Page 78 of The Summer Country

She shouldn’t hope too much, she knew. But it wasn’t impossible. The threats that had bound them together were gone. There were others who could dress her mistress’s hair better than she.

Maybe, just maybe . . . Maybe Mary Anne might be thinking of setting her free.

There was a flurry of activity beneath the window. Another carriage arriving. Something lighter, a gig. The sound of voices, a groom taking the horses, a man’s voice, with the flavor of little Scotland. And then another, an English voice, a beautiful tenor with exaggerated vowels that somehow made him sound always amused, even when he wasn’t.

Charles.

“Charles. Welcome.” Robert greeted Charles on the veranda with all the warmth and softness of a hailstorm.

“Happy Christmas,” said Charles, although it didn’t feel like Christmas at all to him. Christmas was mistletoe and cold so intense it froze the tip of your nose. Christmas was wassail and mummers, velvet and fur. Last year, the Thames had frozen so hard that he had walked on the ice all the way from Battersea Bridge to Hungerford Stairs with two friends from Lincoln’s Inn, skidding and laughing and daring each other on.

Here there was no yew and holly, no ice or frost. The coconut palms spread their broad leaves to the sky and the hibiscus bloomed purple and red.

But there was Jenny, Charles reminded himself. And that, somehow, made all the rest indifferent.

“You brought him?” Robert was looking past Charles at Jonathan, who was doing his best to look at nothing at all, his hair still clamped back in an old-fashioned queue, a lace stock the only sign he’d done his best to do honor to the occasion.

“It is Christmas,” Charles reminded him. “Our Lord was welcomed into a stable rude.”

“Yes, but no one said they had to have the donkey for dinner,” muttered Robert. Then, with false congeniality, “Come in, come in. You remember the Bolands, of course.”

“Mr. Davenant,” said Mr. Boland, struggling to rise from his chair.

“No, no, don’t get up,” said Charles hastily. The man seemed to have collapsed in on himself, his cheeks flaps of flesh, his coat too large for his frame. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. May we join you?”

Robert shouted for more punch, rather more loudly than necessary, cursing the servant who brought it for a lazy jade.

Twin portraits graced the sides of the archway in the great room, the paint barely dry. Jenny was in one, Charles noticed, with a twist in his chest, standing behind Mary Anne. It wasn’t a particularly good likeness, but there was something about it that discomfited him all the same, as though she were frozen in the paint, kept forever at Beckles.

“Admiring my wife?” Robert said, an edge to his voice. “I commissioned the paintings to celebrate our marriage.”

“And now an heir,” said Charles, hoping to soften his brother’s mood.

It didn’t. Robert looked at him sharply. “What do you know of that? Did Mary Anne tell you?”

The Bolands were politely looking the other way.

“I haven’t seen Mrs. Davenant in some time,” said Charles carefully, wondering what had sparked this sudden anger. “My man Cuffy had it from one of your maids. You know how news travels. I thought it was common knowledge. If I overstepped, I beg your pardon. I’ve been wanting to tender my congratulations.”

“Consider them tendered,” said Robert. He filled a cup of punch from the bowl for Charles, and, as an afterthought, another for Jonathan. His movements, Charles noticed, were not entirely steady, never a good sign. Robert didn’t drink for joy; he drank to feed his temper. “Punch? I don’t imagine you remember Father’s recipe.”

“I do, in fact,” said Charles, aiming for a conciliating tone. Of Mary Anne and Jenny, he noticed, there was still no sign. “I was wont to mix it for my friends in London. It was much admired there.”

“London.” Robert raised his brows, inviting Mr. Boland to join in his derision. “What would they know of rum?”

“Enough to appreciate a fine bowl of punch.” Charles took a hasty gulp of the concoction Robert had handed him. There was too much lemon and too little sugar; it stung going down. “Just like Father’s. It tastes like Christmas. Do you remember sitting on the floor beneath the table while Father mixed the punch? He always gave us a sip or two.”

Charles smiled at his brother, willing him to remember the boys they’d been, in short pants and white linen smocks, sitting cross-legged beneath the table, waiting for treats.

“And Mother sliced the great cake,” Robert said grudgingly. Charles could smell the rum on his breath. “Before she became too ill.”

“There was enough rum in that to fuddle a regiment,” said Charles quickly, before Robert could start brooding on their mother. He nodded at Mr. Boland, including the others in the conversation. “The fumes alone could knock a man down.”

“In Cork, we’d pudding made with brandy,” contributed Mr. Boland. He looked fondly at his wife. “My wife’s Christmas was somewhat less bibulous.”

“Just because we weren’t sotted by noon . . .” countered Mrs. Boland. Her cheeks were warm with punch, and she looked less severe than Charles remembered, not beautiful, but darkly handsome.

“Are you in Barbados long?” asked Charles.