A Twelfth Night Tale (Diane's novella)
• Chapter One •
Yorkshire, December, 1814
“I am sorry, Miss.
T’rooms are naught
to be had.” The innkeeper
wiped the sweat from his
fleshy face with his apron. “Other
folk coom before thee.”
No room at the
inn, Elizabeth Arrington
thought. Two days before
Christmas. How ironic.
The innkeeper
reached for
the door to
return to the
taproom, but
she stopped
him. “Mr.
Vail, you can
see my companion
is with child.
She is exhausted
as well.”
Elizabeth watched
the man’s expression
soften as he
gazed at the young woman
beside her. Anna Reade
was a mere girl, really,
only sixteen years old
and not accustomed to
traveling in public coaches,
stopping at strange inns,
or listening to Yorkshire
accents. Who could not
be sympathetic to her?
Anna looked like an angel
with her alabaster skin,
blond wispy curls escaping
her bonnet, and large
forlorn blue eyes.
The innkeeper
compressed his
lips and shook
his head. “There’s
naught to be
done. Thou may
sit in the taproom,
if there be
seats.”
He opened the
door, and the
sound of raucous
voices boomed
out on a blast
of hot air filled
with the bitter
scent of fermented
hops, mutton
stew, and unwashed
people. The
room was packed
with Yorkshire
workers and
travelers all
waiting for
the roads to
dry, filling
themselves full
of ale and mutton
in the meantime.
The roads were
muddy and treacherous
from the rain
that had poured
down for two
days. In the
coach that had
barely managed
to deliver Elizabeth
and Anna to
this place,
the weather
and the roads
had been favored
topics. When
their fellow
travelers began
telling tales
of ships imperiled
by gales, Elizabeth
had wanted to
cover Anna’s
ears.
Elizabeth and
Anna had been
traveling the public
coaches for three days,
making their way from
Kent on the Great North
Road to Elizabeth’s
parents in Northumbria,
the only place Elizabeth
could think to go. They’d
passed through
York and Ripon, places
where they might have
found a room in which
to wait out the weather,
but Elizabeth had been
all too conscious of
the dwindling number
of coins in her purse.
In fact, she
could ill afford to pay
Mr. Vail had he lodgings
to give them.
Anna’s
eyes were wide
with fright
as she peered
into the crowded,
noisy room.
Elizabeth seized
the innkeeper’s
arm before he disappeared
through the doorway. “A
horse, then,
Mr. Vail. Do you have
a horse for us? To reach
Bolting House. I...I
was once acquainted with
the earl, and perhaps
he would take pity on
us. You could store our
trunks in your stable.”
A horse might
make a journey
a coach could
not, and Bolting
House could
not be more
than three miles
distant. The
rain had slowed
to a drizzle
and there was
still light
enough to find
the way there,
if she could
recall it. Mr.
Vail might not
remember her
from when her
father had so
briefly been
Bolting’s
vicar, but the
earl certainly
would.
The earl had
always been kind to her
family the year they
lived here, inviting
them to dinner, including
them in the parties,
the Christmas festivities.
Elizabeth blinked rapidly
and straightened her
spine. The important
thing was, the earl was
certain to take pity
on her and Anna, and
she could only hope the
weather had kept his
house free of other guests.
“I own a horse, if
thee ‘as coin to pay,” the
innkeeper said.
Sucking in a
breath, Elizabeth pulled
out her purse and gave
him the money.
He leaned in
the taproom
and shouted, “Galfrid!
Get thee here!”
A few minutes
later Galfrid
had an old nag
saddled and
they were on
their way. Elizabeth
led the horse,
and Anna rode
on the horse’s
back.
“Are you all right,
Miss Arrington?” Anna
asked as they made their
way on the road to Bolting
House. “I feel so
guilty to be riding while
you walk in the mud.”
“It is not so bad.” Elizabeth
forced herself to sound
cheerful. “In fact,
it feels good to be walking
after being cooped up in
those coaches. Besides,
it is not far now.”
She lied, of
course, but Anna did
not need to know her
half boots were soaked
through and the hem of
her skirt was heavy with
mud. The temperature
had dropped, and the
drizzle cut through her
cloak like icy needles.
“Will the earl let
us stay, do you think?” Anna
asked, sounding like an
anxious child.
It was no wonder,
after all they’d
been through, that Anna
should worry about being
welcome. They’d
been turned
out of places Anna ought
to have been met with
open arms.
But Anna had
secretly fallen
in love with
Jessop Nodham,
the son of her
father’s
archenemy, and, worse
than that, she pledged
her love with her body
before there could be
any chance of marriage
to the young man. While
he sailed for the Mediterranean,
Anna hid the consequences
of that reckless night
with the help of her
equally foolish lady’s
maid. Anna was
now seven months along.
Elizabeth did
not know what
made her feel
guiltier. That
she, as Anna’s governess,
had not discovered and
prevented the clandestine
meetings, or that she’d
not noticed her charge’s
thickening waistline.
Either justified
her being summarily discharged
when Baron and
Baroness Reade returned
from their latest country
house party.
But the Reades
had also banished their
daughter, something Elizabeth
could not forgive.
“Let Nodham’s
parents take you in,” they’d
shouted at Anna. “We
won’t have a Nodham
bastard in this house.”
Elizabeth felt
it her duty
to accompany Anna to the
neighboring estate of the
Baronet Nodham, but he and
his wife would not even
receive them. They sent
a message through their
footman that Anna’s presence
was an “extreme
cruelty.”
So nothing was
left but for
Elizabeth to
take Anna to
the only haven
she knew. Her
own parents,
though her father
could barely
support her
mother in the
poor parish
he’d accepted
after leaving
Bolting.
Elizabeth could
hardly bear
it. It was as
if the wounds
of her own past,
such a mirror
of Anna’s situation,
had been torn
open to bleed all over
again.
The horse halted,
its hooves stuck in the
mud. Elizabeth gritted
her teeth and pulled
on the reins.
Chances are
he would not be at Bolting
House, she thought. He
would still be soldiering,
perhaps, though the monster
Napoleon had been exiled
to Elba months ago and
the war ended. She pulled
on the reins again, and
the nag lifted one hoof
then another, and they
began moving.
The Earl of
Bolting poured
the last drop
of brandy into
his glass, its
liquid glimmering
from the glow
of the library’s fireplace.
He held the bottle up
to the light, but it
was, indeed, empty. Placing
it next to the other
two he’d emptied,
he rejoiced in this one
advantage of inheriting
his uncle’s title.
A full wine
cellar. He pondered if
he could make it all
the way to the racks
of brandy bottles without
tumbling down the stone
stairs and breaking his
neck.
Probably not.
He ought to content himself
with this numbing haze
rather than alcoholic
oblivion.
This was not
the place he
fancied being at Christmas
time, this of all houses,
and at his least favorite
time of year.
He’d
wanted to remain in Town,
but circumstances had
driven him away from
London’s distractions.
When he’d arrived
in London in the spring,
he had barely finished
mourning his father’s
death, or his brother’s,
or his uncle’s.
Two taken by a freak
accident, one by illness,
Captain Zachary Weston
had been the only one
left to inherit the title
Earl of Bolting. Fate
had certainly made a
cruel mistake. Those
three men had been worthy
of the title, not he.
He was a soldier, for
God’s sake. He
was the one
who ought to have died.
In Spain, enough men
had been struck down
around him. Why not he?
Lady
Wansford, however, had
not cared which
man carried
the title. He’d come
to London during the
Season, and she and others
like her saw him as a
prime prospect for marrying
their daughters. Lady
Wansford’s pursuit
had been relentless.
He could not
attend any social event
without her daughter
being pushed at him.
As soon as summer came,
he fled to the country,
touring his properties
and trying to learn how
a knave of a soldier
could act like an earl.
Business brought
him back to London in
October, and like a lioness
stalking prey, Lady Wansford
had been lying in wait
for him. She contrived
to plant her daughter,
in his bed. When Lady
Wansford threatened to
accuse him of compromising
the girl, the equally
conniving offspring of
her devious mother, Zach
had laughed at her.
But he’d also deemed
it prudent to place himself
out of her reach. That
was how he’d found
himself at Bolting
House at the time of
year he least wished
to be in residence.
At least he’d
given most of
the servants
a holiday, settling
their Christmas
bonuses before
Boxing Day so
they might have
the funds and
incentive to
go away. No
one would decorate
the house. No
one would produce
gifts. No one
would sing.
He’d manage
to pass Twelfth
night without
once remembering.
Zach downed
the contents of his glass
and stared at it. Perhaps
a trip to the wine cellar
was in order after all.
Besides, if he fell and
broke his neck, the wretched
memories would cease.
He pushed on
the arms of the chair
to get to his feet, and
stood a moment to be
sure he had his balance
before he picked up a
candle to light the dark
cellar stairway. The
bones in his legs felt
like rubber as he weaved
his way to the hall,
its classical statues
staring at him like disapproving
ghosts.
And why would
they not disapprove?
Zach was a debaucher,
after all. When
he’d
been a youth he’d
had grand ideas
of honor and courage
and chivalry, but that
was before that fateful
Twelfth Night.
A knock sounded
at the door,
so feeble that
at first Zach
thought he’d
imagined it.
It seemed to
increase in
volume and urgency,
and he looked
for Kirby to
appear. Then
he remembered
the butler was
eating dinner
with Cook and
the one maid
left in the
house. Kirby
would never
hear the pounding.
“Ought to have kept
one footman here,” he
said aloud to the statues.
The heels of his boots clicked
on the marble floor as he
crossed the hall. He’d
open the door himself and
tell whomever the devil
it was to go away.
He pulled open
the heavy oak door, then
almost dropped his candle.
Framed in the
doorway stood two females,
both shrouded in hooded
cloaks, like spectres
in the dim twilight.
He rubbed his eyes, trying
to determine if they
were real, when a gust
of wind blew open the
cloak of the smaller
female standing in front.
The smaller
female who was obviously
with child.
The wind howled
and the brandy he consumed
rebelled in his stomach.
He felt his vision grow
black.
“No,” Zach growled
before he passed out or
vomited all over the vision. “Go
away.”
He slammed the
door.
He glanced at
the statues. Had he not
enough ghosts to haunt
him?
“Wait!” Anna cried. “Oh,
please wait!” She turned
around and flung herself in
Elizabeth’s arms.
“What will we
do?”
Elizabeth could not utter
a sound.
He had answered
the door.
She knew him in an instant,
even from
the light of a single
candle. Dark, curling
hair, steel gray eyes,
a worry line between
two thick brows. His
face was leaner--a man’s
face, but his lips, so perfectly
bow-shaped, still drooped
at the corners.
But how altered! How cruel.
To close the door in their
faces, ignoring their desperate
need. Did he hate her? She
neverexpected him to hate
her.
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Regency Christmas Traditions in A Twelfth Night Tale
One of the joys of writing a Regency Christmas novella is imagining the holiday season as it must have been in the early 1800s when the Prince of Wales was Regent. Many familiar Christmas traditions--decorating Christmas trees, singing Christmas carols, waiting for Santa Claus--did not emerge until Victorian times, but a Regency Christmas did have other traditions still celebrated today. I wove some of these Regency Christmas traditions into A Twelfth Night Tale.
Regency families did not decorate Christmas trees, but they did decorate their houses with holly and ivy and evergreens of fir and pine. Mistletoe was hung and the tradition of a gentleman and lady kissing beneath it would have been part of a Regency Christmas. With each kiss the gentleman plucked a berry from the mistletoe. When the berries were gone, so were the kisses. The decorations were removed after Twelfth night. In A Twelfth Night Tale, gathering greenery, decorating the house, and kissing under mistletoe are important parts of the love story between Zach and Elizabeth.
Zach and Elizabeth were served a typical Regency Christmas dinner, ironically what most American households would serve on Christmas day: a turkey dinner. A Regency household would also serve a Christmas pudding. On Stir Up Sunday, the Sunday before Advent, cooks would begin a pudding. Not the Jell-O Instant Pudding on our North American grocery shelves, but a porridge of sugar, raisins, currants, prunes, and wine that was “stirred up” and boiled together in a pudding cloth until served with Christmas dinner.
Twelfth Night, the eve of the Epiphany, proved to be important in Zach and Elizabeth’s lives. In the Regency, it was a time for revelry, for drinking wassail (ale or wine spiced with roasted apples and sugar) and playing games. A bean was buried in a cake and whoever found it was designated the Lord of Misrule who presided over all the Twelfth Night festivities. This tradition appears to have had its origin in the old Roman feast of Saturnalia rather than in the Christmas story, but it became part of the festivities in my novella.
Performing theatricals was a common part of Twelfth Night gaiety. In fact, Shakespeare wrote his comedy, Twelfth Night, to be performed as a Twelfth Night entertainment. It made sense that Elizabeth and Zach would read the play aloud that night.
I wrote A Twelfth Night Tale during the Christmas season and I could almost imagine being in Regency England, out in the countryside gathering greenery, lighting a yule log, drinking wassail. It was a joy to share with Elizabeth and Zach--and now with my readers--this special time when Christmas brought them together once again and forever.
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:: “Diane Gaston's A Twelfth
Night Tale was my favorite story of the bunch...Gaston's
writing made this one stand out..” — Blyth
Barnhill, All About Romance (read
the whole
review)
:: “Diane Gaston is an author that
writes from the heart...beautifully characterized with human emotion and
passion...heart wrenchingly real...pure eloquence of writing...” — Marilyn
Rondeau, Kwips and Kritiques (read
the whole
review)
:: “... pure pleasure...” — Kathe
Robin, Romantic Times BOOKReviews (read
the whole
review)
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