“What is it?” he whispered.

Arabella shook her head. “Nothing. Just you.”

At the head of the table, the Duke of Dovedale once more called the revelers to attention. “To Her Majesty, our Queen of the Feast — Queen Charlotte!”

All up and down the table, crystal glittered as the houseguests raised their glasses, dutifully echoing, “Queen Charlotte!”

All except Turnip. He didn’t lift his glass to the evening’s Queen.

He lifted it to Arabella, whispering, for her ears alone, “Queen Arabella. Queen of my heart, in any event,” he added, in more normal tones, as he set the glass back on the cloth.

“Do you have any pronouncements for your loyal subjects?” shouted out Tommy Fluellen, from Arabella’s other side.

Lady Charlotte beamed down from the head table, a gilded crown of mistletoe set slightly askew on her golden curls. “That I do!” she called back, deploying her fan like a scepter. “Go forth and enjoy yourself mightily.”

A roar of approval went up from the table as chairs scraped back against the polished floors and inebriated guests staggered towards the conveniences, the gallery, or their own private alcoves. The rest of the guests were already beginning to assemble in the grand reception rooms on the other side of the house, wandering through a wonderland of improbably flowering urns, champagne fountains, and elaborate garlands of holly and mistletoe.

Turnip squeezed Arabella’s hand. “I claim your first dance. Rather like the second and third ones too.”

“What about the fourth?” Arabella stood as a footman drew her chair back.

Turnip pretended to consider. “Take that one as well. Shouldn’t want it to feel left out.”

Hand in hand, they joined the giddy crowd making its way out of the dining room. Turnip looked hopefully at the doorframe, but there was no mistletoe there. Tommy Fluellen trailed along after Penelope, who was pretending not to notice Freddy Staines — at least, until he grabbed her by the back of the dress and pulled. Everyone was loose and laughing with wine and feasting, returned to the mores of an earlier, faster era.

Everyone, apparently, but Arabella’s new uncle by marriage. He stalked stiffly up to them, his expression rigid. “Fitzhugh,” he said in an undertone. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you.”

“Have you? Jolly good of you,” said Turnip. “Look forward to it. After the dancing.”

“I’m afraid it won’t wait until after the dancing,” said Musgrave.

Across the room, Aunt Osborne raised a diamond-spangled hand to hail him. Diamond bracelets wrapped around her pudgy wrists and diamond rings sparkled on her gloved fingers. In her too-youthful white and silver gauze, she looked like an aging water nymph liberated from the edge of a fountain.

Musgrave waved unenthusiastically back.

“You shouldn’t keep my aunt waiting,” said Arabella, enjoying herself just a little too much.

“I came to speak to you on behalf of your aunt,” he said, but his eyes shifted as he said it. He turned to Turnip. “She is very perturbed by the way you have been trifling with her niece.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Arabella, twining her arm through Turnip’s. “Nobody is trifling with anyone. We’re quite in accord on that.”

“Perfectly in accord,” echoed Turnip. “In accord as an accordion.”

Musgrave looked at her with concern, and more than a little bit of pity. “You can’t think he means to marry you?”

He meant it, she realized. In his own odd way, he genuinely thought he was protecting her honor. Having not wanted to marry her himself, he assumed no one else would. It would have been amusing if it hadn’t been mildly insulting.

Lowering his voice, Musgrave addressed Turnip. “You do know she doesn’t have a dowry?”

Turnip’s deliberately daft smile never faltered. “That’s quite all right. I do,” he said. Turning to Arabella, he asked, with great seriousness, “Would you prefer it in goats or pigs?”

“Cows,” said Arabella, “definitely cows. You can waylay them for me.”

“Deuced tetchy beasts, cows,” warned Turnip.

“But they make such lovely dairy.”

“Always did like dairy,” agreed Turnip. “Have I mentioned how much I like that dress?”

“You’re both mad,” muttered Musgrave.

“Mad with happiness,” said Turnip. “True love and all that, don’t you know.”

Captain Musgrave looked from one to the other, making a belated attempt to regain control over the situation.

“Does this mean that you do intend to marry?” he asked, with difficulty, as though the idea were such an oddity that it pained him to even entertain it.

“A pertinent question,” Arabella said to Turnip. “What with one thing and another, I don’t believe you ever did officially ask for my hand.”

Turnip whapped himself on the head with the flat of his hand. “Blast this deuced absent mind of mine! Could’ve sworn I had... but, oh well, no harm in doing it again. Would you like the grand display or would a small one do?”

“The grand display,” said Arabella, her lips twitching. “Quite definitely the grand display.”

“I love that about you,” said Turnip abruptly.

Arabella looked quizzically at him. “My instinct for drama?”

“The little lip-twitchy thing you do when you’re trying not to laugh. It’s very high on the list of things I love about you.”

“How long is this list?”

“Hard to tell, really. It keeps growing on me. Deuced inconvenient that way.”

The two shared a long and extremely soppy look.

Arabella fluttered her lashes at him. “I love the way you hit yourself in the head when you’ve forgotten something.”

“Good,” said Turnip, “because I’m deuced forgetful.”

“So long as you don’t forget me.”

Turnip twined his fingers through hers. “Couldn’t do that if I tried. You’re engraved on my heart, don’t you know.”

Arabella batted her eyelashes at him. “How very uncomfortable for you.”

Captain Musgrave peered over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone had heard. “You’re making a scandal of yourself, Arabella,” he said in low, urgent tones.

“Good,” said Arabella cheerfully. “I’ve been far too well-behaved for far too long.”

Shame having failed, Captain Musgrave tried guilt. “If you won’t think of yourself, think of your aunt.”

“I’m not thinking. I’m acting. No more Hamlet for me.” Turnip grinned proudly. It went straight to Arabella’s head. Turning back to her step-uncle, she said giddily, “If you’re not careful, I might invade Scotland next.”

Musgrave looked at her with genuine concern. “I know this year has been difficult for you, but I hadn’t realized quite how difficult. Maybe you should go lie down. You aren’t yourself.”

Arabella smiled ruefully at him, thinking how little he knew. “On the contrary, I am most entirely myself. More so than I’ve been for years.”

Musgrave shook his head in determined negation. “This isn’t the you I know.”

“That’s because you didn’t know me. You wouldn’t have wanted to.” It was true. If she had said half the things she had been thinking, it would have scared him to death. Arabella turned back to Turnip. “As for you, Mr. Fitzhugh, didn’t you promise me a grand display of the scandalous and embarrassing variety?”

“Do my best.” Turnip plopped himself down on one knee where he would be sure to cause the maximum disruption, right in the doorway of the dining room. “Arabella — er, do you have a middle name?”

“Elizabeth.” Arabella was enjoying herself hugely. “You do have troubles with my name, don’t you?”

“Practice makes perfect.” Turnip rubbed his hands together, gearing up for his grand scene. “Right. Here goes. Arabella Elizabeth Dempsey, I adore you. You are the plums in my pudding, the spice in my cider, the holly on my ivy.”

“I don’t think holly grows on ivy,” said Arabella, lips twitching.

“Well, it should,” said Turnip forcefully. “More things in heaven and earth and whatnot. Christmas is a season of miracles.”

A snorting sound came from somewhere above Arabella’s head. It was the dowager, perched high on her litter, wearing a truly alarming headdress of holly and ivy, her sparse gray hair frizzed out like Marie Antoinette in her heyday.

“Say yes, girl!” commanded the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale. “If he keeps talking, I hold you responsible.”

Arabella held out her hands to Turnip, raising him up from his knees. “I love you,” she said, “and I would be honored to be your wife.”

“You don’t mind being Mrs. Turnip?”

“So long as you don’t mind Mr. What’s-Her-Name.”

“Now, that’s a name I can remember,” said Turnip smugly and swept her into his arms, tilting her back at an improbable and wonderfully dizzying angle. “Happy Christmas, my own Arabella.”

Arabella could feel her hair slipping free from its pins in a decidedly wanton way. She smiled up at him. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Turnip paused, mid-swoop. “True love, eternal adoration, plum pudding... all seems to be here.”

“There’s just one thing missing.” Raising her head slightly, she flapped a hand in the air, calling out, “Does anyone have any mistletoe?”


An excerpt from the Dempsey Collection :

Miss Jane Austen to Miss Arabella Dempsey

Green Park Buildings, 7 March, 1805

My dear Arabella,

Many thanks for your affectionate letter. I should be delighted to stand godmother to baby Jane, although you have quite ruined my plans for The Watsons. I had intended you for a vicar, not for a wealthy species of vegetable. I refuse to play with puddings and paper scimitars, even for you. You have quite upset my designs, but I forgive you for the excellent diversion your letters provided.