Charlotte Louise Dolan by The Substitute Bridegroom Page A

shoes imaginable.”
    He could not tell them the rest. Months later their army had come through that province again, and he had ridden several miles out of the way to visit the family who had so generously shared the little they had with him in the true spirit of Christmas. Nothing had remained of the farmhouse but a burned-out shell, and there was no sign of a living being—no crops growing in the fields, no goats waiting to be milked, no chickens scratching in the dirt. Walking through the ruins, he had found a small tin angel, once gilded but now blackened by the flames. Somehow for him it represented all the children and old people killed or left homeless, all the women violated by marauding armies, all the homes and churches and schools destroyed ...
    “The vicar here had the opportunity, years ago, to accompany the scion of an illustrious family on his grand tour.”
    Darius was abruptly brought back to the present and looked up to see his wife speaking serenely to Dorie, as if she had not noticed his abstraction. But he knew she had, and he resolved to make an even greater effort to keep all thoughts of the war out of his mind for the duration of his visit—to pretend that Napoleon did not exist, and that there was truly peace on earth and goodwill among all men.
    “Reverend Goodridge reports that in Germany they have the quaint custom of cutting an entire evergreen tree and bringing it into the house. They decorate the branches with all manner of ornamentation, such as paper flowers and glass birds, gilded nuts, and dozens of lighted candles.”
    Dorie leapt to her feet, her excitement almost palpable. “Oh, Beth, could we do that? Oh, please, it would be vastly entertaining.” At her cousin’s smiling shake of the head, Dorie turned to him. “Darius, help me persuade her, oh, please do!”
    He shook his head also. “I can think of few things less desirable than waking up Christmas morning to find the house burned down around our ears.”
    “There is another interesting custom on the Continent,” Elizabeth continued, refusing to give ear to Dorie’s repeated pleas. “The children are encouraged to set out their shoes on Christmas Eve, and Father Christmas is supposed to fill them with treats. In some countries I believe he is called St. Nicholas.”
    “Oh, Beth, wouldn’t you adore to spend Christmas in Paris? If only that awful Napoleon would go back to Corsica and leave the rest of the world to get along perfectly well without him.”
    There was a dead silence in the room, and Dorie blushed when she realized she had mentioned the forbidden subject. She sneaked a peak at him, and Darius took pity on her youth.
    “But then you would have to give up wassail parties and plum pudding. I believe one of the foods the French traditionally eat on Christmas Eve is snails, or so I have been told.”
    “Snails? Ugh! I don’t think I should like that kind of Christmas at all.”
    * * * *
    “Lady Letitia, may I present my husband, Captain St. John?”
    “Delighted to meet you, Captain. I have been wanting to talk to you ever since I spotted your uniform in this crowd. Sit down here by me and tell me how Wellington means to beat that little corporal.”
    Beside him Elizabeth sucked in her breath sharply, but Darius was more than willing to accede to the old lady’s request. So far she was the first person he had been introduced to who had not frozen him with chilling politeness.
    Seating himself in the proffered chair, he turned to Lady Letitia and encountered eyes that seemed vaguely familiar.
    “Stop hovering, Elizabeth. I shall not damage your handsome soldier. If he can survive the French bullets, he has nothing to fear from my tongue.”
    He was saved from having his wife make another futile attempt to “rescue” him, because the squire appeared at that moment and bore her off to dance with him.
    “Now, then, Captain, tell me truthfully, who is the better general, Wellington or that upstart