Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(103)
And now, this evening, the village carolers had waded up the driveway to sing for them. The Yule log had been lit and the family had gathered and the carolers had come against all expectation, exclaiming and stamping boots and shaking mufflers and slapping mittens and rubbing at red noses to make them redder—and then quieting down and growing self-conscious as they looked around at the family and friends gathered there to listen to them.
They sang for half an hour, and their audience listened and occasionally joined in. The dowager countess and Mrs. Kingsley were seated in ornately carved and padded wooden chairs close to the great fireplace to benefit from the logs that flamed and crackled around the Yule log in the hearth and gave more the effect of cheerfulness than actual warmth to the rest of them, who were happy to stand until the carolers came to the end of their repertoire and everyone applauded and Alexander gave a short speech. Then they all moved about, mingling and chatting and laughing merrily as glasses of spiced wassail and trays of warm mince pies were brought up from belowstairs and offered first to the carolers and then to the houseguests.
After a while Colin found himself standing in the midst of it all, alone for the moment, consciously enjoying the warm, festive atmosphere of the scene around him, in which there appeared to be not one discordant note if one ignored the impatience with which the dowager was batting away the heavy shawl Lady Matilda was attempting to wrap about her shoulders.
This was what family should be like.
This was what Christmas should always be like.
It was an ideal of perfection, of course, and ideals were not often attained and were not sustainable for long even when they were. Life could never be unalloyed happiness, even for a close-knit family like this one. But sometimes there were moments when it was, and this was surely one of them. It deserved to be recognized and enjoyed and savored.
And envied.
He smiled at the three young ladies across the hall who had their heads together, chattering and laughing and stealing glances his way. It was not altogether surprising. He was not unduly conceited, but he was a young single gentleman in possession of a title and fortune. Single gentlemen above the age of twenty were in short supply here at Brambledean. Indeed, he was it with the exception of Captain Harry Westcott, Viola’s son, who had arrived back from the wars in the Peninsula two days ago—also unexpectedly—on recruitment business for his regiment. Unfortunately for the three ladies, however, the captain was the brother of one of them and the first cousin of another. Only Lady Estelle Lamarr, the Marquess of Dorchester’s daughter, was unrelated to him by blood, though she had become his stepsister this morning.
When they saw Colin smile, they all ducked their heads while above the general hubbub he could hear one of them giggling. But why would he not look and be pleased with what he saw—and flattered by their attention? They were all remarkably pretty in differing ways. They were all younger than he and unattached, as far as he knew. They were all eligible, even Abigail Westcott, Viola and the late Earl of Riverdale’s daughter, whose birth had been declared illegitimate after that disastrous revelation almost three years ago. Colin did not care a fig for that supposed stigma upon her name. Lady Jessica Archer was half sister of the Duke of Netherby and daughter of the former duke and his second wife, the youngest of the Westcott sisters.
It had not been easy during the six months since Wren married Alexander to sort out the complex relationships within this family, but Colin believed he had finally mastered them, even the step and half connections.
He was about to stroll across the hall to ask the three young ladies how they had enjoyed the carol singing when his sister appeared at his side and handed him a glass of wassail.
“You are going to have to stay here tonight after all, thanks to the snow, Colin,” she said, sounding smug.
“But you already have a houseful, Roe,” he protested, though in truth he knew it would be impossible to go home tonight and even more impossible to return tomorrow if by some miracle he got there. Home was Withington House, nine miles away, where he had been living since the summer. It belonged to Wren, but he had gladly moved in there when she had offered it rather than stay in London, where he had lived year-round for the past five years.
“Roe,” she said softly and fondly. She had been christened Rowena as a baby. Roe had been Colin’s childhood name for her, and he still called her that when in conversation with her, even though her name had been legally changed to Wren. “One more guest will cause no upheaval, and it will make us all a lot happier. Me in particular. Was not the carol singing wonderful?”
“Wonderful,” he agreed, though the singers had been more hearty than musical.
“And the wedding this morning was perfect,” she said with a happy sigh, “and the wedding breakfast after it. And the snow and putting up more decorations and . . . oh, and everything. Have you ever lived through a happier day?”
He pretended to think about it, his eyes raised to the high ceiling of the great hall, his forefinger tapping his chin. He raised the finger. “Yes, I have actually,” he said. “The day Alexander came to call at my rooms in London and I discovered that you were still alive, and I went with him to meet you for the first time in almost twenty years.”
“Ah. Yes.” She beamed at him, her eyes luminous with memory. “Oh yes, indeed, Colin, you are right. When I looked at you, and you spoke my name, and I realized you were that little mop-haired boy I remembered . . . it was indeed an unforgettable day.”