Christmas Revels

  Jack stood, then assisted Meg to her feet. "It already is."

  As she made a token attempt to restore her appearance to that of a decorous older sister, Meg said mischievously, "I never realized that the cuckoo and his foster family might become attached to each other in spite of their differences. But then, I never met a Christmas cuckoo before."

  Laughing, Jack put his arm around his ladylove's shoulders and escorted her to the door of the parlor. But just before leaving the room he gave the cuckoo clock a salute—as a mark of respect between two birds of a feather.

  S

  The very first novella I ever wrote, "Sunshine for Christmas," gave me the chance to settle a minor character from my Regency novel The Rake (originally published as The Rake and the Reformer). Lord Randolph Lennox was a nice fellow who lost the woman he loved because of a single bit of foolishness when he was young, and I thought he deserved better than what he had. So I gave him a dash of seasonal affective disorder and packed him off to Italy, where, as everyone knows, magical things can happen....

  IT was raining again. It had rained yesterday and the day before that. His hands clasped behind his back, Lord Randolph Lennox gazed out the window of his bedroom at the slick gray streets of Mayfair. "Burns, do you know how many days it has been raining?"

  "No, my lord," his valet replied, glancing up from the wardrobe, where he was stacking precisely folded neckcloths.

  "Thirty-four days. Rather biblical, don't you think? Perhaps it is time to order an ark."

  "While the autumn has been a wet one," Burns said austerely, "it has not rained continuously day and night. Therefore, if I recall the scriptural precedent correctly, an ark should not be required."

  Between amusement and depression, Lord Randolph considered the question of arks. Somewhere on Bond Street, among the tailors and bootmakers and jewelers, was there a shop that would supply an ark suitable for a gentleman? But that would never do, for arks were meant for pairs, and Randolph was alone. Had been alone for thirty-four years, save for one brief spell, and undoubtedly he would be alone for the rest of his life.

  With disgust, Randolph realized that he was in danger of drowning in self-pity. Damn the rain. He was a healthy, wealthy man in the prime of his life, with friends and family and a variety of interests, and he had no right to complain of his lot. He knew that he should be grateful for the rain that kept "this scepter'd isle, this demi-paradise" green, but the thought did nothing to mitigate the bleakness outdoors, or in his soul.

  He would have enjoyed snow, which was clean and pure and forgiving, but snow seldom fell in southern England. Farther north, in Scotland or Northumbria, soft white flakes might be floating silent from the sky. In London, the weather was merely miserable.

  In a few weeks it would be Christmas, doubtless a drab, wet one, and Randolph was not sure which thought was more depressing: the rain or the holiday. As a boy growing up on the great estate of Dunbar, he had loved Christmas, had ached with excitement from the celebrations and the sense of magic in the air.

  Randolph and his older brother, Edward, more formally known as Lord Westkirk, would burrow into the Dunbar kitchens with the glee of all small boys. There they stole currants and burned their fingers on hot pastries until chased out by the cook, who had a fondness for children except when a holiday feast was threatened.

  Dunbar had been a happy house then. Indeed, it still was. Randolph's parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Kinross, enjoyed robust good health and liked nothing better than having their family about them. Edward and his wife and three children would be at Dunbar for Christmas, as would numerous other Lennoxes. The great house would be drenched with love and laughter and happiness. It was expected that Randolph would be there as cherished son and brother, uncle and cousin.

  He couldn't bear the thought.

  It was only midafternoon, but the light was already failing because of the rain. Randolph studied his reflection in the darkening window glass with detachment. Above average height, dark gold hair, slate-blue eyes, regular features. During their courtship, his wife had said that he looked like a Greek god. It had been a sad disappointment to her when he had proved merely human, and not an especially dashing specimen at that.

  He did not have to spend Christmas at Dunbar. There were other houses, other friends, more distant relations, who would welcome him for the holidays, but he no more wished to go to any of them than to his father's house. He did not want to be an outsider at the feast of other people's happiness. Neither did he want the good-hearted matchmakers of his acquaintance trying to find him another wife.

  What did he want? Sunshine and anonymity. Bright skies, warm air, a place where no one knew or cared who he was.

  An absurd idea. He could not just pack up and run off on impulse.

  Why not?

  Why not indeed? First with surprise, then excitement, Randolph realized that there was nothing to stop him from leaving England. Winter was a quiet time at his estate, and his presence was not required. Now that the long wars were done, the Continent awaited, beckoning staid Englishmen to sample its decadent charms. If he answered that siren call, his family would regret his absence, but he would not be missed—not really. His presence was essential to no one's happiness.

  Quickly, before the impulse could dissipate, he turned from the window. "Burns, commence packing. Tomorrow we shall take ship to the Mediterranean."

  The usually imperturbable valet so far forgot himself as to gape. "Surely you jest, my lord?"

  "Not in the least," Randolph answered, a sparkle in his eyes. "I shall go into the City to book passage directly."

  "But. . . but it isn't possible to arrange such a journey in twenty-four hours," Burns said feebly.

  Randolph considered all that must be done, then nodded. "You're right. We shall leave the day after tomorrow instead." He grinned, feeling lighter than he had in months. "We're going to find some sunshine for Christmas."

  WITH a lamentable lack of regard for his expensive coat, Lord Randolph crossed his arms and leaned against the brick wall, drinking in the grandeur of the scene before him. Even under damp gray skies, Naples was beautiful.

  Having made the decision to leave London, he had booked passage on the next available Mediterranean-bound passenger ship. Its destination had seemed a good omen, for Naples was said to be one of the most sophisticated and enchanting of cities.

  As further proof that his journey was blessed, Randolph had found lodgings at the best hotel in the city, with glorious prospects visible from every window. Naples seemed a magical place, and he had gone to bed the first night full of hope, sure that even a staid Englishman could find magic here.

  The next morning he awoke to rain, and the local variety was every bit as dismal as the London kind. The hotel manager, heartbroken at being the bearer of bad news, admitted that December was the height of the rainy season, but hastened to add that the weather might well improve momentarily, if not even sooner.

  Perhaps the sun would come out, perhaps not, but that morning the weather was exactly like a bad English November, which was what Randolph had tried to escape. His brief spark of hope flickered and died, leaving resignation. It had been foolish to think he could run away from either rain or loneliness. But, by God, he was here on the holiday of a lifetime, and he was going to enjoy himself if it killed him.

  He hired a guide, and for three days he dutifully viewed churches and monuments. He bought antiquities and objets d'art, and an exquisite doll in native dress for his niece.

  He had also admired the handsome Neapolitan women, had even been tempted by one or two of the sloe-eyed streetwalkers. But he did not succumb to temptation, for the price might be too high. It was said that the prostitutes of Naples often gave men souvenirs that could be neither forgotten nor forgiven.

  Yesterday his guide had taken him to view a religious procession. For reasons incomprehensible to a northern Protestant, a statue of the Blessed Virgin was removed from its church and paraded thr
ough the streets. Men carrying fifteen-foot-tall torches had led the way, followed by musicians playing small tambourines, castanets, and enormous Italian bagpipes. Black-clad sweepers wielded brooms to clean the street for the Madonna, a most useful activity, and another confraternity strewed the cobbles with herbs and flowers.

  The street and balconies were thronged with watchers, and at first Randolph had enjoyed the parade and the contagious enthusiasm of the crowd. Then came a troop of grim, barefoot penitents, with knotted cords around their necks and crowns of thorns seemingly spiked into their skulls. Behind them marched ominous beings dressed all in white, their heads covered by slant-eyed hoods. Most disturbing of all, six of the cowled figures were shirtless and they scourged themselves as they walked, rivulets of blood trickling down their shredded backs and arms to stain their white garments.

  The whole concept of flagellation was repellent to a rational Englishman, and Randolph shuddered, his pleasure in the spectacle destroyed. Even through the general clamor, he heard the sickly thud of iron-tipped whips against raw flesh.

  To his guide's mystification, Randolph turned and began elbowing his way through the crowd. He had been a fool to think he would be less lonely in an alien land. Quite the contrary, he had never felt more of an outsider. He was deeply different from the Neapolitans, and just as he would never understand that orgy of self-abusive piety, he would never be able to match their passion for living.

  Seeking comfort among his own kind, that evening Randolph had attended a small gathering at the British ambassador's residence. The English community was a sizable one, and clearly eager to welcome a lord into their midst. There were numerous invitations for him to come to dinner on Christmas Day and have some proper plum pudding, not heathen food like the locals ate. But it was not authentic plum pudding that Randolph wanted. With the gracious vagueness of which he was a master, he had declined all invitations and returned to his hotel thoroughly depressed.

  This morning had dawned overcast but no longer raining, and the sky hinted at possible clearing later in the day. Heartened by the prospect, Randolph dismissed the guide and set off on foot to explore the city himself. He marveled at the juxtaposition of magnificence and cramped poverty, at the fierce pulse of a city whose inhabitants insisted on living their joys and sorrows in public for all the world to see. His obvious foreignness attracted attention, and he had had to fend off small street boys whose innocence was dubious, no matter how young they were, but he had no serious problems.

  In late morning his wandering brought him to a quiet residential square on one of the higher hills. Modest but respectable houses surrounded the piazza on three sides, while the fourth was bounded by a brick wall. The hill fell sharply away below the wall to reveal a splendid view of the bay. Pleased, Randolph crossed his arms on top of the wall and studied the city that sprawled so wantonly below.

  The air smelled different from England, the breeze redolent with the rich, intriguing scents of unfamiliar vegetation and kitchens. The clouds were beginning to break up, and as he watched, the first shafts of sunlight touched the famous bay, changing the sullen gray waters to teal and turquoise.

  On the far side of the bay loomed the indigo bulk of Vesuvius. This was the first day clear enough for Randolph to see the volcano, and he was intrigued by the small, ominous plume of smoke wafting from the top. What would it be like living by a volcano? Perhaps that constant, smoldering reminder of mortality was why Neapolitans lived life with such intensity.

  The only other person visible was a bespectacled woman perched on a bench at the opposite end of the square. Oblivious to Randolph, she sketched in a pad balanced on her knees. Fair-skinned and soberly dressed, she must be another tourist. Randolph thought that it was rather adventurous of her to be walking out alone, then dismissed her from his mind.

  One of the skinny Italian cats jumped up on the wall by Randolph, examined him with feral yellow eyes, then crept along the bricks, stalking a bird that flew away at the last minute. Several chickens wandered across the piazza, pecking hopefully at the ground, and somewhere nearby a dove cooed. It was the most peaceful spot he had found in Naples. He closed his eyes content to absorb the welcome warmth and brightness of the increasing sunshine.

  A scraping sound caught his attention, and Randolph glanced over to see a young girl emerge from a house in the corner of the piazza, a bucket in one hand and a low ladder in the other. Paying no attention to the two tourists, she propped the ladder against the wall and scampered up, bucket in hand, to begin washing the windows.

  The girl was very pretty, with olive skin, raven hair tied back with a scarlet ribbon, and a pair of trim ankles visible below her full skirts. Randolph watched her idly, enjoying the sight as he would any of Naples's other natural wonders.

  After vigorously washing the nearest panes, the girl leaned over and began working on next window, the ladder swaying beneath her. Randolph frowned, thinking she would be wiser to move the ladder. But doubtless she had been washing windows that way for years. Even if she fell, the distance was not dangerously great.

  Ready to resume his explorations, he started across the square. Before he had taken three steps, he heard a noisy clatter of falling objects, followed by a cry of pain. Cursing himself for not having attempted to caution the girl, Randolph hastened to where she lay in a dazed heap and knelt beside her.

  "Signorina?" he said, gently touching her shoulder.

  Long black lashes fluttered open to reveal melting dark eyes. The girl murmured something, probably an oath, then pushed herself to a sitting position and gave Randolph a shaky smile. She was very young, perhaps fifteen, and had the breathtaking Madonna face that seemed to be a Neapolitan specialty.

  "I'm glad to see that you have survived your fall," he said, though he was sure that she would not understand. He started to rise so that he could help her up, but suddenly she swooned forward and he found himself with an armful of nubile young womanhood. From the feel of the lush curves pressed against Rudolph's chest, it was true that the females of the Mediterranean matured earlier than their northern sisters.

  The girl tilted her head back dizzily, and this close, it was obvious that her mouth was the kind usually described as kissable. For a moment Randolph's arms tightened around her. It had been far too long since he had held a woman, and he was only human. But he was also a gentleman, and gentlemen did not take advantage of stunned children, be they ever so nubile.

  He decided that the best plan was to lay her down on the street, then summon help from her house. Before he could do so, he heard hoarse masculine shouting behind him, followed by the sound of heavy pounding feet.

  He looked up and saw two men racing across the piazza, a strikingly handsome youth and an older man. From their noisy concern, they must be family or neighbors of the injured girl. Hoping one might know some English or French, Randolph opened his mouth to speak as they skidded to a stop next to him.

  Before he could say anything, the older man snatched the girl from his arms with an anguished howl, and the youth hurled a vicious punch at Randolph's jaw.

  "What the devil!" The reflexes honed in Jackson's Salon took over. Randolph ducked his head and twisted away from the blow, his hat falling to the ground. As he scrambled to his feet, another fist connected solidly with his midriff.

  As he doubled over, gasping for breath, Randolph realized that these two maniacs must think he had assaulted the girl. The wooden ladder had fallen nearby, and he grabbed it by two rungs and used it to hold his furious assailant at bay.

  The situation was so ludicrous that Randolph almost laughed. Then he saw the wicked glitter of a knife in the young man's hand, and his amusement congealed. This was no longer a joke—it was entirely possible that he might be killed over a stupid misunderstanding. If that happened, doubtless the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies would express profound regret to the British authorities, but that would do Randolph no good.

  Yelling, the youth swung the knife wildly. Randolph blo
cked the blow with the ladder and retreated to the wall of the house so that his back was protected. Amazing how noisy two Neapolitans could be. No, three, the girl had recovered her senses and was shrieking as she clung to the older man's arm, preventing him from joining the attack.

  Then a smartly swung umbrella cracked across the young man's wrist, knocking the knife to the ground. The female tourist had entered the fray. Moving between Randolph and his assailants, she began speaking in fluent, staccato Italian. After a startled moment, the Neapolitans began addressing her, all three jabbering simultaneously.

  Randolph had already noticed that Italians talked with their bodies as much as their voices, and he watched the pantomime with deep appreciation. The older man's impassioned gestures made it crystal clear that he had been struck to the heart by the sight of his treasured daughter lying lifeless in the arms of a foreigner. As Randolph recollected, the signorina had felt far from lifeless, but no matter.

  Less clear was the young man's role, but he was equally distressed. Meanwhile, the girl, an angel of innocence, was apparently proclaiming that it was all a misunderstanding.

  Since farce seemed to be prevailing over force, Randolph lowered the ladder and studied his defender. She was somewhere around the age of thirty, slim and quite tall. To his fascination, she combined the no-nonsense air associated with governesses with the lively body language of the Neapolitans. Perhaps she was also Italian? But she had the pale translucent complexion usually associated with England.

  By sheer volume, the young man managed to shout down the other speakers. Arms waving, he made an impassioned diatribe, which he concluded by spitting at Randolph's feet.

  The tall woman hesitated, took a quick glance at Randolph, then responded, a soulful quiver in her rich alto voice. She ended her address by gesturing toward him, then clasping her hands to her bosom as her eyes demurely fluttered shut behind her gold-rimmed spectacles.