The Christmas Cameo: An Historical Christmas Collection

By Sharon Sobel

Three generations, three holiday miracles…one Christmas cameo--the ultimate gift of love.

Holy Hill, the splendid estate of the Earls of Arlington, is known throughout the countryside for its lavish holiday celebrations…and setting the stage for unlikely lovers to find their own Christmas miracle.

Linking them all together is that first gift of a delicate cameo…

Lady Rose Arlington isn't happy that her father is arranging a marriage for her to a virtual stranger. Especially since it isn't her intended, Lord Gilderson, who steals her heart, but his younger, artistic cousin, Maxwell Roxbury.

Years later, Lady Rose's niece Lysandra finds herself alone for the holidays, awaiting the arrival of Stewart Roxbury, the new heir to Holy Hill. She's lost everything--her family and now, her home. Little does she guess she'll soon find love.

Joseph Roxbury, Lord Gilderson, has come to Holy Hill, desperate to convince artist Maxwell James to illustrate his new book. But when he discovers that Maxwell is actually Lysandra and Stewart's daughter, Rosetta, he needs her for totally different reasons…

Three generations, three holiday miracles…one Christmas cameo--the ultimate gift of love.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sharon Sobel is the author of eight historical and two contemporary romance novels, and served as Secretary and Chapter Liaison of Romance Writers of America. She has a PhD in English Language and Literature from Brandeis University and is an English professor at a Connecticut college, where she co-chaired the Connecticut Writers' Conference for five years. An eighteenth-century New England farmhouse, where Sharon and her husband raised their three children, has provided inspiration for either the period or the setting for all of her books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: Nov 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781611949025

Sharon Sobel

Sharon Sobel is the author of eight historical and two contemporary romance novels, and served as Secretary and Chapter Liaison of Romance Writers of America. She has a PhD in English Language and Literature from Brandeis University and is an English professor at a Connecticut college, where she co-chaired the Connecticut Writers' Conference for five years. An eighteenth-century New England farmhouse, where Sharon and her husband raised their three children, has provided inspiration for either the period or the setting for all of her books.

Book preview

Praise for Sharon Sobel

This ‘Beauty and the Beast’-themed novel entertains on all levels.

—RT Book Reviews on THE HERMITAGE

"Sharon Sobel weaves a warm, smoothly paced tale. Lady Larkspur Declines (4) is certain to capture and retain the interest of any lover of Regency romance."

—RT Book Reviews

Books by Sharon Sobel

Under a Christmas Sky

Mistletoe & Mayhem—A Regency Yuletide Collection

When a Child is Born—A Regency Yuletide Collection

One Winter’s Night—A Regency Yuletide Collection

A Regency Yuletide

Lord Armadale’s Iberian Lady

The Hermitage

The Christmas Cameo

An Historical Holiday Collection by

Sharon Sobel

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

ImaJinn Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-902-5

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-892-9

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2018 by Sharon Sobel

Published in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Background (manipulated) © Unholyvault | Dreamstime.com

Couple (manipulated) © Hotdamnstock.com

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Dedication

For Benjamin Moshe Valenzuela

With Love on the First Chapter in What I Pray Will Be

A Very Long Book.

Part 1

The Carnelian: 1757

Chapter 1

EVEN AS THEY FELL, Rose’s tears froze on her icy cheeks. She turned to the undraped, drafty window, and looked out onto the snow-covered great lawn of Holy Hill, although she knew there would be no relief there from the frigid temperature or her father’s plans for Christmas.

You will marry the gentleman we have chosen for you, Rose, the Earl of Arlington said in his husky voice, and coughed. Someone once told him that the ash from home fires was the cause of prickly throats and putrid lung disease, and thus the earl had the excuse he desired to preserve his estate’s forest at the expense of his family’s comfort. You have been introduced to many eligible gentlemen, and none of them have suited you. Do you expect to remain a spinster all your life, and a dependent on this estate?

Rose is not yet one-and-twenty, Charles, the countess said softly.

Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, Rose took a step back from the window and studied the reflection of her parents now coming into wavering focus. Her father was seated in his rigid, ladderback chair, his hand on one of his priceless illuminated manuscripts that he loved so well. Beside him, on a low hassock, Lady Arlington sat looking up at him. Rose watched her mother gently place a hand on his knee, and her father swat her away with all the annoyance due a pesky fly.

I will remind you that when you were twenty, you were already married, Mary, the earl said. And a mother as well.

Nothing was said for several minutes, and indeed, no words were needed. Rose knew her father was as concerned for her success in marriage as was her mother, though they might all define success in different ways.

I do not know Lord Gilderson, Father, Rose said, not for the first time. He may be a very pleasant sort, but I will not be forced into marriage with a man who is a perfect stranger to me.

Please look at me when I speak, Rosey.

Rose started, forgetting that she still gazed upon a reflection, and turned on her heel.

Her father gazed upon her as he cleared his throat. His expression softened. Gilderson is not a stranger. He met you at your aunt and uncle’s home, as they are old friends. My sister recently reminded me that he brought toffee for you and your brothers.

I was eight years old, Father. I remember playing with Aunt Maybelle’s puppy, and learning how to play some simple Christmas melodies on her harpsichord. But I recall nothing of a man who is now more than twice my age. As she considered her father’s words, Rose realized this unhappy business of a marriage arrangement must have already been discussed with Aunt Maybelle, for how else would there have been reminisces of visits and toffee?

I am done with patience, my dear girl. The matter is all arranged, and Gilderson will be on his way to Oxfordshire in a matter of days. I am not in the habit of incurring great expense without reaping some profit on it, and I expect to be rewarded with the marriage of my daughter in the new year.

He did not state the obvious, that Rose was their adopted daughter, a child of uncertain parentage who had come to Holy Hill as an infant and given every privilege in their home. She was indebted to her mother and father in ways her two older brothers were not. I understand, Father. I ought to have appreciated that our grand Christmas house party was not merely to celebrate the season, and the gifts of friendship and faith. How often has Holy Hill been the scene of balls and masquerades, and open to our neighbors? Such gaiety is apparently reserved for business transactions, for investments in the future. Even as she uttered the words, Rose knew she was being unkind. Her father only wished the best for her, in his fashion. But desperation made her dare a good deal.

Lord Arlington stood and made a great show of brushing invisible ashes off his dark jacket. He then picked up his precious book of Christmas hymns, and walked from the parlor without saying another word.

When the door closed behind him, Rose collapsed into the nearest chair.

Why must you provoke him so? her mother asked.

What difference could it possibly make, Mother? He has already decided on Lord Gilderson, and it could scarcely matter if I am agreeable. Will he not prevail in any case?

He is a good man, her mother said, not meeting her eyes. He only wishes that those he loves are happy.

Rose looked at her mother, whose life as Lady Arlington afforded her several elegant homes and fine garments, but only rare moments of what Rose would consider absolute joy. Her older brothers had escaped their parents’ home and now lived in far, exotic places, not expecting to be recalled home until events made their return necessary or expedient. Lady Arlington saw little of her own eminent family and amused herself with a small coterie of ladies in their neighborhood. Her closest confidante was her widowed sister-in-law, Lady Maybelle, who lived at Partridge Cottage, in the lower garden of the great estate.

With her own daughter, Lady Arlington had little rapport. Rose reflected that when she was suitably married off to Lord Gilderson and mistress of her own households, she was not likely to see much of her mother in the future. Here was real reason for regret, for there would be little opportunity for rapprochement.

Do you suppose Father will allow the servants to gather firewood to heat the rooms when we have a houseful of guests? Rose asked, irrelevantly.

Her mother gave a little sputter, and then laughed out loud, so unexpectedly and heartily that Rose sat in stunned silence. And then—for one could hardly resist the impulse—she started to laugh as well, until her cheeks were quite warm, and her tears were now of joy.

Oh, what have you done? her mother asked breathlessly, wiping her eyes.

Made you laugh? Rose asked. Is it so very strange?

Yes, I fear it is. Your father would not know what to make of us.

Does it matter?

The two women studied each other, each wordlessly answering the question in her own way, seeing something in the other not appreciated before, but delivering a new hope for the year ahead.

LORD GAWAIN Gilderson stood in the snow and watched his carriage being loaded with trunks and crates for his journey to Oxfordshire. It had been years since he embarked on travels anywhere but to one of his several estates, and he had forgotten what a great inconvenience it was. If he had only needed to think of himself, he would have been perfectly content to travel with a small bag and a few of his favorite books. But there were balls and dinners to attend at Holy Hill, and a young lady to woo.

His fingers tightened on the long leather pouch he held, and he hoped Lady Rose liked pearls. All ladies liked pearls, someone once told him. Or was it diamonds?

Heavy footsteps stamped in the snow, and he glanced up to smile at his young cousin. Maxwell Roxbury was only recently returned to England from Italy, and his sun-kissed face was as foreign in their December climate as a rose blooming through a blanket of frost.

There won’t be much room, I see, Maxwell said thoughtfully. I may have to sit on my trunk.

You’ll be damned uncomfortable. There’s probably some room for it up with the driver. Gilderson was being optimistic, but then was even more so when he considered that he might have to leave behind his absurd costume for the masquerade. He would be delighted to make that sacrifice. He looked down to size up Maxwell’s trunk. You need not carry that yourself, you know. You are now in England, and we have servants for that sort of thing.

I have not gone soft since you’ve seen me last, cousin. All that swimming in the sea and climbing the rocky cliffs of Sorrento has improved me, I believe. Besides, I am now a man of gainful employment, a working man. Gilderson heard the pride in his cousin’s voice, and couldn’t imagine anyone else of his acquaintance feeling quite the same way.

Do not put such a fine point upon that fact when we mingle with Lord Arlington and his guests at Holy Hill. They would not consider it to be a mark in your favor.

Maxwell nodded. But then, I have nothing to lose, do I? I am just the cousin newly returned to England, with scarcely a friend on our blessed isle. I am the young fool who traveled on his grand tour and instead of enriching his father’s estate with romantic paintings and overly large statuary, decided to become an artist himself. He grunted as he handed his trunk to one of the servants. Please have a care, William, as the contents are delicate.

You have brought the tools of your trade with you? Gilderson asked. I cannot imagine when you would use them at Holy Hill.

They travel with me. One never knows when one will find the perfect subject or be in just the right spirit to craft a small design. The muse is an elusive witch, you know.

Gilderson laughed. How would I know? My creative instincts only extend so far as copying a pleasant verse from a book of sonnets.

They watched for several moments as the servants braced one trunk up against the other with the precision of watchmakers.

Is that what you were doing last night in the library? Maxwell asked. You were so intent, I chose not to disturb you. You shall present your lady with several poems?

She is not yet my lady, and I intend to do all in my power to impress her. He waved at the laden carriage. Hence, this absurd number of garments, costumes, gifts.

I see, Maxwell said slowly, sounding as if he had stumbled across a clue to some great mystery. This is why you prefer I say nothing about my apprenticeship in Italy, and my current employment in Mr. Wedgwood’s workshop. It would not do for the daughter of an earl to marry into a family that includes an artisan, no matter how distantly related. That would be some rot on the family tree.

Gilderson laughed, a little ruefully. I know little about the lady, for I have not seen her since she was a girl of eight or so. But I recall her father, and nothing in our recent correspondences has dispelled my first impression. He is a man very certain of his own value and exalted place in society. I suspect he is disappointed that his daughter shall marry a gentleman merely equal to himself, and not a duke, at the very least. A prince, perhaps.

Maxwell laughed. I suppose it depends on the prince. I met several in Italy, and they are a gainful lot. For all the heat of their climate, they are rarely at leisure.

Welcome to England, Maxwell, where leisure is the measure of one’s rank.

That may be so, but it is good to be back. I did miss our wretched food and rainy afternoons. He bent from the waist and scooped up a handful of snow. One doesn’t see this stuff in Naples, though occasionally ash blows down from their great volcano.

Perhaps I will go there one day. My father never sent me off on a grand tour, as did yours.

It’s not too late, old man. You might take your bride on a wedding journey.

Gilderson sighed. Yes, I suppose she might like that. I shall have to get accustomed to this new life. I somehow imagined we might return to London after the wedding party.

And pretend the Thames is the Tiber?

It would be much less bother, I think.

Maxwell threw the snowball at one of the servants, hitting him on the shoulder.

You wouldn’t want me to drop your crate of rocks, now, would ye? The man feigned great injury and acted as if the crate might fly out of his hands.

Watch it now, Timothy, cautioned Gilderson. Quietly, to Maxwell, he added, Don’t tempt the man. What do you have in there?

Shells. Beautiful shells found on the beaches of the Mediterranean, quite unlike the gray mollusks I used to find at Margate. The pale carnelians are also the tools of my trade, like a blank canvas, Maxwell explained. I thought I might entertain the guests with my workmanship.

Gilderson grinned affectionately at his young heir, earnest and kind. You must not be disappointed if you do not attract a large audience. There will be many people to meet, and dinners to attend, and the days will be replete with Christmas festivities. It is unlikely you will have the time to take a walk about the estate, let alone chisel a portrait out of the palm of a delicate shell.

Maxwell shook his head ruefully, but returned his smile. You are quite right. And I will be in much exalted company. Therefore, I shall consider myself a fortunate man if any of the guests take the time to learn anything about me at all.

ROSE ENVELOPED herself in her warmest cape, a beautiful tartan her brother sent to her from Edinburgh last year, and draped a soft wool shawl about her head and shoulders. She could not remember a day on which impending snow hung so heavily in the clear, dry air. The great rooms of Holy Hill offered no respite from the cold, but there was one place on the large estate where she might find sanctuary and warmth. In all ways, Partridge Cottage was a place of comfort for her.

She doubted anyone watched her leave the house by a side door usually favored by the servants. The whole staff seemed to be fully engaged in preparing the rooms and meals for the nearly forty guests who were all expected to arrive within the week. Nothing like this had happened at Holy Hill since Rose was a child, which made the servants overly anxious, and the guests overly curious.

Rose felt pretty much the same way, but all her attention was focused on one individual, about whom she was both anxious and curious.

She paused and looked down the long drive, which was the path one might take to get to Holydene and an escape on the afternoon coach. But resisting foolish temptation, Rose turned to the right to walk through the meadows, and over stiles to her Aunt Maybelle’s small home. She would find the comfort she sought at Partridge Cottage.

It was a well-worn path, though she guessed she was the only person who ever trod upon it, as she had done regularly since her aunt’s return home some years before. After the death of her husband, Aunt Maybelle, possessed of only a modest inheritance, was at the mercy of her brother, Arlington.

Though, as to that, he seemed to just as often be at her mercy.

I have been waiting for you, my dear, said Aunt Maybelle.

Rose, so intent on not slipping on the snow, had not noticed her aunt’s approach.

How did you know I would come today?

Aunt Maybelle wrapped her shawl over Rose’s shoulders, enveloping them both, and leading her towards the lower garden. I could not imagine you wished to spend your day hanging tree branches over the mantles, or watching the servants polish the silver. Rose stumbled, and Aunt Maybelle caught her. Besides, I received a message from your mother not an hour ago. She said you were very much perturbed.

Would you not be if you were forced into marriage with a stranger?

Lord Gawain Gilderson is scarcely a stranger, for we have known him forever. He is distantly related to us.

Aunt! He is a stranger to me, and I surely am the only one for whom it could matter!

Aunt Maybelle said nothing until they reached the door of Partridge Cottage, and they were greeted by her housekeeper. Mrs. Gantley pulled them into the room and helped them remove their outer garments. The cottage smelled of burning cedar and sweet cinnamon.

You can do a lot worse, my dear, Aunt Maybelle resumed their conversation when they were seated by the fire. And I am not sure you could do a lot better.

Am I such a hopeless cause, then? Rose sighed. She stared at the flames, which did nothing to warm her.

You do not need me to remark upon your beauty, for I believe my brother still allows mirrors at Holy Hill. Most ladies would leap for an opportunity to have your lovely eyes and fine skin. And your hair and lashes are of so dark a color that one can imagine that you tampered with nature. One of Aunt Maybelle’s cats jumped into her lap, and she leaned back in her chair, warming her fingers in its soft fur. I only mean to suggest that without a season in London or the opportunity to meet eligible young men, your choices are limited. Where would you meet any of them, unless they came to Holy Hill?

I hardly think Lord Gilderson qualifies as young, dear aunt.

Aunt Maybelle shooed the cat off her lap as she sat upright. He is not old, she retorted. He is near my own age.

Rose gathered the dispossessed cat onto her own lap and said nothing. She had never thought much about the age of her aunt or parents, for they were separated from her by a world of experience. They knew of London and Scotland, and her mother had lived in France as a child. For Rose’s part, she had scarcely traveled beyond Oxfordshire.

I was not more than thirty when your Uncle Henry left me. He did not wish to go, and I would have done anything to save him. But he had the fever, and I could not stay at his side, for all my tears and pleading. There was the child to consider, of course.

Rose looked up in surprise.

Yes, you would have had a cousin, a little girl to play with and care for. She had the look of her father, dark eyes, and red hair, and was all perfection. Aunt Maybelle’s voice cracked as she gazed out the window. Rose knew she didn’t see the bare trees or the dead grass, but a baby who would never grow old. She was mine for a week.

I’m so sorry, Aunt, Rose said. I had no idea. I never knew.

No, your father was quite insistent that it would not do to speak of her, or recall her memory.

My father is not always right, Rose said, remembering the reason she sought her aunt’s advice today.

Aunt Maybelle smiled. Indeed, he is often quite wrong. But with Henry and the baby gone, I had little choice but to accept his offer of this pleasant cottage and be dependent on my brother’s good nature. Both you and your mother have been my comfort these five years.

And it appears that I am to leave you soon, also. My father is quite insistent on this marriage to Lord Gilderson. I shall hate him.

No, my dear. There is nothing to hate in him. You shall like him, I imagine. Aunt Maybelle continued to smile, but her face seemed frozen in that expression. Perhaps you will even love him.

But that is quite different from your love for Uncle Henry. Did you not wish to marry him?

I did. We were both invited to Lord and Lady Armadale’s Christmas Ball with no expectations but to enjoy ourselves and celebrate the season. There was some business with an accident on the ice pond, and a sleigh, and a lost puppy. Then we found ourselves alone together, and the rest...

The rest? Rose asked.

The smile melted. And the rest should have been the stuff of fairy tales. But it was not meant to be.

Rose frowned, considering her own dilemma and her aunt’s. Why were neither of them destined for a happy ending?

Perhaps we should travel to London in the spring, and you can be my chaperone. Neither of us shall find our destiny at Holy Hill, so we must look elsewhere. We can have a great adventure, you and I, Rose said, wondering why no one thought of this before.

I have thought of this, Aunt Maybelle answered the unspoken question. But the time never seemed right. Or perhaps I never approached your father at just the right time.

There is never a right time for my father, Rose complained. We must plan our words carefully.

But you forget, my dear. We are in the midst of preparations for a great Christmas party. Look yonder: there are already two carriages coming up the drive. Aunt Maybelle stood and walked to the window.

Then it is too late, Rose said, dreading the enforced gaiety of the whole affair. I shall have to do what is expected of me.

Aunt Maybelle turned from the window, and the waning sunlight illuminated her from behind, so she looked like an angel. But that is just my point. We must always be prepared to recognize the unexpected when it comes right up and grasps our hand. Your father will fill this house with people. Your mother and I have planned all sorts of events. Mrs. Carrollton has worked her fingers bare to provide you with elegant new gowns and one splendid costume. And enough food has been delivered to feed Napoleon’s army. Who can say what the next two weeks shall bring?

THE SNOW STARTED to fall as Rose walked back across the meadow to the great house some time later. She had gone to see her aunt so that she might be consoled, but in truth, it appeared that it was Aunt Maybelle who was now feeling better, while she, herself, was no happier about the present state of affairs. Lord Gilderson might not be terribly old, but he was a stranger, and everyone expected that she would be his wife.

She was not sure she was ready to be a wife. Oh, she was certainly of an age, and her mother had explained what she must expect from a husband. But Aunt Maybelle had just introduced her to the possibilities of sadness and despair that she had never really considered before. She was not sure she could bear it.

Indeed, she knew what it was to lose someone, for it was impossible to grow up as a young lady on a large estate and not be aware of the ill and dying, and stand in the small graveyard several times each year, as the earth embraced another soul. She was witness to the sad cruelties of nature, and knew this was all a part of life.

But somehow, never before did it seem part of her own life, not even when she wondered about her own parentage, and certainly not when she considered her aunt’s situation, coping with a love so profound that she’d never fully healed from the loss. Even as she lived close to them at Partridge Cottage, Aunt Maybelle must recall Uncle Henry and her baby girl every day of her life, with every season, at each Christmas.

Perhaps it was better not to love, for then one would never feel such loss.

Rose wrapped her shawl about her shoulders, burying her nose in the soft wool. So distracted was she that she nearly walked into a man standing directly in her path.

Oh! she cried out.

Are you quite well? He caught her by her shoulders and waited anxiously for her response, gently shaking her. Do you require assistance?

Rose looked into the face of a stranger, very much liking what she saw. He was hatless, and delicate patterns of snowflakes were visible on his dark hair. Eyes the color of a wintry lake squinted at her through the falling snow as if he could not get her into focus. But his most unusual feature was the warm tan of his complexion, suggesting he was accustomed to sunnier climes than this and had been there most recently.

She only had the vaguest sense of how indelicate her behavior was, but if, indeed, he had merely been anxious before, he most certainly was impatient now.

Do you understand me? he asked, a bit too loudly, enunciating each syllable. He must think her the village idiot.

In any case, he had no idea whom she was. Rose was quite unaccustomed to such a thing, and laughed with unexpected pleasure. It was delightful to be nobody.

He abruptly dropped his hands and looked distrustful.

I speak your language, sir, Rose said, with some remembrance of a similar revelation in one of Shakespeare’s plays.

And are you a goddess? he asked, raising one brow.

Rose would have laughed again at this romantic bit of flattery, before she realized he was quoting the same play as she.

No goddess, sir. Just a girl seeking some advice from her aunt. She resisted the impulse to brush snowflakes from that questioning eyebrow. And you? What brings you out in this storm? You do not look very well prepared for the weather.

Lord and Lady Arlington are hosting a house party for Christmas. You may know of it.

Yes, I do. It is to be a grand affair. I hope the guests are not deterred by the storm.

He glanced across the meadow, where it was possible to see a carriage trundling through the snow.

I doubt it. When people are invited to spend two weeks at the home of an illustrious family, nothing but the Apocalypse will set them off their determined path. He wrapped his arms about his lean torso. I have accompanied a gentleman to Holy Hill, and we have traveled a long distance.

That settled his identity, then. For all his fine looks and even finer speech, he must be a groom or driver. That might also account for the hours he spent in the sunshine.

Then you are surely weary from your travels, Rose said. He also looked quite uncomfortable. I must be on my way, also. Please excuse me.

I will not let you go alone, for the path is far too treacherous. Which direction shall we take?

Rose did not have the heartiness to argue, for she was chilled as well. And the poor man might freeze if they stood there any longer.

To the house. The great house, she said.

Again, that quizzical brow was raised, but he said nothing. Instead, he offered his elbow and when she clasped it, he pulled her closer to his body. They walked together in silence until he turned towards the stone path that would take them to the grand entrance of Holy Hill. Rose pulled him in the other direction.

No, I shall use the servant’s entrance, she said. It is just beyond the hedge.

That sounds most agreeable, he said. And I daresay it is a good deal warmer in the kitchen.

Rose imagined it was, but she rather thought she preferred the warmth of his body, pressed against her as they walked through the snowstorm.

YOUR MOTHER REQUIRES that I do your hair up all fancy-like, Susan said, pulling on Rose’s dark curls.

Rose rather doubted her maid knew what fancy-like looked like, but she settled back in the chair, perfectly willing to let Susan do whatever she wished.

We shall call this a rehearsal for the big event, Susan, she said. I always fancied a yard of ribbon entwined through my curls, but am not sure if that will make me look like one of Lady Mapeley’s horses. Do what you will, and we will know better for another day.

Your mother told me to have special care for this night, as the guests have started to arrive, Susan mumbled. Rose glanced up at her in the mirror and saw that she had pins between her lips so that her hands would be free. And she wishes for you have a string of pearls in your hair.

I am not so fond of pearls, Rose said. "But I