A Lady A Kiss A Christmas Wish: A Sweet Historical Regency Romance Read online

  The temperature indoors accounted for the two pairs of stockings she wore as well as the housecoat and hand-knitted woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders and pinned neatly at her bosom with a simple, but elegant silver cross brooch—a parting gift from Mrs. Shepherd. Joy wore fingerless gloves, also hand-knitted, but that didn’t prevent the digits from becoming distressingly cold.

  As always, because Mrs. Thackpenny preferred a tomb-like atmosphere, the faded burgundy brocade draperies remained closed against the day’s chill. Truth be told, Joy would’ve welcomed meager sunlight streaming through the floor to ceiling arched windows. She couldn’t help but think Mrs. Thackpenny would also benefit from a spot of sun.

  It couldn’t be good for a soul to be shut up indoors with no light or fresh air for weeks on end. God only knew Joy felt the effects of such confinement. Humans weren’t meant to huddle in the dark like frightened insects or creep about in the gloom like earthworms or moles.

  “You know I cannot bear for Whiskers to be away from me,” the elderly woman complained in a child’s sulky voice—a strident voice which grated along Joy’s spine like sharp talons scraping the bones.

  She’s old and lonely, Joy reminded herself. Be charitable.

  Her husband died when she was not much older than you.

  She has no children or remaining family and few friends.

  In an attempt to harness her vexation, Joy recited one of the many scriptures Mrs. Shepherd had drilled into her and the other girls.

  A kind word turns away wrath.

  Kindness had never worked with Mrs. Thackpenny before.

  Determined to harness her unkind thoughts, Joy repeated the verse twice more.

  A kind word turns away wrath.

  A kind word turns away wrath.

  Screwing her face into a grimace, she released a noiseless snort.

  Pshaw.

  Such exercises were useless. Joy would never completely master her thoughts when it came to Mrs. Thackpenny.

  The widow could vex the most pious of priests, and Joy had never claimed the benevolence or compassion of a man of the cloth. Nevertheless, with a determined set of her chin and after a deep breath to regain her equanimity, Joy said, “Indeed, I do understand how precious Sir Whiskerton and Poppet are to you.”

  And she truly did. For, the truth of it was, Joy was also lonely.

  Unbearably so at times.

  She missed the other girls' companionship at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women. There’d been no opportunity to make new friends since she’d taken her current position.

  Except for Mercy Feathers, she hadn’t seen any of her former friends either. Joy did correspond with several. Only sporadically, however, since foolscap, ink, and postage were luxuries she could ill afford, and Mrs. Thackpenny only grudgingly shared the former.

  Joy’s isolation was especially trying this time of year when evidence of the upcoming Yuletide was everywhere. Why, just yesterday, a gleaming claret-colored coach had trundled by with a festive evergreen, holly, and gold beribboned wreath secured to the back.

  Now that person possessed the holiday spirit.

  Mrs. Thackpenny didn’t observe Christmastide with so much as a sprig of mistletoe or a cinnamon bun. Holly and gingerbread were taboo to the crusty widow. On the other hand, Mrs. Shepherd had literally decked the halls, doorways, and mantels of Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women.

  Such delicious, mouth-watering smells had filled the corridors for days in advance of the holiday. Beaming, she’d present each girl a gift Christmas morning. A festive time was had by all, playing parlor games, singing around the pianoforte, skating on the lake–if the weather cooperated–and of course, eating scrumptious holiday foods.

  Joy particularly favored mulled cider and Christmas pudding.

  More than once, Joy wondered what her life would have been like if she’d waited for another position to become available. If she hadn’t naively believed the false promises Mrs. Thackpenny had made to a young, impressionable girl.

  Staring blankly at the heavily draped windows, she lifted a shoulder.

  Would I be better off than this life of drudgery?

  Joy’s elderly companion turned her faded blue-eyed gaze upon the blond dachshund snuggled upon a bright pink velvet blanket beside her. Lady Persephone Poppington—Poppet for short— opened sleepy dark brown eyes to stare adoringly at her agitated owner before licking her chops and settling into her comfortable bed once more.

  The woman’s pets were remarkably loyal. But then, Mrs. Thackpenny had never directed her skin-peeling voice or acrid gaze toward either of them. Instead, she cooed and talked to them as if they were beloved children.

  Which, truth be told, Joy supposed to a widow with no offspring of her own, they were.

  “Well?” Mrs. Thackpenny snapped, narrowing her eyes to slits and pinning Joy with a reproachful stare. “My Whiskers?”

  Though she commanded her focus to remain on Mrs. Thackpenny’s disapproving gaze, Joy’s attention had a mutinous mind of its own and gravitated lower.

  There are at least a half dozen gray, wiry whiskers upon your chin.

  Her gaze flew upward, and she bit the inside of her cheek to quell the traitorous smile that dared to try to form.

  I am going to burn in hell for my unkindness.

  All those years of rigorous lessons on comportment and decorum, not to mention instruction on Christ-like behavior, seemed to have flown from her mind as easily as a wild bird out an open window.

  “He was here when I dozed off,” Mrs. Thackpenny droned on, patting the stack of cozy throws padding her lap.

  Dozed off?

  The woman’s snoring could’ve stripped the faded wallpaper from the walls.

  Outwardly composed—Joy had, at least, learned that skill well at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women—she set aside her embroidery.

  “He needed to go outdoors, Mrs. Thackpenny. And after the last incident, I thought it unwise to make him wait.”

  Three days ago, Whiskers had relieved himself in one of the many cold fireplaces in the townhouse, then proceeded to track ash-covered kitty footprints onto the carpet and sofa. Naturally, Joy had been blamed. Her ill-tempered employer had threatened to reduce her allowance for the cost of cleaning the already stained and shabby cushion and carpet.

  Flannery, the sometimes butler, sometimes footman, sometimes coachman and groom, usually saw to the pampered pets’ trips outdoors. Only that day, he’d been running an errand for his mistress, and the task had fallen to Joy. Except, her domineering employer hadn’t given her a moment’s peace since Mrs. Thackpenny had awoken with a headache that morning, and the neglected cat had been entirely forgotten.

  Sir Whiskerton had only done what came naturally

  An enormous, long-haired white and orange tabby with stunning blue eyes, Sir Galahad Whiskerton—such a ridiculous name—behaved more like a dog than a cat. And he quite despised the blue bow his mistress insisted Joy tie about his neck every morning after his breakfast.

  The baleful glare the twelve-year-old feline turned upon her made her feel quite guilty. So whenever kippers were served for breakfast, she’d sneak Whiskers hers, as she couldn’t abide the nasty things.

  Whiskers, on the other hand, had no such aversion. Except for the tails, that was. The cat refused to eat the tails, which meant Joy had to dash about and gather the evidence, less anyone see the proof of her perfidy.

  A wry smile bent her mouth as she closed her sewing basket’s lid.

  She couldn’t have fresh tea leaves, but Whiskers sported a new sky-blue silk bow each week and Poppet a peony pink one. Mrs. Thackpenny doted upon her pets, but not her overworked and underpaid staff.

  “Go find him,” Mrs. Thackpenny ordered.

  “I shall fetch him for you at once,” Joy said, grateful for the opportunity to stretch her legs.

  She just might dally a few minutes and take in Rocheste
r’s brisk air. Heavens, how she missed the daily walks relished when still a student at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women.

  How had five years gone by so quickly?

  So discontentedly?

  The laborious passing of each additional year dashing more of her dreams until she feared she’d become a replica of her employer. Disenchanted with life, angry about unfulfilled dreams and deferred hopes, and bitter at God because she was powerless to change a dashed thing.

  How long ago that seemed, and how excited she’d been to learn she’d been offered a position as a lady’s companion to a granddaughter of an earl. That initial exuberance had wilted, shriveled, and eventually, died.

  And yet, what else was Joy to do?

  In truth, that plaguing thought had niggled quite persistently of late.

  At eight and seventy, Mrs. Thackpenny’s constitution was becoming fragile. When she passed on, Joy would need to find a new position. Mrs. Shepherd would likely help her, but a letter of reference from Mrs. Thackpenny would do much for securing another post.

  Only, how did one go about requesting such a thing?

  It seemed in grossly poor taste.

  By the by, Mrs. Thackpenny. You very well may die soon, and I would like to request a letter of reference so that I might find another position when you shuffle off your mortal coil.

  The feisty widow, likely as not, would clock Joy soundly with her scarred cane.

  “Ask Mrs. Wilkie for a pot of tea and tray of dainties on your way through the kitchen, Miss Winterborne. Make certain there are peach tarts,” Mrs. Thackpenny decreed imperiously, waving said cane in a small arc the way a monarch might brandish a royal mace.

  She would’ve made an impressive queen, wielding her scepter over her subjugated people.

  “Then hurry back to help me freshen up,” she demanded. “Bring my rosewater and rice powder when you return.”

  Rosewater and rice powder?

  What?

  Joy paused at the doorway, casting a puzzled glance at her mistress. “Are you expecting a guest?”

  Mrs. Thackpenny rarely entertained. Except for the trio of equally contentious cronies who arrived every second Tuesday for a vicious gossip session. God help any ton member they choose to target and shred with their sharp tongues. Joy tried to make herself invisible in a dingy corner, though her ears burned at their blistering rumors and nasty conjectures.

  Already stretched to her limit with her cooking and housekeeping responsibilities, Mrs. Wilkie would be hard-pressed to procure biscuits and sandwiches—don’t forget the peach tarts—on such short notice.

  Since when had Mrs. Thackpenny developed a penchant for peach tarts, of all things?

  Her employer cocked her head, and with her wire-rimmed spectacles low on her narrow nose, reminded Joy very much of a quizzical bird.

  Except birds didn’t look nearly so self-satisfied.

  Or wily.

  Uneasiness tiptoed across Joy’s back from one shoulder to the other.

  Precisely what was the scheming woman up to?

  Mrs. Thackpenny fluttered a knotted, blue-veined hand to the grayish-silver curls framing her face that her black lace cap didn’t quite conceal.

  “Oh, dear me.” She waved her hand and, giving a coquettish smile, fluttered her eyelashes. “Did I forget to mention Doctor Morrisette is attending me at half-past two?”

  Good Lord. Doctor Morrisette?

  The very man Joy held in foolish, secret esteem?

  Ah, he must have a particular fondness for peach tarts.

  “I mentioned his visit to Mrs. Wilkie this morning, so she is aware.” Mrs. Thackpenny patted her frail chest with a knobby hand. “My cough has worsened, and I fear I may very well be on the brink of lung fever.”

  Lung fever? Joy nearly rolled her eyes. If she is on the brink of lung fever, then I am Viscountess Castlereagh.

  Cough. Cough. Cough.

  Mrs. Thackpenny proceeded to produce a trio of dry, obviously contrived hacks to emphasize her point. “The good doctor simply insisted upon another visit.”

  And camels dance the minuet.

  Joy’s gaze flew to the cobalt blue-based ormolu mantle clock.

  Five minutes to two.

  So much for stealing a few minutes outside.

  “I shall return directly.”

  Keeping her face impassive, Joy gave a small nod before sweeping from the chilly salon. Once in the corridor, she hoisted her skirts and took the stairs two at a time. At best, she’d have ten minutes to improve her appearance before she must return to help Mrs. Thackpenny preen for her esteemed guest.

  Flannery could deliver the spoiled puss to his manipulating mistress.

  Doctor Morrisette—Lord Brandon Gorgeous Morrisette—the third son of a marquess, possessed a devastating smile, which caused her stomach to flip-flop like a panicked trout upon a lake embankment. His arresting deep brown eyes and the shock of dark blond hair that fell rakishly over his brow further enhanced his good looks.

  No doctor should be so devastatingly handsome. It couldn’t possibly be good for his patients’ hearts. Why, Joy would wager her small savings, half his clients—the female half—suffered heart palpitations or paroxysms from his presence.

  Increasing her pace, Joy mumbled beneath her breath. “He shan’t find me wearing my drab gray skirts and covered in orange and white cat hair today.”

  Which, in point of fact, was how Dr. Morrisette typically found her.

  Heat suffused her face that she should even care what he thought of her.

  With a single exception, Joy’s gowns were ash gray or wren brown. Neither shade suited her coloring but were “perfectly appropriate for a young woman of inferior social standing.”

  More opinionated words of wisdom from Mrs. Thackpenny.

  Nor would the charming rogue hide a smile, his eyes glinting with amusement as Joy tried to subdue the beastly, yowling cat while the doctor examined his elderly patient.

  His patient, who always managed to appear near death’s door whenever he was present, but revived as miraculously as Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead the moment the devilishly handsome doctor departed.

  And as much as Joy admitted to imprudently admiring the man and his physician’s skills, even he couldn’t be credited with such an astonishing recovery.

  As Joy sprinted to her third story chamber, she mentally calculated.

  This was the seventh—no, eighth—occasion this month the kindly doctor had been imposed upon. The previous months he’d been as frequently inconvenienced by one or another of Mrs. Thackpenny’s contrived ailments. Never had a woman had one foot in the proverbial grave more times than Mrs. Sabella Thackpenny. Much like a cat with multiple lives, she always recovered.

  Not that Joy minded Dr. Brandon Morrisette’s recurrent calls.

  No indeed.

  Quite the opposite was true, in fact. The doctor brought news of the outside world and was a refreshing and welcome disruption in her otherwise monotonous routine.

  And, yes, Joy secretly admitted, she found him deucedly attractive.

  As humiliating as it was to have to greet Doctor Morrisette each time, knowing full well her mistress wasn’t nearly as ill as she affected, Joy’s heart always leaped. Her pulse quickened in a manner most unsuitable for a proper lady’s companion as well.

  But Doctor Brandon Morrisette was masculine perfection, and even an on-the-shelf spinster with no prospects such as herself could appreciate an Adonis in the flesh.

  One who always smelled of sandalwood and spices.

  Who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth?

  That reminded Joy.

  She still needed to search Mrs. Thackpenny’s bedchamber for whatever medical journal her mistress had acquired and hidden away. She used the book to research diseases and erroneously concluded she suffered from a myriad of them. Combined with the woman’s ever-declining eyesight and inability to read well, the diagnoses were becoming increa
singly ludicrous.

  As she dashed along, Joy rolled her eyes ceilingward and, shaking her head in remembered chagrin, groaned aloud.

  Dear Lord above.

  Last week, the woman was in a complete dither, absolutely positive that she suffered from Peyronie’s disease. Did she simply find a unique or frightening sounding affliction in the medical book, and her failing eyesight prevented her from reading the actual symptoms?

  Quite possibly, truth be told.

  Mrs. Thackpenny’s vision had grown so impaired this past year that Joy read to her on most occasions, and that included bills from her few creditors and even fewer correspondents.

  She could only applaud Doctor Morrisette’s professionalism as he’d gently explained to the overwrought woman that he was one hundred percent certain, Mrs. Thackpenny did not have the affliction. Furthermore, he’d assured her that only men could acquire that particular disease.

  He hadn’t elucidated how he could be so confident in his assessment, and given the distinct jollity glimmering in his lovely, chocolate-brown eyes, Joy hadn’t dared to ask.

  “Are you quite certain, Doctor?” Mrs. Thackpenny quavered, her eyes owlishly large behind her spectacles.

  “Absolutely,” came the doctor’s solemn reply.

  Jaw clenched against the cold, Joy skidded into her sparsely furnished chamber and yanked her favorite gown from the wardrobe. A deep blue wool trimmed at the bodice and sleeves in crocheted lace, the fabric made her eyes bluer, her skin appear creamier, and brought out the pale honey tones in her bright coppery hair.

  Shivering, her teeth chattering, Joy grumbled softly as she pulled the ugly gray gown over her head and threw it unceremoniously upon the bare floor. Someday, somehow, she was going to live someplace warm and not wear drab, earth-colored gowns.

  In fact, she’d only wear jeweled tones.

  She had no control over any of that right now. But by thunder, today the handsome doctor would not laugh at her again.

  His physician’s bag in one hand, Doctor Brandon Morrisette briskly rapped the knocker upon the faded, paint-chipped green door with the other. When he’d received Mrs. Sabella Thackpenny’s missive this morning, requesting he listen to her lungs again, he’d nearly sent a note around refusing her entreaty.