The Christmas Cuckoo Read online

  Across the kitchen Phoebe asked, "Is it time to start boiling the Brussels sprouts?"

  "Wait until Philip and Jack come in." Meg gave the soup pot a stir. It was bean soup tonight, rich and savory. "There is nothing worse than gray, overcooked Brussels sprouts." Glancing up at her sister, she asked hopefully, "What do you think of Major Howard now that you've had time to become a little better acquainted?"

  Phoebe made a rueful face. "I'm sorry, Meg, I know you were hoping that he and I might form an attachment, and I must admit that I had certain hopes in that direction myself. But I'm afraid it just won't do."

  "Don't you like him?"

  "I like him very well," Phoebe assured her. "The major is kind and good-natured and there's something wonderfully solid about him. But he's much older than I expected, and not at all dashing—more like a large shaggy bear. I just can't imagine falling in love with him, and he certainly shows no disposition to fall in love with me." She gave her sister a teasing smile. "I know that you're concerned about my future, but I'm not at my last prayers yet. Rather than casting lures to Major Howard, I'm prepared to wait and see if someone better comes along."

  As Phoebe talked, Meg felt a surge of relief so intense that it shocked her. Could she possibly be yearning for the major herself? The idea was so nonsensical that she could feel color rise in her cheeks. To conceal her expression from Phoebe's interested gaze, Meg scooped up a spoonful of soup and sampled it, scorching her tongue. She gasped and waved her hand in a vain attempt to cool her mouth. "Needs more salt."

  As she reached for a salt cellar, Meg decided that soup was really a safer subject than men, for a burned mouth would heal much faster than a burned heart. As she added a large pinch of salt to the pot, she reminded herself firmly that the fact Phoebe wasn't interested in the major did not mean he was available for her. Then she reminded herself again.

  And again.

  THE household Jack had grown up in had treated him with sufferance rather than affection, so he had never known the kind of holiday happiness he discovered that evening. Baking proved to be a family affair, with Philip and Phoebe chopping nuts and dried fruit, Jack assigned to grind lumps of sugar to powder fineness, and Tizzie and Lizzie aiding Meg in ways that seemed to involve squealing and covering all three of them with flour. The cats and Rugger made periodic patrols under the tables, hoping that all this activity would produce tangible benefits for them.

  Under Meg's direction they made a vast quantity of tiny mince pies, enough so that everyone at Brook Farm could have one on each of the twelve days of Christmas, to ensure luck for the coming year. Then came gingerbread; Meg had everyone help her cut it into the shapes of stars before baking.

  As the house filled with irresistibly spicy scents, Phoebe unexpectedly broke into song. To Jack's surprise, everyone else joined in, as if singing "Joy to the World" was the most natural thing in the world. For the Lamberts, it clearly was. Phoebe was a soprano, her voice a little weak because of her recent cold, but very sweet. Meg had a rich contralto and Philip a very passable tenor. Even Tizzie and Lizzie chimed in, their high clear voices like cherubim.

  After the song was done, Meg looked up from the hazelnut-and-chocolate pudding she was mixing. "Do you sing, Jack?" she asked with a bewitching smile. "We could use a baritone."

  As he looked into her warm hazel eyes, Jack felt something very strange happen deep in his chest. It wasn't the kitchen that was the heart of the Lambert household, it was Meg herself. And more than anything else on earth, he wanted to spend the rest of his life within the circle of her warmth. If they had been alone, he would have said as much.

  Instead, Jack cleared his throat gruffly. "If you don't mind hearing a voice that has been described as capable of stopping a bull in its tracks, I'll be happy to join in."

  This time it was Philip who started a song, choosing "The Holly and the Ivy," and for the next hour they sang all the Christmas carols they knew. Then Jack taught them a simple Spanish song that he had learned on the Peninsula.

  The party broke up gradually, first the little girls being taken off to bed, then the adults yawning and conceding fatigue. As Jack drifted toward sleep with the calico cat sprawled on his stomach, he knew that he had never felt so much a part of a family in his life.

  "YOU may enter the parlor now!" Phoebe announced grandly.

  It was Christmas Eve, and Phoebe had insisted on total privacy while she decorated the kissing bough. Tizzie and Lizzie had been excited to near-speechlessness by the secrecy and would periodically peer into the parlor, attempting to steal a glimpse.

  Caught up in the holiday mood, Jack had felt as much anticipation as the little girls. After doing the farm chores, he and Philip had brought in the Yule log. Then they all sat in the kitchen and turned the evergreens they had collected into yards and yards of garlands while Meg produced more delicacies for the Christmas feast.

  Summoned by Phoebe, everyone solemnly entered the parlor to see the results of the girl's handiwork. Jack was prepared to admire whatever she had made, but it was quite unnecessary to counterfeit enthusiasm.

  As Tizzie and Lizzie squealed rapturously, Meg lifted the kissing bough and exclaimed, "Oh, Phoebe! What a wonderful idea to use peacock feathers. I never thought of such a thing."

  The kissing bough was a double hoop of dried vine, and traditionally it was decorated with evergreens, scarlet berries, candles, and mistletoe. That was quite enough to make it pretty, but bows of silver ribbon and the gleaming, colorful tips of peacock feathers made this one breathtaking.

  "It was rather a stroke of genius, wasn't it?" Phoebe agreed. Clearly she was no believer in false modesty.

  Taking the kissing bough from Meg, Philip gave his other sister a wicked grin. "Considering that you're as vain as a peacock, you should have thought of this years ago."

  For a moment Phoebe teetered between behaving like a mature lady and giving in to her natural instincts. Instinct won and she threw a handful of feather scraps at her brother. "Beast! You should talk—it wasn't me who asked if I looked like that picture of Lord Byron."

  "You don't have to—you look more like him than I do," Philip retorted, then retreated hastily across the parlor as Phoebe began stalking him with wrath in her eyes.

  "Children, children," Meg said indulgently. "What will Major Howard think?"

  Laughing, Jack replied, "Major Howard thinks that the Lamberts know how to have a good time."

  Phoebe ceased chasing her brother and gave a wistful sigh. "I do so wish Jeremy was here. For weeks I've been looking forward to having him home for Christmas."

  "We all have," Meg agreed, "but he'll be home soon, and that is almost as good." She smiled at their guest. "We're fortunate to have Jack here even though Jeremy was delayed."

  Jack felt a massive stab of guilt at his deception, knowing that if Jeremy were here, Jack wouldn't be. "The good fortune is mine."

  Meg scooped Lizzie into her arms. "It's time to put up the rest of the decorations. Shall we set this little angel on the mantelpiece?"

  Lizzie shrieked with delight as Jack took her from Meg and perched her on the mantel, then put Tizzie by her side. "With their bright blond hair, they made very fine angels for about one minute, after which the small sisters demanded to be taken down so they could help Phoebe weave bright bits of peacock feather into the garlands.

  The mantel was decorated with candles and evergreens and ribbons, and the garlands were hung, filling the room with a tangy forest fragrance. Then Philip hung the kissing bough from the chandelier. As he lit the candles, all around the room feathers shimmered with iridescent blues and greens, and silver bows sparkled to life. There was a soft collective intake of breath as everyone admired the effect. Outside it was dark and a bitter wind rattled the windows, but the parlor glowed with warmth and color and love. Most of all, love.

  Philip pulled Tizzie under the bough and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. "There!" he said with a grin. "That's what kissing boughs are; for."


  As Tizzie gazed at him adoringly, Lizzie moved in for her kiss, followed by Philip's smiling sisters.

  A quick learner, Tizzie seized Jack's hand, tugged him under the mistletoe, then waited hopefully. He laughed and obliged her, thinking how much a child's delight added to the magic of the season. Of course Lizzie also had to be kissed, and after that Phoebe presented herself with as little self-consciousness as the girls.

  After receiving Jack's playful kiss, Phoebe said gaily, "Your turn, Meg."

  Jack gave Meg an appalled glance. As plainly as if it were written on the wall in letters of flame, he knew that they were both thinking of the kiss in the stable at Chippenham. So much for her comment that they should forget what had happened. Jack recalled with absolute precision how her soft body had molded against him, how she had tasted, and how she had responded. Remembering that, it was impossible to kiss her casually now.

  Just before the silence became embarrassingly obvious, Meg stepped up and presented her cheek with a determined let's-get-this-over-with expression. Jack gave her a quick, awkward peck. Her creamy skin was silky smooth beneath his lips. Then the moment was over, to Jack's immense relief.

  The evening's program was simple but rewarding for all ages. They dined, then danced as Meg and Phoebe took turns playing the old spinet. There was wassail for the adults and hot spiced cider for the little girls, and games like snapdragon and puss in the corner—once played with a real puss.

  Eventually Tizzie and Lizzie curled up together in a ball, snoozing like kittens, and had to be carried off to bed. Then the adults relaxed around the fire, the Lamberts reminiscing about notable Christmases of the past. Jack said very little, though he several times compared this evening with what he would have had to endure at the countess's hands. As he sipped wassail, he gave thanks to the fate that had sent him here.

  Finally Philip rose and clasped both of Phoebe's hands. "Time for bed, sleepyhead," he said, hauling his sister to her feet. "You'll have to walk because you're too heavy to carry."

  "But I don't want to go to bed yet," she protested.

  Her brother directed a meaningful glance from Meg to Jack. "Yes, you do."

  Phoebe's eyes widened. Then she gave an exaggerated yawn. "For once you're right. I am rather tired."

  As Philip tugged Phoebe from the room, he gave Jack a conspiratorial smile. Jack almost laughed; seemed to have acquired an ally.

  As her brother and sister left the room, Meg murmured, "I should go to bed, too. It will be a busy day tomorrow. There's the goose to prepare in the morning, and church, and a thousand other things." But she made no move to rise.

  Curled up on the sofa with two cats, a dreamy smile, and tousled curls that glowed in the firelight, Meg looked good enough to eat, even though Jack should not be hungry after all the food he had put away. If he had any sense, he would also go to bed and leave his hostess in safe solitude, but these moments of peaceful togetherness were too precious to end quickly.

  Needing something to keep his hands busy and off his hostess, Jack I put his glass down and wandered over to the large Black Forest clock that hung on the wall, sprigs of holly fastened on top. "I've always had a fondness for cuckoo clocks. Is this one broken or has it just run down because you've been too busy to tend it?"

  "There is a story to that clock. My father bought it in Munich when he was on his grand tour. He was always very fond of the clock and kept it in his study at Peacock Hill." Meg raised her glass and drained the last of her wassail. "He died in that study. It was very sudden—the doctor said his heart failed. The clock stopped that day and never ran again."

  Intrigued, Jack ran appreciative fingers over the silky, beautifully carved wood. The hands had stopped at 11:27. "Did you decide to leave it like this as a memorial to your father?"

  "Not really. It was just that so much happened after my father died— losing Peacock Hill, having to move. There was neither time nor money to have the clock fixed." Meg smiled wryly. "I suppose that I should see to it. Jeremy won't have Peacock Hill, but at least he can have Papa's clock, and it will be much more useful to him if it works."

  "Shall I take a look at it?" Jack offered. "I'm a fair hand with things mechanical. Even if I can't fix it, at least I should be able to find out what's wrong."

  Since Meg looked doubtful, he said coaxingly, "Please? I didn't bring any real Christmas presents, so fixing the clock can be my gift to you. I promise I won't leave it in worse condition than I found it."

  Meg smiled. "Very well, if you don't mind. I'm fond of the clock, though I've always thought cuckoos quite dishonorable for their habit of laying their eggs in the nests of other birds. The poor host birds become fagged to death raising the cuckoos' ravenous offspring."

  Meg's words struck so unexpectedly close to the bone that Jack almost dropped the clock as he moved it to a table by the fire. What was he himself but a Christmas cuckoo who had ended up in the wrong nest? He uttered a brief prayer that Meg would prove more tolerant of him than of the despised cuckoo.

  As he opened the clock, he remarked, "A cuckoo is not that different from aristocratic parents who give their children to nurses to raise."

  "Another reason to despise the nobility," Meg retorted, "though at least nurses are paid, unlike the poor victims of the cuckoos' deceit."

  Jack concentrated on the clock, uneasily aware that Meg was going to require a great deal of persuasion to see him as an acceptable suitor. Perhaps he should confess now, when she was mellow with contentment and wassail.

  Resolved, he opened his mouth to speak, then frowned as his probing fingertips touched something unexpected inside the clock case. "There is some kind of obstruction—paper, I think. Could one of the children have stuffed something inside?"

  "I suppose so," Meg said without much interest. "There were always children in and out of Peacock Hill. Be grateful if it's paper and not something dreadful like a petrified frog."

  Jack managed to pull the paper out without ripping it. There was one large sheet, bulky and yellow-gray with age. Curious, he flattened the sheet on the table, then peered at the faded writing in the flickering firelight.

  The words were in Latin and it took time to puzzle out the old legal phrases. Then he gasped, his heart speeding up like a galloping horse. "Meg, come look at this."

  Startled by his tone, she set her glass aside and came to peer over his shoulder.

  "I hope to God I'm not raising false hopes," Jack said in a choked voice, "but I think this is the deed to Peacock Hill."

  Meg felt the blood drain from her face. Snatching the paper up, she tilted it toward the fire. "Merciful heaven," she whispered. "You're right, this is the deed. Not long before he died, Papa waved it at me when he said that Lord Mason would give a fortune to possess this piece of paper." She ran awestruck fingers over the old lettering. "How on earth do you think it came to be inside the clock?"

  Jack considered. "You say that your father died in his study. When he was stricken, he may have become confused and felt that he had to put the deed somewhere safe, where Mason couldn't get it. The clock was right there and had always been special to him, so he shoved the deed inside, jamming the mechanism. We'll never know, of course, but that seems a plausible explanation."

  "But how did Lord Mason know that we would be unable to find the deed?" she asked in bewilderment.

  Jack thought some more. "Perhaps your father once told Mason that the deed was hidden safe away. Then, when he died so suddenly, Mason decided to gamble on the chance that no one would know where your father had left it."

  "It's the sort of thing Lord Mason might do, for he is a famous gamester," Meg said thoughtfully. "He had little to lose by trying, and his gamble paid off spectacularly well. The despicable wretch."

  "His gamester's luck has run out," Jack said with deep satisfaction. "Not only can you reclaim Peacock Hill, but you can file a suit for fraud against Lord Mason. He'll probably pay a handsome settlement to keep the case from going to court an
d becoming public knowledge. I doubt he will want to be known as someone who stole the inheritance of a family of orphans."

  Meg was too happy to be concerned with retribution. "You know what this means?" she said, bubbling with joy. "Jeremy will be able to sell out and come back to Peacock Hill and marry his sweetheart, Anne Marshall. I'm sorry, Jack, I know you'll miss him, but we need him more here. And Phoebe will be able to make her come-out and Philip won't have to go to India unless he really wants to. ..."

  Distractedly she brushed her hair back as she tried to think of all the implications. "You've given us all a Christmas present beyond our wildest dreams. I know the words are feeble, but thank you, Jack, from the bottom of my heart. I must go tell Philip and Phoebe."

  "Let them sleep. The deed has waited for five years, it can wait until morning." Jack stood and put a hand under her chin, lifting it so that her gaze met his. "You always say 'we' and 'us,' Meg. Isn't there anything that you want just for yourself?"

  As Meg looked into Jack's intense blue eyes, she felt a shiver that started in her toes and tingled through her entire body. She made no protest when he drew her into an embrace under the kissing bough. His lips met hers in a warm, wise, leisurely exploration that bore no resemblance to the chaste kiss he had given her earlier.

  Delirious with happiness and desire, Meg kissed him back. As Phoebe had said, there was something wonderfully solid about Jack Howard. But he was also the most intoxicatingly attractive man she had ever known. He made Meg feel as irresistible as Helen of Troy. She almost dropped the precious deed.

  Abruptly Jack set Meg away from him, though fortunately he kept his hands firmly on her waist or she might have folded down to the floor. "Tomorrow, after breakfast and church and all the rest, I have something very important to say to you," he said huskily. "You—not Phoebe or Philip or Tizzie and Lizzie, but you. Then I'm going to ask you a question. You know what it will be, don't you, Meg?"