Chapter 3
Sylvia Briarwood, the Dowager Duchess of Westleigh, did not know how many Christmases she had left.
But there was one thing that she was sure of. She was going to live each and every one of them to the fullest without reservation and without hesitation.
She had learned so much over her many years walking this earth, and she was determined to pass on as much peace, love, healing, and joy as she possibly could.
She felt like she’d done a relatively good job of it, but sometimes she felt, as she gazed out at the wild world about her, that it would never be enough.
Of course that thought was absolutely correct.
It would never be enough.
The world was in constant turmoil and in constant pain. But that was no reason to give up being a glimmering hope in the dark of it all.
So, as she wandered the halls of the vast estate of her darling son, the Duke of Westleigh, which had been her home now these many, many years, she contemplated what she wanted.
She wanted to give happiness to her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren. The life that she had led and was still leading was one of absolute triumph, and yet she knew she had much more to accomplish. She couldn’t let her candle flicker out yet.
Things were not quite settled.
It was like a bitter, beautiful ache inside her, a restless knowing, and yet somehow, even with that restless knowing, she had a peaceful certainty in her that it would all work out. Because it always did, if one but gave themselves over to it.
But that was the challenge, the giving over of oneself to the mad tide of life.
She did not sleep as well as she used to. It was not because of balls or parties or the opera or the theater. It was because her body simply did not yield to sleep now.
And so, instead of torturing herself by sitting in bed, she wandered the halls, letting memories fill her. Memories that filled her heart with love and hope.
And at this time of year, thoughts of past Christmases and hopes for Christmases to come flowed through her, because she was determined that there would be many more.
Over her many, many years, she had watched friends fall to the wayside, slipping away.
So many people who had thought themselves her enemies too, though they were never her enemies in her mind.
This life could wring quite a lot out of one.
She had started in the worst possible circumstances, without enough food, without shoes, with ratty clothes, in a terrifying part of London, and had risen to become one of the most celebrated actresses that England had ever known.
And then she had won the coronet of a duchess because of it.
Unlike most in the ton, she knew what real danger was.
But the truth was that there was a pain in even the most noble heart, born from the most noble circumstances, that no gold could ever cure.
It had taken her some time to understand that gold could fill an aching belly, but gold could never fill an aching heart. No. It was the celebration between humans that did that. And she, well, she wanted to bring that to as many people as she possibly could.
This year, this Christmas, she had already invited as many people as the house would allow. They would begin to arrive when dawn kissed the sky in a few hours.
She knew her daughter-in-law, Mercy, Duchess of Westleigh, approved of the opening of their hearts and home. They were simpatico in so many things.
Sylvia was so blessed with all of the children who had not been born of her body, but who had become hers through marriage. There was no woman more blessed than she. She knew that with all her heart and being.
As she slipped into the long dark salon that was her favorite room, her breath caught in her throat as she realized that one of her grandsons was standing by the fire.
Laertes was a young man in his twenties.
To her, that was so young, but she knew Laertes would hate to hear her say so.
He was in that particular period of life when one was not quite certain what was ahead, or how to cross over the threshold of leaving youth and youthful dreams entirely behind to choose something much larger, and, in her opinion, much better.
A family.
She had a rather funny feeling that the time was coming for Laertes, and perhaps that was why he was staring into the flames as if the world might be ablaze there.
“My darling,” she said softly.
He whipped towards her. “Grandmama,” he said, relief filling his gaze, though there was guilt there, an emotion she did not expect to see. “You are up terribly late.”
“Is it so very terrible to be up so late?” she teased.
He laughed. “I don’t know. Will you suffer for it on the morrow?”
“I suffer nothing, darling boy, as you know,” she folded her hands and closed the distance between them, standing beside him and gazing into the fire.
“Now tell me what it is you suffer from, for I see it etched upon your brow. I live to hear the sufferings of my grandchildren and help them make the world right.”
He let out a sigh. “Well, if you must know, Grandmama, I’m thinking of a friend.”
“A friend?” she asked, unable to help herself. A spark of excitement flashed inside her and she clapped her hands together. “Perhaps a future wife?”
He groaned. “No, Grandmama. There is nothing like that for me on the horizon yet, though I know you would be happier if all the Briarwoods were paired up.”
“It does give a great deal of happiness, my love,” she said. “But I will not push on such a thing, since pushing never helps.”
“Are you certain?” he asked warily, his handsome face suddenly tense. “That pushing never helps? Did you never try to push people together?”
She tilted her head to the side, feeling there was far more to this than a simple question. Her spark of excitement was replaced by one of concern. “I did once or twice, and it always worked out.”
At those words, a look of pure relief washed over him, and his broad shoulders relaxed.
She cleared her throat and continued. “But there were moments where everything could have gone terribly wrong. So I don’t recommend it. I think it’s best to let things flow as they are supposed to.”
He drove a hand through his dark hair. “But what about when you see a friend who’s in terrible danger of losing himself and…?”
She took a step towards him, reached out, and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Laertes, your heart is so good and so kind. Do not prevaricate. What is it that troubles you?”
“The Duke of Crestfield,” he said softly.
“Ah,” she whispered. “The Duke of Crestfield. Beautiful, bold, powerful, admired by all.”
“And so very lonely,” Laertes added quietly.
“Oh, dear. Is he?”
Laertes winced. “Yes, Grandmama. He’s so admired wherever he goes, and I am honored to be able to call him my friend. He was so kind to me at school. He stood up for me when some people tried to make fun of me for being a Briarwood.”
“Do people make fun of being a Briarwood?” she gasped.
He gave her a gentle smile. “Of course they do, Grandmama, because some people cannot bear happiness, you know? And so, when they see other people happy, they must tear them apart.”
“You are so wise for your years, Laertes.”
He beamed at her. “Because of you and because of Mama,” he said.
“Perdita,” she whispered.
Her most darling daughter who was so close to the earth and to animals and an intuitive way of living, more than any of her children.
Perdita had birthed two children who were the same.
Phoebe’s heart was a shining light in the world.
And Laertes had a connection to music that was nigh earth-shattering.
And that open heart, that beautiful soul, did make Laertes susceptible to wounding. It was so large and so kind.
“Well, there’s really only one thing to do,” she said.
“What, Grandmama?”
“Invite him here for Christmas.”
He groaned. “I already did. And I’ve pushed him into it.”
She pursed her lips, but she refused to judge him.
For everyone had to learn their own lessons sometimes, and she certainly had meddled over the years.
How could she blame her grandson for being so entirely like herself?
She couldn’t. In fact, she rather admired him for his desire to help his friend, even if it might not produce the results he hoped.
But then again… Sometimes, a little push could change someone’s life. If it didn’t shove them over the edge.
“I see,” she said kindly. “Oh dear. So that was what your question was all about.”
He nodded and grimaced. “I arranged the whole thing, and now I feel terribly guilty. What if I’ve made a dreadful mistake?”
“It’s Christmas, dear boy, not a firing squad.”
“He dislikes Christmas.”
“What’s wrong with the fellow?”
“I don’t really know,” Laertes confessed, but his worry for his friend was quite clear. “His father seemed to love him, and he loved his father. His mother is perfectly pleasant… But he thinks Christmas is for fools.”
“Dear God in heaven,” she exclaimed. “We must save him.”
Laertes laughed. “I’m glad you understand. Someone does at last. Because I’m afraid for him.”
“Afraid for him?” she echoed, taking her grandson quite seriously, where some might have mocked him for his intensity.
“Yes.” Laertes frowned, his eyes filling with the sort of sadness that touched those who were coming to understand that hope could be crushed under the unrelenting wheel of life.
“If someone doesn’t help him soon, he’s going to end up a bitter, lonely figure who lives a life like so many people in the ton. Empty.”
She sighed. “How terribly sad,” she said. How she wished she could argue with her grandson about the state of people in the ton.
But Laertes was not wrong. Most people in the ton were not happy.
Or fulfilled. They settled for external measures of success and had little peace within, which only created a great chasm inside of themselves.
Which only created a need to fill it with more.
Which only increased the chasm. Because external things could never ever give one true purpose.
“Well, we cannot let that happen, can we?” she said gently. “But, my darling boy, there is a danger to pushing things.”
“I tricked him into coming really.”
“Oh no, Laertes.”
“But, Grandmama,” he protested with a rueful smile, “you are the greatest trickster of all.”
She grinned up at her tall, handsome grandson, who would always be a little boy in her eyes, no matter how powerful or how massive he became. She could not stop herself. “It is the actress in me,” she explained, “but he could be very angry with you when he realizes what you have done.”
“I’ve not tricked him into anything terrible or permanent. I just wanted him to see that…”
“What?” she prompted.
“That it’s all right,” he said softly, “for him to be himself.”
“It is always all right to be oneself,” she said, her pride in her grandson only growing. “When one is here at this house, or at Heron House, that is all one should be.”
“I know that, Grandmama, and you know that. But the Duke of Crestfield? I don’t think he knows himself at all. I think something happened to him. He’s kind to everyone but himself.”
“Ah,” she said, her heart aching for the duke she barely knew. Aching for all who lost their way in life, driven from their true selves by the expectations of family or society. “Then we must change that. It’ll be the greatest gift you can give him if you can make him see this.”
He nodded. “I will do it.”
She arched a brow and asked suddenly, “If he dislikes Christmas so much, and he has his own estates, how did you convince him to come?”
Laertes grinned. “Oh, the only way to get such a man here.”
“And how’s that?” she said.
“A wager,” he replied.
She groaned. “Oh, Laertes. I love you. I love you so much. I love that you want to help your friend, but don’t forget to help yourself when helping others.”
He blinked. “Whatever can you mean, Grandmama?”
She knew that now was not the time to say such things. He was so concentrated on his friend.
“Never you worry,” she assured. “This will be the greatest Christmas we have ever had. All because you’ve invited your friend, and you will give him the gift of loving Christmas and himself.”
Laertes’s worries dimmed. “Thank you, Grandmama.”
“I think it’s our duty,” she said softly.
“What?” he asked.
“Some people think that duty is simply adhering to society’s rules and carrying on.
Of course, your Uncle Leander does that as the duke.
But the real duty of a Briarwood,” she whispered, “is to show others how to live like they were born to. With fire. With love. Without apology. And pray that any who come across our path follows suit.”
Laertes smiled, even as a shadow danced across his face.
She knew she had hit her mark, because out of all her grandchildren, Laertes, her darling, beautiful Laertes, had the soul of someone who knew there was real beauty awaiting those who might see it.
For whatever reason, he was ruled by duty and the fact that he would one day be an earl, and he was afraid, afraid to embrace what he saw.
But Laertes was right. She was the greatest trickster in the whole family. And if she could use it to help his friend, to help him? She would, without looking back. For Christmas was the season of magic, of mischief, and where a miracle was always waiting.