Merry Christmas, Mrs. Robinson Page 2

  Of course that was well before he met his eighty-year-old great aunt, Lady Ernastine. Or rather, Mrs. Granger, as she preferred to be called. There was a reason his entire family had ostracized the poor woman for well over sixty years. Because she didn’t seem to understand reality. Or the dire situation she was in.

  A large roach with dangling antennae navigating its path along the uneven wooden floorboards, then paused beside his well-polished black leather boot. He considered smashing it with his heel but didn’t want his eighty-year-old aunt to think he was an ass who believed in crushing defenseless creatures.

  The roach, sensing it had been graciously given more time to live, darted across the small room toward a crack in the peeling wall.

  Martin swiped his face and shoved his top hat behind his back to ensure it didn’t roll off the dilapidated chair he was sitting in. Whilst he had repeatedly tried to respect his great aunt’s way of life and had done everything to keep her from feeling self-conscious about what little she had every time he visited, a part of his soul died. Even the porcelain cup she had set before him on the table was cracked and didn’t hold tea. “Aunt. I have tried to be patient these many weeks, believe me, I have, but I feel as if I am not doing enough by allowing you to stay here. You must leave this place. I will not know peace until you do.”

  The frail old woman, whose snowy white hair was covered with a pea-green scarf to create a makeshift turban reminiscent of the style of 1800, smoothed her muslin gown. “We have discussed this many times, Martin. I am not leaving.”

  “But you can’t live like this.”

  “Who says I can’t?”

  “I do. The very walls of this room are buckling.”

  “You exaggerate. They are not. I have raised all of my children here, rest their precious souls, and held my Daniel’s hand to the end in this very room. It holds many memories for me. Ones I cannot leave behind. Not even for you.” With a trembling hand that had seen too many years of work, she pushed a small plate of bread smothered with bacon fat toward him. She tapped a scarred forefinger at the edge of the chipped plate. “Now eat. A strapping man such as yourself needs constant nourishment.”

  He eyed the soggy bread drenched in clumping grease. Even the food she was eating made his stomach turn. “I left you five hundred pounds when I last visited. Why aren’t you buying better food or hiring a cook?”

  She tutted. “An old woman such as myself doesn’t eat much. Though I do have a fondness for spice cakes.”

  “But you promised me you would—” He sighed and glanced about the small one-room flat, hoping to find evidence of new linen or new furniture since he had last visited. Nothing had changed. Since coming into her life barely a month ago, he had tried repeatedly to help her, but she only shoved that help aside. “Have you not bought anything for yourself? At all?”

  “I have everything I need. You always take care of the coal bins, bring me baskets of bread and decanters of mulled wine. I cannot very well ask for more than that. As for all the money you generously bestowed upon me, I put it to better use.”

  “How so?”

  “I gave it all to the landlord, Mr. Fink.”

  He refrained from jumping to his feet. “The landlord?” he demanded. “You gave that man five hundred pounds? For what? To pay for the roaches that are crawling around? Is he charging them rent, too?”

  A piping laugh escaped her. “Oh, now, now, it isn’t what you think. Everyone will be well surprised come Christmas to find that I, Ernastine Catherine Granger, have paid for every last tenant’s rent in this building for the next year. Wasn’t that lovely of me?”

  Oh, dear God. He threw back his head and raked his hands through his hair in an effort to remain calm. “Whilst, yes, it was very lovely of you and there is nothing wrong in being charitable, for it is a quality I greatly admire, you must remember to help yourself.”

  “I did help myself. With whatever money was left over, I paid for the rent on my own flat as well.”

  He leveled his head. “I had already paid your rent for the year.”

  She blinked. “You did?”

  “Yes. I did. Which means Mr. Fink and I will be having a very long discussion on his lack of moral conduct.”

  She sighed and slowly leaned back against her wicker chair. “Your money is complicating my life. I prefer things simple. I like the way things are. I like living the way I do.”

  He held her gaze in an attempt to keep his voice steady. “No you don’t. You have merely become accustomed to living like this because my father and his father were bastards who never understood the true meaning of family. You were once a titled lady, Aunt. And still are. They knowingly abandoned you to this, but I won’t. Which is why you are coming home with me. Tonight. Because I can’t trust you to take care of yourself.”

  “I take very good care of myself. How do you think I lived to see my age?”

  An exasperated breath escaped him, frosting the air. He paused, realizing he could see his own breath and jerked toward the rusting stove in the corner and the full coal bin. “For God’s sake, I can see my own breath in here. Why haven’t you lit the stove? I have pails of coal delivered to you each and every week. Pails. What have you been doing with it? Giving it to Mr. Fink?”

  A smile touched her wrinkled lips. “The way you fuss over this old woman is rather endearing. It makes me feel worthy.”

  His chest tightened. “You are worthy.” And God only knew how much longer she had to live. There was still so much he had to learn about her. Aside from a few cousins and his younger brother, who had returned from India a well-decorated soldier, only to take straight off to France, she was all he had left. “Leave this place.”

  She waved a veined hand toward their well-worn surroundings. “I am too old to be moving. Where would you put me and my bones anyway? I would only be a burden.”

  “You wouldn’t be a burden. I have a large home on Park Lane with countless views of Hyde Park. It sits empty year-round save the dog and myself. The only reason I am not in the country right now entertaining family and friends is because I wish to be with you during Christmas. I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  Her thin white brows rose. “You wish to spend Christmas with me? And how have I earned such an honor, seeing we have only known each other for these three weeks?”

  He wanted to kiss that snowy white head of hair. Little did she know he needed her more than she needed him. He was tired of spending the holidays amongst cousins and people who meant nothing to him. And his brother, Christopher, who meant everything to him, had declined his invitation to come home for Christmas. The man was too busy entertaining half of Paris. Damn him. “Of course I wish to spend Christmas with you. We have a lot to learn about each other.”

  “That we do.” She grinned, exposing the new set of false ivories he had purchased for her a week ago. She tapped at them. “This was by far the best use of your money. I can bite into anything now. Even carriage wheels.”

  He laughed. “I am most pleased. Though I ask you not attempt to bite into any carriage wheels.”

  Her grin faded. “You mentioned a dog. You have one?”

  “Yes. His name is Archer. I bought him shortly after I inherited the estate. He keeps me company.”

  A distant look slowly crinkled her pale features.

  He leaned toward her. “What is it?”

  “I used to have a dog. When I was a young girl.”

  He could hear the longing in her voice. “Did you?”

  “Yes. His name was Jensen. He slept at the foot of my bed every night and followed me everywhere, despite his overbearing size. When I left the house, I had to leave him behind. I knew Daniel and I couldn’t afford to keep him.” Her voice cracked. “My father took him out into the woods and shot him dead that same morning out of anger. All because I married my Daniel.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “If I had known,” she whispered, “I would have taken Jensen and found a way to afford him. I wouldn’t have left him
to die.”

  Another stab of guilt slammed into Martin’s gut, knowing how much heartache his family had brought upon a poor woman who had made only one mistake throughout her eighty years: she fell in love with a man outside her social standing. “You can make Archer and me your own. Nothing would give us more pleasure. Since Christopher took off to France, we have no one to keep us out of trouble.”

  She tapped a finger against the arm of her chair but wouldn’t meet his gaze. After a long moment of silence, his aunt glanced toward the door, as if remembering something, then reached out a hand. “Martin.”

  He leaned across the table and took her hand, gently squeezing it. “Yes?”

  She shook his hand, the warmth of her hand pressing into his. “I want you to be happy.” She tightened her hold and searched his face.

  He squeezed her hand in assurance. “I am happy.”

  She tsked. “For you to be here insisting upon the company of an old woman like me means you are as pathetically lonely and miserable as I am.”

  It was incredible how perceptive she was. It was exactly why he had grown to adore her in but a breath. She saw through everything. “So what if I am a touch lonely and miserable? What of it? I’m not allowed to be?”

  “No. Not at your age. You have so much to live for.” She released his hand. “I think it time you marry.”

  He smirked. “Is that what you think?”

  “Yes. And I have just the woman for you.”

  She certainly wedged that one in. “I’m certain you do. And I’m not interested.”

  “You’re five and twenty, Martin. Count the years. You should be married by now.”

  “I see. So the eighty-year-old thinks me old?”

  She puckered her lips. “No. But I do think you are wasting time and in turn adding to your unhappiness. I married at a much younger age than you and then I blinked and it was over. My Daniel is gone and I regret not having had more time with him. Make your years count. Don’t let them flit away by thinking you have time. You don’t. Time is an illusion.”

  “I take it you fancy yourself to be a philosopher?” he chided.

  “Age makes me one. Never forget it.” She eyed him. “Why do you tease me so? Do you not wish to marry?”

  He sighed. “Yes, of course I do.” And he meant it. He wanted the one thing he didn’t have: a family. He wanted children and a sense that he belonged to something other than his title. “I simply haven’t connected with any one woman to hand over that sort of commitment.” Not the one he had wanted to connect with, that is.

  She squinted. “Do you not like women?”

  Knowing full well what she was insinuating, he pointed at her. “Ey. None of that. I notice every single one.”

  She continued to squint. “Then what is it about women that ails you?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t ail me quite as much anymore, but I used to get incredibly intimidated by women. I could barely talk to them. Let alone convey much else.” It was something he still regretted. For it had lost him the one woman he had ever truly wanted.

  Her brows rose toward her turban. “Intimidated? You? A man bred and raised to lead people and manage lands and estate?”

  “Yes. Me. A man bred and raised to lead people and manage lands and estate.” He blamed it on exactly that. The world and women, in particular, saw a man of almost Godlike power endowed with wealth and privilege that was as close to King as one could get. And that was what scared the bloody shite out of him. Because it was all they saw and he knew the moment any of these women found out who he really was–-a disgustingly ordinary man with no talent, for even his hunting was atrocious–-it would put him at the level of disappointment and dirt. The only sport he did enjoy was fencing. He still wasn’t good at it and lost almost every bout he engaged in, but he enjoyed it and it kept him fit.

  Unlike his brother, who had always been free to pursue who he really was and had done everything well, he, Martin, had only been raised and bred and left to pursue one realm since birth: being duke. And he couldn’t even do that well, despite being two years into it. Half the time, his secretary was politely pointing out everything he was doing wrong. His father had been right. He was good at nothing but breathing.

  His aunt leaned in. “So are you still a virgin?”

  Oh, God. He scrubbed his hair. It wasn’t as if he was going to tell his eighty-year-old aunt that he had purposefully debauched himself whilst abroad in an effort to rid himself of any and all “shyness.” “I’m not answering that. Nor am I having this discussion with you. A gentleman doesn’t profess his intimate affairs to the world, let alone his great aunt.”

  She hesitated. Leaning back in her chair, she theatrically lowered her voice. “There is a most distinguished lady you must meet.”

  An exasperated breath escaped him. It was like having a conversation with himself. It never went anywhere. “Matchmaking for a man such as myself is complicated.”

  “How so?”

  “I have a responsibility toward my name. As duke.”

  “Pah to that, I say. You are over-thinking this. Mrs. Robinson is incredibly worthy of you and your name. In fact, you know her. She tells me your father and her father were very well acquainted back in the day.”

  He stared. “I honestly have no idea who—”

  “The Earl of Chadwick’s daughter. Jane. Lady Jane. She married, you know.”

  He almost fell out of his chair. He stumbled in an effort to remain upright in it. “You saw her?” he breathed out. “You saw Jane? When? Where?”

  His aunt smiled knowingly. “Just yesterday. She was astounded to know we were related and asked how you were. She remembers you quite fondly. Though she was a touch sad about the way you had left her and London. Did you know she scandalously called you by your birth name? Why is that?”

  His breath hitched in disbelief. By God. Jane. His Jane remembered him. Him. Martin. “I always insisted she call me Martin. She and I were friends. In my younger years.” When he was a mere fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen and his father was still alive. How he achingly remembered a regal, striking blonde with soulful green eyes. She had captured more than his heart. She had captured his soul. She was everything he wasn’t. Bold, outspoken, concise, and to the point. Jane was the first woman that he as a man—or, rather, a boy—had ever truly noticed. And wanted. And loved. “How is she? I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “She was snubbed by her circle and disowned by the earl when she took off to Drury Lane to sing.”

  “I know. I, uh…I snuck out of Eton and traveled into London just to see her onstage. I can still remember when I first heard her sing. It was incredible. There was this one song she sang, ‘Ah, Mio Prence,’ that devoured the last of me. She was—” His throat tightened. Even though she had been singing to a crowd of more than a hundred that night in the opera house, he felt like she was singing for him and only him. Mio prence, after all, was Italian for My prince. And that was what she had always made him feel like. A prince. “My father caned me for attending that performance, citing I disrespected Lord Chadwick for acknowledging her scandal and defiance. He then ensured I wasn’t given access to another carriage until I was eighteen.”

  He bit back a smile. “It was well worth it. I got around not seeing her by writing her countless letters.” Letters she never knew were from him. His smile faded. “And then she was engaged.” Which had crushed all of his hopes of having her for himself, though he knew, at seventeen, he had been far too young for her. “I lost sight of her after that. I did a six-year tour across Europe. I’m assuming she has children by now?” It hurt even asking it. For they should have been his children.

  “No. Sadly, her husband died before they had a chance to have any. They were only married two weeks.”

  His pulse almost choked him. Two weeks? So she wasn’t married anymore? “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s been many years now, but it affected her greatly. She retired from singing and hasn’t been onst
age since. Apparently, she thinks herself cursed. I will have you know she never leaves the house on Twelfth Night. Her husband died on Twelfth Night. It was rather strange. He was talking one moment and dropped without a breath in the next.”

  Martin swallowed. The fact that Jane believed in curses and tales of Twelfth Night bespoke of the romantic soul he remembered all too well. The first time he had met her, when he was all but fifteen and she was a glorious twenty, Jane had been exquisitely dressed in debutante white and had been staring up at a painting in his father’s drawing room. It was an ordinary painting of a garden at sunset but the fact that she had been staring at it so intently made it extraordinary.

  After pacing the corridor several times and drumming up enough courage to approach her, seeing they were alone, he had veered back into the drawing room and quietly asked her what she thought of the painting. She turned and with vivid green eyes filled with endless expression confided in a conspiratorial tone, “It lacks the breath of mist and magic. There should be faeries painted into it. Though not ones you can easily see. They should be hidden within the blades of grass and the glint of the sun so that only those who take the time to truly look are rewarded into seeing something one ordinarily wouldn’t see. Don’t you think?”

  He’d never looked at her or that painting the same after that and had it removed from the wall with his father’s permission so he could get a painter to work on getting some faeries into it. His father and his brother thought he had turned into a Molly. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t care that he was being insulted. All he cared about was touching a finger to Jane’s soul.

  That painting now hung not in the parlor, where it used to be, but in his own study, where he spent most of his time fussing over ledgers and the estate. There were times he would pause from his work and it would startle him into thinking of her, even when he didn’t want to. Though he had tried getting rid of that painting, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It would have been like getting rid of her.