Lord of Misrule Read online

  Lord of

  Misrule

  (a sweet holiday story)

  Gail Eastwood

  Author’s Edition (2018)

  “One of the genre's most imaginative storytellers, a master at painting pictures of Regency life,” —Romantic Times Magazine

  On a snowy Christmas Eve day, a vicar’s daughter runs into the Devil himself, or is he just the Lord of Misrule? In a season of miracles and magic, can love bind two unlikely hearts in the days leading to Twelfth Night?

  Lord of Misrule

  "a bit of Pride and Prejudice, a little Brigadoon and a dollop of Cinderella" –(reader comment)

  In trouble for causing a scandal in London, Adam Randall, Lord Forthhurst, is headed home to make amends on Christmas Eve day when he becomes stranded in the tiny village of Little Macclow. Before the night is over, he has become thoroughly entangled in the village’s celebration of the twelve days of Christmas, and fully intrigued by the vicar’s daughter, Miss Cassandra Tamworth.

  Cassie has been raised by her widowed father to expect the worst from members of the aristocracy. Lord Forthhurst is a puzzle. Can she trust him? Or is he a devil, as he claims and warns her? Can her mind resist when her heart and body want to be his?

  Please note: in this sweet full-length holiday story from Gail, no nefarious doings are afoot and the only mystery to be solved is of how two people who belong together ever manage to sort themselves out enough to find love!

  Contents

  Title Page * On a Snowy Day… * About the Lord of Misrule

  Chapter One * Chapter Two * Chapter Three * Chapter Four * Chapter Five * Chapter Six * Chapter Seven * Chapter Eight * Chapter Nine * Chapter Ten * Chapter Eleven * Chapter Twelve * Chapter Thirteen * Chapter Fourteen * Chapter Fifteen * Chapter Sixteen * Chapter Seventeen * Chapter Eighteen * Chapter Nineteen * Chapter Twenty * Chapter Twenty-One * Chapter Twenty-Two

  Excerpt from the Magnificent Marquess

  About the Author * Books by Gail Eastwood

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  “Papa?” Cassandra Tamworth put one more stitch into the seam she’d been finishing and looked up to see why the drone of her father’s voice had stopped.

  There he sat in the tall wing chair by the study’s stone hearth, his gray head tilted back against the leafy vine pattern of the chair’s upholstery. A gentle snore issued from his slack mouth.

  At last! Cassie glanced at the bracket clock on the mantel. She was late, very late, for meeting her helpers at the inn. Usually Papa dropped off much sooner than this when practicing his sermons (no reflection on the content, of course). This one, for the Christmas service tomorrow at St. Benedict’s, had required three renditions.

  A twinge of guilt ran through her as she snipped her thread and tied it off. Had he even finished? In truth, she had stopped listening after the second time he’d gone through it. Her mother had been a more attentive and patient audience than Cassie could ever hope to be, but Mama was gone.

  Cassie lifted the fabric in her lap. Sections of gold tissue and blue velvet alternated with burgundy satin and emerald green silk to form a semi-circular shoulder cape that caught the light quite splendidly. She was pleased with it. Even the village children had admired it this morning when Cassie had shown it to them at the end of their class.

  “’Tis a magic cape,” little Kate had pronounced with reverence, solemnly nodding her tiny blond curls. The village baker’s youngest at age five, she’d smiled the way children sometimes do, as if she alone knew some great secret gifted to her by the universe.

  Expecting derision and teasing from the older children, Cassie had been amazed to hear them echo Kate’s response. “Yes, magic!” they had clamored, all of them reaching out hands to touch the cape.

  Magic! She had hardly known whether to be astonished or amused. Her father had taught her that magic was nonsense. He held nothing but disdain for the superstitions the villagers believed despite their standing as members of his congregation. Still, Cassie could not bring herself to say so to Kate or the others, and had sent the children off with quick hugs and a smile.

  The cape was simply a costume, pieced together by her own hands from scraps, to be worn by the King of Fools at Twelfth Night. She had yet to make the matching cape the Queen of Fools would wear. There were plenty of scraps, some salvaged from the previous cloaks worn out from age, and others graciously donated by Lady Anne. If only there was plenty of time! The twelve days ahead were going to be so busy. And she still had St Stephen’s Day gifts for the villagers to finish, too.

  She almost envied the children in their innocent belief. She smoothed a soft blue velvet patch and closed her eyes. If there’s magic, it’s in the way it’s all connected, the patches to each other, and the whole through centuries of tradition. In that moment it seemed as if she could touch the hands of the seamstress who had sewn the last Twelfth Night cloaks and all those before her, back through time’s unbroken thread. Something did feel strange in the air today, as if something was different–something she couldn’t name. Not magic, exactly, but possibilities perhaps?

  She gave her handiwork a little shake as if to dispel any lingering notions of other-worldly powers and began to fold it. Twelfth Night was like the rich patchwork–an odd pastiche, stitched together from fragments of ancient pagan and newer Christian practices and beliefs. Christmas was, too. Even her father recognized that.

  Why couldn’t her life be like that, a mixture of what was good and valuable of the old ways of doing things, with some new ways added in? Her future loomed ahead, a lifetime of sameness unless something changed.

  The loud chiming of the mantel clock at exactly that moment seemed to emphasize that she needed to get moving. The assembly room at the inn would not decorate itself. She sighed. Too many people expected too many things from her. She was late, but it couldn’t be helped. Family came before community.

  Magic? If only she could believe in it! If magic existed–and surely no good vicar’s daughter ought to believe such a thing–couldn’t she wish for more hours in the day?

  No. And not because her father would disapprove, or because she didn’t believe, but because in her heart she knew that wasn’t what she wanted most. Despite her respect for tradition and history, for family and duty, she resented the set course her future was expected to follow. Everyone assumed she would marry David Pratt, her father’s curate, and be content as his perfect helpmate and mother of his children.

  Papa’s snoring stopped, causing her to look at him again in alarm. Had the clock chime awakened him? He needed the nap, with Christmas Vespers to officiate tonight, and she needed to go to the inn. But no, he settled into a different position and began to snore gently once again. Behind him the leaded glass panes of the window displayed steady, gentle snow still falling outside.

  She quickly finished folding the cape and set it on top of her sewing basket for later. Change. That’s what she would wish for, if she actually believed in magic. Choice. That was it–a change in her life that could give her the hope of having choices.

  Brushing stray threads from her gown, she rose. She had not been able to shake off the feeling that something might happen, or could happen, no matter how improbable. Maybe even a miracle. After all, it was about to be Christmas. But nothing was likely to happen if she did not hurry to get on with the rest of her day. She hoped her helpers were still waiting for her.

  Adam Hardwick Randall, Lord Forthhurst, stood in the snow outside the livery stable where he had just left his beautifully matched pair of roans and the crippled phaeton in which he and his friend Christopher Haslitt had been traveling. Christopher and the stable’s postboy stood beside him, along with the postboy’s mount and a livery horse saddled and
ready for the road.

  “What place is so small they only have one horse for hire?” Adam shook his head, not caring that the post boy could hear every word. “Tis blazing ridiculous.”

  He kicked at the snow-cap on a tuft of grass and watched as a cascade of fluffy white crystals skittered across the highly polished toe of his black leather boot. Snow–that had been the start of this latest trouble. As surely as it had drifted over the carved gilt letters spelling out “Four Feathers” on the wooden signboard of the inn across the road, the snow had now obliterated his plans for the Christmas holiday. The incessant flakes covered everything, including the rather pathetic broken carriage wheel (his) propped against the rough stone wall of the closed smithy next door.

  “I said I would stay and let you take her,” his friend replied. “You are being generous, I suspect, by allowing me to go. Will it not make your situation at home all the worse if you fail to arrive for Christmas?”

  Brushing snowflakes off his coat sleeve, Adam shrugged. “It can hardly be worse than it already is. I will stay.”

  Christopher narrowed his gaze. “Not trying to postpone the reckoning, are you? No. I suppose if you wished to avoid that, you would have stayed in London. I could have found another way to travel home.”

  “Think what you wish. With this snow, ’tis likely now I could not even reach Blakehill before dark. I am simply being practical. You have a shorter distance to go, and your father is ill. So far as I am aware, both of my parents are well, just exceedingly angry with me. That is nothing new. Take the horse, Christopher.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Adam waved a hand at the waiting animal. “I am certain that if we stand here discussing this long enough, it will be too late for either of us to travel anywhere. Go.”

  “All right, I will. Thank you.”

  Christopher held out his hand, and Adam grasped it for a moment. “Do one thing for me, will you?”

  “Of course. Anything. Wait, I’ll say ‘almost’ anything. I recall who is asking.”

  Adam feigned a look of innocence, then laughed. “Nothing reckless, I promise. Can you send over a message to Blakehill from your parents’ hall, to say what happened? That would help, even if it must wait until tomorrow with this snow.”

  Christopher turned to the horse and put his foot into the stirrup. “That I will do gladly. Your parents will be worried about you.” With a nod towards Adam, he swung up into the saddle.

  Adam stepped back as the post boy mounted the other horse. “They will be worried, yes, but only about what their guests will think when I fail to make my appearance. The prodigal son will be missing. At least this way they’ll have an answer for that.”

  Christopher grimaced, not ready to contradict Adam, but clearly not quite convinced. “I think they care more than you realize, my friend, even with a scandal of this magnitude. At any rate, I’ll see it done.” He paused, lifting his head to look at the village around them. “Rest easy, or as easy as you may while stranded here. I’ll send this nag back for you as soon as possible. I am so sorry about your carriage wheel.”

  Adam touched his hat brim. “Damned snow. Happy Christmas, Christopher. My regards to your parents.”

  He watched them ride off, the snowflakes dancing in their wake and eventually obscuring them entirely from view. He could curse and blame the snow, but in truth his troubles were usually no one's fault but his own. Choosing to make this journey with his own carriage and cattle had been unwise, for instance. A phaeton was too light and open for so many miles of road at this time of year, and stopping to rest his horses took up a great deal of time. But how could he have known it was going to snow? Wasn’t it early in the season for snow? It did seem as if Fate might be lending a hand against him.

  He looked up and down the street of tidy stone buildings, all small save for the inn directly across from him. Not a creature stirred, just snow relentlessly falling. This tiny and out-of-the-way hamlet had been the nearest place to find help. Adam couldn’t explain the fit of unselfishness had led him to send his friend home while he remained behind, but he had done it and now he was here.

  He kicked the snow off a few more grass tufts. Did he not already face a huge challenge, trying to reconcile with his parents? This delay would make things worse. His mother was already furious about his broken engagement and the accompanying scandal. When she learned of his stranding she would believe he had engineered the whole mishap on purpose to avoid Christmas at Blakehill.

  Was it his fault if escaping the multitude of guests and tiresome social rituals there (plus delaying the repercussions of his scandal) were unintended results of this accident? As if he could control the weather! If his mother believed he would prefer to spend his holiday alone in a pitifully small, God-forsaken village that seemed to be as quiet as death itself, she really knew him as little as he suspected.

  Certainly Fate was laughing at him. He could have had a very festive and cozy Christmas indeed if he had stayed in London, with some lovely ladies for company. However, he hadn’t ignored the summons home, despite the temptation to do so. Instead he planned to face his parents and make amends for his latest transgression as best he could. He’d found the twin threats of damage to his sister’s reputation and the likely loss of his allowance quite motivating.

  More snow was coming down--fine, soft, thoroughly earnest flakes pelting steadily from the gray clouds overhead. All the wealth and power in the world could not halt it. Adam brushed off the top shoulder cape of his greatcoat and doffed his hat to brush the snow from that as well. A surprising amount had accumulated in just these few moments. Surely a mug of hot rum was calling his name. Spending Christmas alone in his cups at an inn tavern was not the worst holiday he could imagine.

  The soft crunch of approaching footsteps reached his ears as he fit his hat carefully back upon his head. A red-cloaked figure scurried along the snowy lane and up to the inn door. A female figure, unquestionably, equipped with a trim pair of ankles clad in dainty half-boots revealed when she lifted her skirts to clear the steps. Her head was hidden by the hood of her cloak. Likely because of that, she failed to notice him across the street. After stamping snow off her feet, she hurried inside.

  Instantly, Adam's spirits rose. Most definitely it was time to go back in.

  Chapter Two

  The longcase clock on the inn’s stair landing chimed quarter-past the hour as Cassie stepped into the Four Feathers. She had persuaded her students Jamie and Jonas Whitlatch to meet her in the inn’s assembly room at two o’clock to help her put up decorations. She doubted the young brothers were sufficiently enthused about their task to have waited for her.

  She waved at the innkeeper, Mr. Salsby, stationed at the tap as she hurried by, heading for the passage that led to the back of the inn. At this hour of the afternoon on Christmas Eve day, the taproom was empty of all but the most dedicated customers. Most of the villagers were busy baking, sewing, cleaning, putting up their own greens or performing other tasks as they hurried to finish preparations for the twelve days of celebration that would begin tonight. No adults had been available this afternoon to help finish the work begun that morning.

  The passage, dark and windowless, opened into the assembly room, a generously proportioned, handsomely paneled space with tall windows and a long line of straight-backed wooden chairs set against its outer wall. A large stone fireplace anchored the center of the opposite wall, flanked by additional chairs. Like their matching brethren, these were painted a soft deep green, almost as if on purpose for Christmas, although they remained that color all year round, and had done so for enough years to bear a collection of scuffs, chips and scars to show for it.

  The room served as the social center of the village and the surrounding area for any large indoor gatherings that Squire Hammon and Lady Anne did not host up at the manor. Cassie’s task was to drape the room in garlands to prepare for the upcoming Christmastide events. A play by the school children and a dance for all t
he village, among other treats, would culminate in a grand celebration on Twelfth Night itself.

  The hall would not be used tonight, for on Christmas Eve the village was always invited up to Highfield Manor following the Vespers service at the church. But those events made her time here short. Her father would say she ought to be using it to center her thoughts on spiritual matters and prepare for the evening’s worship, but the decorating had to be done.

  As Cassie entered the hall, she saw that the large pile of pine and holly garland to be hung waited in front of the unlit hearth, but not one single breathing human.

  Bother! Her young twin helpers were the eldest and tallest of the children enrolled at the vicarage school over which she presided, and she had been counting on them. Teamwork had worked so well to create the garlands this morning. As they did on this day every year, the village men and women had gathered and bound the feathery pine fronds and twigs of leathery, spiked holly leaves with their bright red berries. There hadn’t been enough time to hang them as well.

  Glancing about, she despaired over completing the task. Lovely. Without help, another unfinished task to add to her list. The villagers believed that gathering and putting up greens could only be done on Christmas Eve, so nothing had been done before today. Yet, the greens needed to be up by this evening. What could she do? Her father would have been quick to point out that there was no use in allowing her annoyance to hamper her. She very consciously tamped it down, like banking a fire.

  After removing her mittens, she unfastened her wool cloak and spread the wet garment across several chairs to dry. The gray kerseymere pelisse she wore over her dress would have to ward off the chill of the unheated room. The cold would seep into her fingers and toes soon enough.

  She should have delegated the decorating to someone much taller than she was. This problem was her own fault. Even on a chair, she could barely reach the molding that ran around the room.