would have given her more time, but his business required he return to Arbroath to oversee the construction of new ships. With increased emigration to America, they could hardly fill all the orders. He wasn’t a man to speak around an issue, either. She needed to know where he stood if she didn’t already.

  “Emily, leannan, I want you to be my bride and share my life. Come with me to Scotland.”

  She glanced briefly away then back to him. “I didn’t expect… I thought you would be leaving.”

  “I will be leaving, but I want you to come with me.”

  Her eyes stared intently into his, as if she were pleading with him to understand. “My life is here in London, William. My friends.”

  He reached for her hand. “Change your life, Emily. Make it one with mine. I love you, as I’ve told you before. I will not change. I am a constant man.”

  “I know, but…marriage?” She looked away. “It’s something I’d not considered.”

  He sighed, having hoped her reticence long broken. Was there anything left to do? Was there any way he could further prove himself? He loved Lady Emily Picton as much as anyone he’d ever known, and she was the one woman he ever wanted as his wife and the mother of his children. But he could not make her trust him. He could not make her build a life with him if it wasn’t in her heart. Perhaps they were like the holly and the thistle, the English and the Scots, separated by seasons, forever doomed to stay apart.

  “My ship, the Whirlwind, will leave London on the last day of this year. I cannot delay, Emily. I will wait for you onboard until it sails that afternoon with the tide. You have until then to decide.”

  * * *

  William stood on the deck of his schooner, staring not toward the sea, as was his custom, but toward London. Specifically, he watched the street Emily’s carriage would have to travel to arrive at the dock where his ship lay at anchor. They had to sail soon or miss the tide. The captain and the crew were growing anxious, and a most important connection awaited William in France.

  Several minutes passed. She wasn’t coming. He felt it in his gut.

  It might be the Stephen way to choose a bride with one look, but apparently acting on love at first sight was not Lady Picton’s way. Oh, she loved him, he was certain. He had seen it in her eyes. And a woman like Emily did not take a man to her bed unless she was married to him or she loved him. But fear of another unhappy marriage, of losing control of her life, held her back.

  William dismissed the vicar and turned away from London to face his captain. It was time to sail.

  * * *

  Emily paced in front of the fire, frequently darting a glance at the clock. William’s ship would be leaving soon. If she wanted to be on it, she would have to leave now. But how could she give up her life in London that had come to mean so much to her? The countess would tell her to go, she knew, but then Muriel was a romantic. Emily had been forced by her life to be practical. She couldn’t do this, could she?

  She had packed no bag, sent no instructions to her footman to ready her carriage. Her mind was saying stay, but her heart was telling her to go. She closed her eyes tightly and felt the tears come. Her stomach clenched. Could she live without William?

  When she thought about the years ahead, years without him, she saw only loneliness. Without love, without children of her own. Without the Scotsman. Without her Scotsman.

  Despair at the future overwhelmed her. She finally admitted to herself that she had come to love William, and the knowledge caused Emily to shout instructions to Harrison. Then she fled up the stairs for her cloak. But when she arrived at the dock, it was to see the sails of the schooner growing smaller in the distance. The ship glided away on the Thames. William had gone without her.

  Tears flowed down her cheeks and the horizon blurred. Emily wrapped her arms tightly around her chest as if to hold in her breaking heart. Oh, William, William, I was so wrong. You are not the man my first husband was.

  “You came,” a deep voice said behind her.

  Whirling, she wiped away tears with the back of her hands and blinked. William stood on the dock. Her handsome Scotsman was here!

  “I thought you left me,” she said in halting speech.

  “I could never leave you, my love, my life, mo chroi.”

  She flew into his open arms, and he held her tightly to his chest, whispering Gaelic words in her ear intermingled with the English, “I love you.” He kissed away her tears.

  “But your ship…” Emily stared up into his warm brown eyes.

  “Will be back. I’ve sent the crew on to France, and I have left my business to my captain. They’ll return by Twelfth Night for me. For us.”

  * * *

  As always, William was perfectly prompt. He allowed Emily time after their tearful reunion at the docks, both because he thought she’d need some and because he had missives to write and had to send again for the vicar, but he arrived at Emily’s door just after midnight, just when he’d said he would arrive. He wanted to be certain he was the first over the threshold on this New Year’s Day.

  The butler answered the door, a droll look on his face.

  “Cheer up, Harrison,” William said, handing the servant a large box of Scottish shortbread. Stepping into the entry hall he added, “I’ve come to bring the household luck for the rest of the coming year.”

  Emily must have heard his voice. She walked into the entry hall. “Hello,” she said. She was dressed in her lavender gown, with those pretty lips curved into the largest smile he’d ever seen.

  “Emily, I must explain our Scottish Hogmanay tradition to your butler.” Turning to Harrison, William said, “The first person to cross the threshold of the house—preferably a tall, dark and handsome man,” he added, waggling his eyebrows at Emily, “is the ‘first-foot,’ and brings the household gifts and good luck.” He then strode the short distance to Emily and kissed her. “I’ve delivered the shortbread to Harrison, but I’ve a gift for you, leannan, that would best be viewed in the parlour.”

  “Of course,” she agreed. “I was waiting for you there when I heard your voice. Come.”

  Emily walked before him. Once in front of the fire, with the door closed, he took the ring from his pocket and set it in her palm. “Your wedding ring, my love. I hope you like it. The vicar, the countess and the Ormonds will be here very soon.”

  “I see you are wasting no time!”

  “Not a moment, now that you’ve consented to be my wife.”

  He’d ordered the ring days ago, from a goldsmith he knew did Celtic designs. It was a wide gold band carved with thistles, and in the center was an amethyst the color of her eyes. It was a blending of his Scots heritage and Emily.

  She stared at the ring in her hand and then up at him and smiled. “I love it, William. It’s perfect, and it reminds me of you.”

  “Good. It reminds me of your eyes. I’ll hold it till the time it’s required.” He slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

  As if on cue, there came a knock on the parlour door.

  “Enter,” Emily said.

  Harrison’s face appeared. “My lady, it appears you have more guests. The Dowager Countess of Claremont, Lord and Lady Ormond, and the Vicar Mr. Donaldson.”

  “Show them in, Harrison, show them
all in! And please find some champagne in the cellar. We are to have a celebration. I am to wed Mr. Stephen.”

  The boisterous guests piled into the parlour and, after a few greetings and congratulations, gathered around the vicar and William and Emily to witness their vows. As soon as his ring was on her hand, however, as soon as the vicar pronounced them man and wife, William gave her the longest kiss he thought their guests would abide. Shouts of “Congratulations!” and “You did it!” filled the room.

  A slow smile spread across the dowager countess’s face. “Finally!” she enthused. “The right man!”

  Emily cried more tears, of course, as did Lady Ormond, who hugged Emily. Ormond slapped William on the back, and the countess gave him a wink.

  Because it was tradition, they all sang “Auld Lang Syne,” which William reminded them was written by the Scottish poet Robert Burns—or at least Burns was the one who’d gathered together the words the Scots sang at midnight. Then, after the song was concluded, William said, “You’re all invited to Scotland for Christmastide next year! We’ll celebrate in secret.”

  “We handle secrets rather well, Stephen,” Ormond said with a smile.

  “Good. Then I will plan to send one of my ships to transport you to my home. Bring along all those who want to come.”

  “Surely you’ll deliver her back to London for a visit before then,” said a concerned countess, glancing at Emily.

  Looking into his wife’s anxious eyes, William happily assured her, “We’ll be back in the summer or the fall for a visit.” Then, shifting his gaze to the countess, he added, “Depending on Emily’s condition.”

  His wife blushed happily and William beamed. The season was perfect. There was much to celebrate.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Today one can enter the past through the doors of Berry Bros. & Rudd wine merchants in London and, with little change, experience the same wonderful service my hero William Stephen did in 1818. It’s an institution with a wonderful history that dates back to the 17th century. In 1818, the Prince Regent did procure his wine from George Berry, then the owner, and the nobility and members of the ton did weigh themselves on the huge coffee scale that sat in the front room. In fact, even the Prince Regent weighed himself there, albeit anonymously. While St. James Street was more the purview of men than of women in those days, there is an old painting Mr. Berry showed me that dates to 1815 in which women are seen walking in front of the store, albeit with a male companion. That is why Emily was concerned she not be recognized on the street alone. If you are ever in London, be sure to stop by Berry Brothers and tell Mr. Simon Berry hello from me, one of his fans. And, should you be of a mind to do so, you can still purchase the Madeira wine sold under The Spy label.

  Stephen & Sons shipbuilding company was founded by Alexander Stephen beginning on the Moray Firth in 1750. In 1793 William Stephen, a descendent of his, established a firm of shipbuilders in Aberdeen. In 1813 another member of the family, again named William (our hero, don’t you know!), began another shipbuilding enterprise in Arbroath. One of the Stephen & Sons ships was, indeed, a schooner named the Whirlwind, which I thought fit in rather nicely with my Wind series.

  Some of you might wonder why my Scottish hero wasn’t looking for whisky on that rainy December day. Until the 1800s, there was very little Scotch whisky available for sale in cities such as Edinburgh or Glasgow, let alone in London. At the time, it was considered the equivalent of moonshine—a drink enjoyed by unrefined Highlanders, aged in sheep bladders and filtered through tartan. No one of William’s stature would have sought it out; instead such men enjoyed the finest European wines, along with sherry, port, and cognac. Of course, that all changed in the latter half of the 19th century.

  In my story I tried to be true to the Christmas traditions of Regency England, to let you experience their Christmastide, the twelve days of Christmas beginning on Christmas Eve and extending to “Twelfth Night” or Epiphany. Their celebration of the season was more modest than the grand (and very commercial) celebration we have today, and perhaps more meaningful for it. It is also true that the festival of Christmas was banned in Scotland—until 1950! But Hogmanay (New Year’s) was and is celebrated well.

  I wrote this story with the wonderful Choir of Clare College Cambridge singing English Christmas carols in the background. That and a cup of spicy tea quite put me in the mood for the season. I hope my story does that for you…and that you enjoy a very blessed Christmas!

  ALSO BY REGAN WALKER

  AND AVAILABLE FROM BOROUGHS PUBLISHING:

  RACING WITH THE WIND

  http://boroughspublishinggroup.com/books/racing-wind

  Chapter One

  London, 1816

  Standing at the edge of the ballroom, Lady Mary Campbell smiled to herself, thinking it was a bit like standing on the edge of a cliff. Stepping forward would bring a drop into the unknown. It was a step she had no desire to take.

  But, then, she had no choice. She’d postponed her dreaded debut as long as possible, and at nineteen she was well past the age most ingénues greeted their first season. Dressed in ivory satin she was, but she could hardly wait for the day she could wear red. And though she would have preferred her long hair down and flowing free, tonight it was drawn up into a pile of curls.

  Gazing into the immense room with its crystal chandeliers, hundreds of candles, and men and women in elegant finery, Mary let out a deep sigh. It was all very glorious, of course, but it wasn’t the Tuileries Palace where she had waltzed last December. It wasn’t the world she loved, the world in which she thrived, the world of books and ideas. It wasn’t the countryside, where she could ride her horse and forget everything. It wasn’t even her uncle’s world of statesmen. Those men, she was certain, would not give a thought to the gowns or balls for young women entering London society, and she wished she could follow their example. No, Mary was not at all at home in this place where young men mingled with their future wives—wives they would dominate and keep from truly seeing or enjoying the world.

  That was one reason she was not anxious to wed, and she had several. But at the request of her mother, the dowager countess of Argyll, she had come to this ball and would dance with the young men. And when her sweet mother insisted her only daughter go to court and curtsey before George, Prince of Wales, the Prince Regent, Mary had bowed to the gracious request and sweetly obeyed.

  Her best friend, Elizabeth St. Clair, bubbled on at her side about the grand decorations and the pretty gowns, but Mary’s mind was on the Times article she’d read at breakfast describing Napoleon’s exile on the island of St. Helena. There was a small note at the bottom of the article saying recent information suggested Napoleon’s defeat in Russia was, in part, due to the legendary Nighthawk. She longed to meet the mysterious man, that stealer of secrets, if indeed he existed. But if he did, she was certain he would not be wasting his time at some tedious London ball. The world did not revolve around a dance, not even the waltz.

  Elizabeth tugged on her glove. “I say, Mary, do you agree?”

  Mary realized she had missed what her friend was saying and tried to recall the original question. She wanted to show support for Elizabeth, whose blue eyes were wide with wonder at the beautiful gowns and the handsome young men; her older sisters had already taken their place in London society, and Mary knew Lizzy was anxious to join them.

  “Well, it is rather as I expected, Lizzy. It’s like being offered up to the highest bidder, is it not? ’Tis strange so many go so willingly to the auction block.”

  Elizabeth’s side-glance stopped Mary’s reflection. “Oh, do try and enjoy yourself, Mary. It’s not so bad. Besides, you’re gathering many admiring looks!”

  “I think you are imagining that. Recall the conversation of the Baroness Johnson in the retiring room we overheard. She could barely wait to tell her friends that the Campbell hoyden who reads philosophy and rides horses like a man is here.”

  “Actually, you were most gracious to her,
Mary; more the lady than she. I rather think she’s just a jealous old biddy. Besides, I wasn’t talking about the women. It is the men who cannot take their eyes off you.”

  Mary’s cheeks warmed. Her friend was exaggerating again out of kindness and loyalty. Her mother, too, remarked in a caring way about her appearance, and her uncle complimented her gowns, but Mary knew their words were merely encouragement to wear the female frippery she disdained. Her heart seized with a pang of regret as she wondered if her father would have thought her pretty. He had not lived to see her blossom into womanhood.

  “Lizzy, I am not seeing what you are, but since you asked, I will do my best to be happy. After all, you are here, and I do love to dance.”

  As if summoned, two young men approached and asked for the first quadrille. Mary resolved to be nice.

  So it begins, she thought to herself.

  One young man offered an arm. Green eyes met blue. His kind face was framed by light brown hair, and he smiled, leading her smoothly out into the room. They were soon gliding across the polished wood floor. To her surprise, Mary’s spirits lifted.

  As the dance took a turn, Mary’s gaze drifted over her partner’s shoulder, drawn unbidden to two men standing in front of a pillar. She did not recognize them, but the dark stare of the taller man pierced her gown, corset and chemise and touched her very skin. Feeling exposed in a way she never had, she shivered, and she was glad when her partner whirled her away.

  And yet, she continued to surreptitiously watch the man, drawn to his overwhelming presence. He wore black, his white shirt and cravat the only contrast to the dark brown hair that fell in waves to his nape. He exuded a kind of power unlike any other male in the room. There was nothing the dandy about him.

  * * *

  Taking a long draw on his brandy and gazing around him, Hugh Redgrave, Marquess of Ormond and only son of the Duke of Albany, drew a breath and held it as his eyes came to rest on a girl gliding across the dance floor like a swan over a lake. The tall young woman with hair the color of spun gold and fine features set in an oval face was striking, but it was more than her beauty that drew him; she moved with a grace beyond her years and had a fire in her eyes that set her apart from the other debutantes.