The Lady & the Panther ~Chapter 19~ by fedoralady

Yes, at long, long last—the continuation of our story. Lizzie, now aware she is expecting Guy’s child, is both anticipating their next meeting and dreading sharing her unexpected news with her lover. The weekend has arrived and their rendezvous at Ranelagh is only a few hours away . . . thank you, Leigh, for your invaluable assistance as beta. I again apologize to everyone for the delay in getting this posted and I hope you will enjoy.





~I find myself dressed in servant’s garb and once again in that dark wood. I clutch a bundle of rags tight against my breast as I dart between the trees. The stars shine in the clear icy dark. They give enough light for me to make my way among the frozen roots and bracken.

Am I fearful and running away from some danger? Or running to some place of safety? I cannot tell you. I must not stop running. The stitch in my side is so sharp, more painful with every step. Brambles and nettles cut into my bare feet.

And then I hear a voice calling. “Aidez-moi! Aidez-moi.” The voice of a child. A boy.

“Where are you?” Who are you, I wonder, as I stop to listen, straining to tell the direction from which the cries are coming.

I cannot bear the thought of a frightened child alone in the wood, in the dark and the cold. Where is his mother? Why is he here?

“Where are you? Where are you?” I call out. Suddenly the bundle of rags I am clutching moves and I hear a soft sigh. I gasp as I realise I am not clutching rags, but a baby . . .~

I awoke with a start. One hand slipped beneath my pillow to clutch Guy’s pocket watch whilst the other crept across to press against my belly.

Saturday morning had arrived. In a few hours, I would see my Panther again. And give him my news.
~Oh, Guy. What will you think? What will you say?~

Tucking Guy’s watch back beneath my pillow, I made my way to the window, parting the curtains. After two days of clouds and dampness, the skies were clear. I hoped that was a good omen.
Taking the latch, I pushed open the window. Looking out onto Dillingham Place’s back garden, I listened to birdsong and drank in the morning air.

I needed it to clear my giddy head.


I really did feel quite the fool. Why had I not thought of my courses being late? They were usually so tiresomely reliable.

My increased appetite and fatigue, my repugnance for food I usually relished and my cravings for dishes I would normally never touch—all those signs pointed clearly to my condition.

~You have been with child enough times. You should have known~

I closed my eyes. I could see myself sitting on the marble bench in the garden below, cradling little Alexander in my arms, his plump fingers curled around my finger, his blue eyes wide as he gravely studied my face . . .

I had never been so in love before he came into my life.
Or so devastated as when he left it.

I opened my eyes, biting my lip hard.
~Perhaps that is why I was blind to all the signs. I could not bear the possibility of that sort of pain returning~

Horace had been away from my bed for a number of months, never even hinting he wanted to make another attempt at begetting a child. It was as if I had forgotten I could even conceive, discarding the image of myself as mother.

I wanted this child; of course I wanted it. It was my own beloved Guy’s child.

“But--how shall I tell him? ‘Dearest Panther, we shall have to take into account the baby in my belly as we make our plans?’” I murmured to myself. It was a deuc’d complication for an already complicated situation.

I turned and looked at the parcels from Guy sitting on my chaise longue, items delivered to me the day before.

A sacque gown of floral silk for the opening of the Chinese pavilion, a blonde wig the colour of cornsilk to hide my dark hair, a large and lovely Oriental silk fan . . .

~The better to disguise myself~

Whilst my husband spent a debauched evening at his club that night, I would conceal my identity once more to meet my beautiful highwayman turned “French nobleman “at Ranelagh.

In the midst of my worries, the thought of tonight’s visit to Ranelagh Gardens exhilarated me. I seemed to have an affinity for such duplicity; I am not quite sure what that said about me.

I simply knew I never felt more truly alive than when I was with Guy. I hadn’t felt such a spark within me since—

~Since I lost little Alexander~

I sighed as I turned back to the window, and pressed my palm to my forehead, rubbing it lightly.

~What will Guy say? Will he be pleased? Distressed?~

“My lady, are you feeling unwell?”

I turned to find Amelia standing behind me holding my breakfast tray, her forehead beneath those unruly curls creased with concern.

“Oh, Amelia. I did not hear you come in. Lost in my thoughts.”

“How long have you been up, my lady? You look a bit pale. You know it’s important yew get yer rest.”

I smiled. ~Amelia. My ever-faithful guardian angel~

“I am well, I assure you. I awoke, the chamber seemed stuffy and I decided to get some fresh air. It is as simple as that, dear Amelia.”

She gave a small nod and held up the tray, motioning towards the bed.

“Well now, milady, why don’t you pop back into bed and enjoy yer breakfast? A good strong cup of tea and some victuals will do yew good.”

I nodded and gave a small laugh as I walked back to the bed. “Needless to say, I am starving once again. I hope you’ve plenty of butter . . .”

“Of course, milady. Plenty o’ butter and sugar and milk just as you like, extra toast, two eggs--”

I sighed as I settled back against my pillows. “You will, of course, have to let out the laces to my stays yet again so that I can breathe, Amelia . . .”

“Yew are going out this morning, milady?”

I took a huge bite of well-buttered toast and chewed it with satisfaction. “Hmmm. Yes. I’ve a few errands to do and a few visits to pay. Trying to keep up my typical routine, nothing too out of the ordinary.”

I glanced up at her. “Amelia—I am so eager to see Guy again tonight and—so anxious about sharing my--news.”

She gave me an encouraging smile as she perched on the edge of the bed.


“I am sure he will understand, my lady. He loves yew. He wouldn’t wish to give up his profession and take yew away with him if he didn’t. P’rhaps he has been wanting a little’ un of his own.”

I sighed. “Perhaps. It is not a subject we have ever discussed.” I bit my lip. “Perhaps—I should not even fret over it. We both know there is a very good chance I will not carry the child to term . . .” Closing my eyes, I pressed my napkin to my mouth.

~I have sustained so many losses. So much sorrow in my efforts to have children~

I felt a small hand on my shoulder and opened my eyes.

Amelia was at my side now, her concern evident in her lovely grey eyes.

“Oh, milady. Please don’t cry. I just know—somehow—everything will come a-right for yew. This time. It is meant to be.”

Blinking back a tear that threatened to fall, I raised my hand to pat Amelia’s as it rested on my shoulder.

“Amelia, my incurable romantic.” I smiled up at her. “What would I do without you?”

She lifted her sharp little chin and gave me a stout response.

“I’ve already told yew, milady. Yew need not find that out for a long time to come.” She paused as she moved towards my dressing room and looked back at me. “And--whot if yew were never the problem?”

I took a long sip of the tea as she disappeared into the dressing room.
“Hmmm, hot, strong and sweet--perfect.” Mulling over Amelia’s words, I frowned and called out to her.
“What did you mean, Amelia, about me not being the problem?”

She reappeared with a couple of morning costumes and a fresh chemise draped over one arm, a pair of stays in her hand.

“Whot I mean is—it could be his lordship that was—lackin,’ milady.” Amelia’s thin cheeks reddened slightly and she averted her eyes as she laid the clothing across the chaise longue.

“His—well, his seed might not be up to scratch.” She lifted her sharp little chin. “My cousin Hepzibah says it can happen, although no man t’would ever admit it, o’ course. Sometimes their seed just isn’t—quality.”

I forced back the laugh I felt bubbling up in my throat. My maid did have a way of sending mirth my way even when she did not intend to do so.

How despicable such a notion as she suggested would be to my proud and snobbish husband!

“I-I mean, milady, some of his family are a pretty sorry-lookin’ lot. Compared to the Chadwicks.” Her eyes met mine, thrusting out her chin as she folded her arms.

I tilted my head and raised a brow. “And the Panther is certainly not—sorry-looking—is he?”

Amelia blinked and cleared her throat. “Not from whot I have seen of him, milady. I reckon yew would know best about such matters.”
In spite of her demure expression, my maid’s lips were twitching dangerously.

~Impudent bit of baggage~

And yet her words did give me a spark of hope. Maybe this time, things would be different.

“Amelia—I sometimes fear Panther and I may be corrupting you. Learning bawdy songs and how to cheat whilst playing cards, helping me prepare for trysts with my lover and now—discussing the—the merits of—a gentleman’s--seed . . .”

I expelled a breath as I shook my head in a bemused fashion. “What would your mother say?”

She shrugged her shoulders, a sober expression on her countenance.

“She always said I had a mind of my own. Headstrong, she called me. I reckon Mother wouldn’t be too surprised.”

Amelia’s lips curved into a half-smile, the teasing glint returning to her grey eyes.

“And I reckon I am the only one of the family who knows a notorious and handsome highwayman.” Her smile broadened as she added in a quite saucy manner, “A highwayman who thinks I have very fine grey eyes.”

I smiled. “Amelia, I reckon that is true.”

She gave me a brisk nod. “Now, do yew wish to wear the pale green print or the lavender this morning, milady?”

“The—green print, I suppose.” I eyed the stays on the chaise longue with a certain trepidation.

“And do be gentle with those laces, Amelia. I shan’t wish to have a fainting spell while paying my calls. It might set tongues to wagging . . .”

She gave me an impish grin. “I’d best put your salts in your reticule, my lady, as the Panther could make you swoon, stays or no.”
*~*~*~*
Clean-shaven and scented, my dark hair hidden beneath a periwig Horace would surely have envied for its fashionable elegance, the merest touch of rouge on my cheeks and carnelian on my mouth (my own special concoction that was kiss-proof, as one must always be ready), I studied my reflection in the looking-glass of my bolt-hole.

If I did say so myself, I was quite a sight from the top of my bewigged head to the tips of my elegantly-shod feet.

My coat of powder blue silk with gleaming silver buttons had wide cuffs of deep sapphire blue, trimmed in silver braid. Beneath it I wore a matching sapphire waistcoat shot through with intricate silver embroidery and deep blue satin breeches. I confess I took pleasure in how perfectly all the garments fit.

My shirt linen was, of course, immaculate, the Mechlin lace attached at the neck and the cuffs of my shirt sleeves displayed to great effect.

The finely-spun white silk stockings hugged my calves and the black leather of my shoes was so highly polished one might use them as a looking-glass, too. The gem-encrusted shoe buckles sparkled like diamonds--quite possibly because they were diamonds.

I found a rather smug smile crossing my face as I recalled the toad-faced viscount to whom those gems had once belonged before I had liberated them and had them reset . . . they suited me so much better.

~I wonder whether I shall be able to achieve such sartorial splendour in my new life. I rather doubt the typical colonial wine merchant would be quite so dandified as this “Frenchie”~

As I affixed a beauty patch close to my mouth and another at the corner of one of my kohl-lined eyes, I had no doubt my dearest Lizzie would laugh at my musings, call me a coxcomb and chide me for my little vanities.

~And yet, she tells me I am beautiful. A glorious heavenly creature. Lizzie, I will gladly abandon the latest fashions in order to have you as my own. All my own~


I looked at my pocket watch and exclaimed at the time. My hired carriage would be there at any moment.

Drawing on my gloves and taking my stick in hand, I made a playful bow to the foppish fellow in the mirror.

“Au revoir, mon ami. L’aventure vous attend!”
*~*~*~*

Once Horace left for his club in our coach, the rest of the servants were given the evening off, save his valet and my Amelia. As far as the Horace and the staff knew, her ladyship was “sufferin’ from a terrible headache and is restin’ in her chamber and she is not to be disturbed.”

As for Grey, he was waiting downstairs in the kitchen, enjoying a glass or two of ale whilst Amelia attended to her “ailing” mistress’s needs.

The sacque gown Guy had sent to me was a deep green silk with a delicate floral design in pale pinks, yellows and blues, its graceful Watteau pleats cascading from my shoulders in the back. The skirt opened in front to reveal the pink satin petticoat, lavishly embroidered in blue and yellow threads, beneath it.

I smiled to myself as I took care to perfume the swell of my breasts. The very low cut of the bodice and the gown’s pale pink stomacher demonstrated Panther’s penchant for my ever-ripening bosom.

~Perhaps he shall have the opportunity to explore with that lovely great nose of his—and those soft lips. We shall see~

“Don’t yew worry a bit, my lady. I will keep Grey well occupied whilst yew make yer escape,” Amelia said as she fastened the clasp of the emerald necklace, my gift from the Panther, around my neck. As soon as I had seen the colours in the gown, I knew the gemstones I would choose.

~Although he would prefer to see me in nothing but the jewels~
Even amidst my anxiety over that night, thoughts of a carnal nature seemed to possess me. Just the sort of thing that led me to my unexpected predicament . . . I felt those queer fluttering in my belly again as I thought of seeing Guy again. And of telling him my news.

I gave Amelia a half-smile as our eyes met in the reflection of the looking-glass.

“Oh, I have no doubt you will see to Grey, Amelia,” I said in dry tones as I put on the matching earrings. “Do try not to win all of the poor lad’s wages from him now that you have learned to cheat at cards, won’t you?”

Amelia adjusted my wig, tidying a few errant curls.

“I would not dream of it, my lady. But—I might teach Grey some tricks he could use on that footman who is such a git.”

A tight little smile appeared on Amelia’s face as she tweaked another curl. “T’would serve him right, I reckon.”

I expelled a breath and shook my head. “Remind me to never cross swords with you, my dear Amelia.”

“ Don’t move yer head too much, my lady, I’ve got yer curls just right,” she scolded, putting her hands on her narrow hips. “And I don’t know the first thing about swords, milady,” she added loftily, lifted that pointed chin of hers.

I studied my reflection in my dressing table’s looking-glass. With my face framed in those artfully arranged fair curls and powdered, painted and patched in the manner of some nobleman’s flirtatious mistress, I did not look like myself, which was, of course, the object.

I left the house by the servants’ entrance, where a sedan chair arranged by Guy was waiting to take me to Ranelagh in Chelsea—my first visit since the early days of my marriage.

My destination had opened some nine years earlier on the grounds of Ranelagh House as an alternative to the wildly popular New Spring Gardens at Vauxhall.

Unlike the Vauxhall pleasure gardens, which charged no admittance, one had to pay a fee to enter Ranelagh—helping to keep out the “undesirables.”

No doubt that was part of the appeal for Horace when he taken me as his new bride to Ranelagh in what now seemed a lifetime ago. It would be an opportunity to show off his latest acquisition—me—surrounded by those he deemed worthy of his lordly company.

~What would the ton think if they knew they had an infamous highwayman in their midst to-night?~

As the sedan chair bumped along the cobblestone streets, I smoothed the skirts of my new dress as I must have done at least half-a-dozen times since leaving Dillingham House. My fingers fairly ached to play with my new curls, but I could hear Amelia scolding me and thus resisted.

I thought of the message Guy had sent with my garments and wig. I could hear his voice, like a velvet caress, murmuring intimately into my ear.

~Your appearance will be quite different this evening, Mon Ange—and perhaps not entirely that of a respectable lady? There will be nothing familiar in your attire for those with whom you may be acquainted.

Give them enigmatic smiles, gracious bows. Speak with your fan and coquettish tilts to your head, but say nothing, as if you are not altogether familiar with the language.

Turn in the card I have enclosed with your frock when you arrive at the entrance gate and they will grant you entrance. I have already seen to your admission fee.

I have arranged to arrive by carriage shortly after your expected arrival . . . I look forward with the greatest of pleasure of seeing you, Mon Ange, by the garden’s canal and its Chinese Pavilion. We shall discuss more concerning our future plans~

The night at Ranelagh would be a test of sorts, one that would help prepare me for assuming a disguise when we made our escape from England.

~And a test of Guy’s attachment to me when I share the unexpected part of our “future plans?”~

Suddenly I was flustered and a touch giddy-headed once more. Unfurling the beautiful fan with its Oriental figures—most appropriate, given my destination—I waved it to both cool myself and give me something else to do with my poor hands.

I thought of Amelia’s words earlier that day.

~Perhaps—perhaps it is meant to be, our child, a strong child. A new life with a family~
I had to hold on to hope. And keep my wits about me if I did not wish to give the game away . . .

*~*~*~*
Offering the card Guy had given me with a smile designed to charm and a flutter of my fan, I had no difficulty gaining entrance to the pleasure gardens.

As night fell, the gardens of Ranelagh were glowing. Lime trees, their pillar-like trunks lining the walkways on either side of the canal, were decorated with many colourful Chinese lanterns suspended from tree branches above long rows of neatly-trimmed shrubs.

Elegantly-dressed ladies and gentlemen paraded up and down, pausing to bow, to converse, to flirt, all clearly enjoying seeing and being seen.

Jugglers and acrobats amused the guests. Peals of laughter mingled with the strains of music—I recognised Handel—that came from within the garden’s grand Rotunda.

I made my way to Ranelagh’s new addition, adhering to Guy’s advice to remain a silent coquette.

The Chinese Pavilion had been constructed on pillars in the centre of the canal that ran through the gardens. With posts and balustrades crafted of white-painted wood, the pavilion’s slate blue roof with its curious Oriental design mirrored the colour, if not the style, of the dome atop Ranelagh’s rotunda.

More brightly-hued lanterns hung from the new pavilion’s eaves, and a number of garden patrons had entered it to mill about amongst individuals garbed in the attire of the Far East—a most exotic sight.

I stopped close to the walkway that led onto the pavilion. There I waited for Guy, watching guests glide by in long, narrow boats, piloted by attendants.

It was a beautiful night, unseasonably warm and tempered by a balmy breeze that threatened to tousle the artfully arranged curls of my wig. I smiled to myself at the image of Amanda’s scowl at the damage to her hard work.

“A touch of Venezia, as well as China, here in London.” A voice rumbled in my ear. I turned my head and looked up into Guy’s heavy-lidded eyes. They seemed to be smouldering particularly well that evening. And his scent. A mélange of sweetness and spice.

~Oh, Guy. I find you so difficult to resist. Which is exactly why I have ended up with your child in my belly~

“Bonsoir, Madame Legrande. Vous semblez belle ce soir, ma petite fleur . . .” Speaking with a faint growl in his throat, Guy lifted my hand to his lips, his kohl-rimmed eyes glinting. Pressing an ardent kiss to the back of my hand, he then turned it over to kiss my palm, his eyes never leaving mine. Even through my glove the heat from his mouth nearly seared my flesh.

I caught my breath, my eyes fluttering closed.

~Perhaps ‘tis a good thing Amelia tucked my salt of hartshorn in my reticule. I am feeling a little—light-headed again~

“Mon Ange—qu’est-ce qu’il y a? Tu n’es pas malade?”

I opened my eyes and saw his alarm. I was at once touched and unnerved by the concern.

I lifted my chin and unfurled my fan as I gave Guy a smile. “No--I am not ill.” I expelled a breath and gave him a flirtatious bat of my eyelashes from above my fan. “Simply—overwhelmed by your splendour this evening. You are a true dandy from head to toe this evening.”

Guy struck an exaggerated pose, one hand at his waist and the other clasping his stick, his handsome aquiline nose raised high in the air, a supercilious expression on his face as he gazed upwards towards the heavens.

“Mais oui. Je suis—magnifique, n’est-ce pas?”

In spite of myself I began to giggle, and Guy cast a look of mock reproach in my direction, giving a grand sniff.

“Madame—vous osez rire?”

“Excusez-moi, mais--” I gave up on my French and kept my mouth hidden behind my fan as I lazily waved it.

“Forgive me, my French has been quite neglected, I fear. It’s just that--you looked a bit like Horace. Terribly haughty.” Guy’s eyes widened in surprise and I bit my lip before quickly adding, “Only—you are much grander and more handsome, of course.”

Guy’s mouth curled into a lop-sided smile as he raised a single brow. Leaning down, he murmured in my ear, “Surely I am an improvement in every way on Lord Montrose?”

I drank in his smell once more. As fashionable as his wig was, I longed to pluck it from his handsome head so that I could tangle my fingers in his dark mane of hair and hold him close to me.

I needed to feel Guy’s strong arms wrap around me as I rested my head against his broad chest. I relished the feel of the taut, hardened muscles beneath the sumptuous luxury of his attire.

~Surely, the most dangerous and delicious fop in England?~

I simply raised my hand to his face and ran my fingers lightly along the curve of his jaw.

“Oh, yes.” I whispered. “In every way.”
*~*~*
How splendid it was to see my lovely Lizzie standing there beside the canal that at Ranelagh, her blonde curls dancing in the soft breeze.

She was quite fetching in her guise of slightly disreputable lady. And the dress displayed her physical charms in a most enticing way—just as I had known it would.

I confess Lizzie’s momentary pallor and the swaying of her body after my greeting did cause me concern. Perhaps the anticipation of this evening—of all that was to come for us—was weighing on her mind?


I would try to put her at ease—and tease her along the way.
I looked at the beauty patches she had applied to her face, one beside her eyes and the other, by that very tempting mouth.

“I--see you have put your patches in the same spots as I, Madame.”

“Indeed,” she breathed softly.

“And they mean, as I am certain you know, that you are passionate--” I touched the tiny heart affixed to the corner of her eye.

“And you like to kiss.” My finger grazed the star-shaped patch beside her lips before lightly tracing the outline of her pretty mouth.

Lizzie raised her etched brows, a smile tugging at her mouth once more.

“Surely, the same must be true of you, Monsieur le duc?”

I smiled as I tilted my head.

“’Tis true.” I took one of her blonde curls and twisted it around my finger, expelling a slightly regretful breath.

~Oh, how I want to simply whisk her away and indulge our desires. But there are matters that we need to discuss . . .~

I presented my arm to Lizzie with a small bow.

“Shall we take a stroll to the Rotunda to listen to the lovely music?”I queried.

“Perhaps partake of some libations to quench our thirst . . . we can return here to enjoy a ride under the stars in one of these bateaux, n’est-ce pas?”

She smiled and nodded, her hand firmly clasping my arm.

I leaned down to murmur in her ear.

“And later, Mon Ange, we shall find some quiet place where we will not be disturbed, to talk and—for other things. We do not want to call too much undue attention to the peacock and his lady-- would you like that?”
*~*~*~*
His blue eyes were dark and luminous, his voice, warm and silken. And his smile, oh!—It made me want to weep and to bury myself in his arms, to be comforted by his strength and warmth and beauty. He was my sweet haven.

And part of me wanted to run away. But where would I run to? My husband, who was clearly not the father of my unborn child? Hardly. I had to face my fears.

~Oh, what a coward you are, Lady Montrose . . .~

I forced a coquettish smile on my face as I gazed up into his eyes. “That all sounds lovely. I would like that very much, Monsieur le duc.”
*~*~*~*
Lizzie and I spent a pleasant half-hour in the Rotunda, listening to the musicians perform Handel’s Water Suite.

The huge circular room was illuminated by hundreds of candles flickering in a dozen great chandeliers suspended from the lofty ceiling. Their soft glow mingled with the starlight beginning to shine through the Rotunda’s ring of windows set just under its ceiling.

Even with the mildness of that evening, one might have caught a slight chill inside the cavernous structure, save for the massive fireplaces with a communal chimney built into its central column.

Only two of the four were lit, the burning embers enough to keep the rotunda comfortable on that balmy night.

We strolled about, enjoying some of Ranelagh’s best wine and light-hearted conversation. My concerns over her earlier pallor and tremor now seemed unfounded.


Lizzie’s cheeks were now flushed beneath the paint and powder and I could not fail to notice the lovely swell of her ivory bosom as I leaned down to hear her soft voice. She smelled of jasmine. She was delectable. And she was mine.

“You certainly look quite different this evening, Mon Ange—very much the naughty charmer,” I said, lifting her hand to mine for another kiss.

“You seem to bring out such naughtiness in me, Monsieur le duc,” Lizzie said from behind her fan, cutting those verdant eyes at me. She gave a small sigh and shook her head.

“I do not think I am ready to appear before the lime-lights, however. I confess I am a little on edge, fearing someone will know me in spite of all our efforts. Amelia laboured mightily to conceal my identity. “

I gave Lizzie’s arm a reassuring squeeze as I bowed my bewigged head in the direction of an imposing lady approaching us. She returned the nod, her narrow mouth forming a sharp smile before she sailed past us.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lizzie raise a quizzical brow.
“You are acquainted with Lady Caroline?”

“In a manner of speaking. I robbed her and the duke on the road to York. I never forget the faces of those whose possessions I have liberated,” I murmured in explanation.

“It could be my undoing if I did.”I patted her arm.
“Now, let me assure you that you and Amelia are doing well, Mon Ange. You clearly have a taste for this play-acting. “

I shot her an approving smile and she blushed charmingly in response.

“Although-- we may have to come up with a way to better conceal those distinctive emerald eyes of yours. And we shall need to brush up on your French and your weaponry skills . . . just in case.”

She laughed softly. I glanced down and saw the wry expression on her face behind her fan. “My skills in such matters could certainly benefit from your tutelage, I am certain.”

“I have learnt you are a very apt pupil, Lizzie. I have every confidence in you.”

I heard a small sigh escape those lips. Was that a shadow crossing her face, or merely a trick of the candlelight?

“Shall—shall we go outside and find that quiet place now, Guy?”

Her lips curled upwards, but her smile did not quite reach those lovely eyes.

~Where was that mischievous glint to which I was so accustomed?~

Tilting my head, I replied in a jocular tone: “I am delighted at such a prospect with such a ripe, delicious creature, but-- you do not wish to first ride in the bateau, Mon Ange?”

Lizzie shook her head and gave me a rather shy glance through her dark lashes.

“No—I, I want to be alone with you now—if that is possible, Guy.”

She gave me a half-smile before her lips parted, those wide eyes studying my face. I thought she was on the brink of some query and I raised my brows in expectation.

Instead, Lizzie expelled a breath and, taking my hand in hers, she pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it.

I lifted her hand to my mouth and gave it a lingering kiss, my eyes never leaving hers.

“Votre souhait est mon commandement, Madame . . . to our private place we shall go.”
*~*~*~*

My heart was pounding in my chest as Guy and I left the Rotunda and walked towards a more remote section of the gardens. We found a secluded corner, well away from other guests, beneath a spreading chestnut.

There were no lanterns here. Perhaps that would be a blessing. Perhaps I would not want to see the expression on Guy’s face when I told him.

The fluttering sensation in my belly was growing worse and I fear I only half-listened to what Guy was saying. An expert on fortified wines. Renaud’s progress on our papers for travel. Clothing and the hiding of money. The one final grand adventure he is planning—

I bit my lip and caught his hand in mine.

“Guy. Please, tell me—will this be very dangerous? I mean—this daring enterprise of yours?”

“Perhaps—a little more than others, but you know how I plan and prepare. And it will help secure a comfortable life for us.”

Guy pulled me to his chest and wrapped his arms around me.

“Please, do not fret. I want to do this—for us.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead, his broad hand stroking my back. “It shan’t be the life of a great lord and lady, but I do want to be able to take proper care of my angel.”

I closed my eyes, my head pressed against his chest, and drank in his scent. Queer how it did not bother me the way other scents did when I was with child . . .

With child.

I screwed my courage to a sticking-place and drew a deep breath.

“Guy—I have something I must tell you. And I hope—I hope it will not upset you.”

There was a pause. His hand stilled. “You have not—changed your mind, have you?” The forlorn edge to his whispered words made my heart constrict.
I raised my head and reaching up, cupped his face in my hand. I could feel the tension in his jaw.

“Oh, Guy, no. I still want to go away with you, more than ever. That will not change.” I sighed.

“But something else has. I cannot say why I did not recognise the signs much sooner.” Stepping back, I took his broad hand in mine and slowly, hesitantly, pressed it to my belly.

“I am going to have a child. Your child.”

His face was unreadable in the dimness, but I heard his sharp intake of breath and felt his hand pull away from my stomach, felt him turn away from me. Felt a chill wrap around my heart.

~He does not want it. Of course, he does not. Not at such a time~
I willed myself not to cry and took another deep breath.

“I—I—there are measures I can take. Some preparation that Amelia’s cousin Hepzibah knows of--”

“No!” The violence of his response startled me and it was I who gasped this time.

Guy spun around on his heel and grasped my arms tightly, his voice hoarse.

“You will do no such thing, Lizzie. If you were to—to harm yourself--”

He crushed me against him. I could feel him trembling, his chest heaving as if he was struggling to catch his breath.

“But—it is such a very inconvenient time, Guy. With all our plans--” I felt a sob rising in my throat and silently cursed it.

“Hush . . .” Guy murmured, his hand stroking my back once more. “It’s my fault. I am to blame, I should have been more cautious.” He expelled a long breath.

“Ordinarily, I am more cautious. There are ways, devices for a man to help prevent something like this.” A sigh—of regret? “T’was foolishness on my part.”

He gripped me by my shoulders and thrust me away from him, trying to read my face before giving a hiss of frustration.

“Come out from beneath this tree, Lizzie, where you and I can see each other better. I want you to fully understand what I am saying and to believe it.”

*~*~*~*
I was taken by surprise, for I did not expect Lizzie’s news. But surely I should have done, should have at least considered the possibility? I knew full well she had been with child several times before. I cursed myself for my thoughtlessness. I was to blame for this.

I should have thought, as I had done with so many other lovers, to pull out of her before spending myself, to use the French letters Antoinette had taught me about all those years before.

I had no desire to bring a bastard into the world. A bastard like me. I knew full well the world could be a cruel place.

“Lizzie . . .” I cupped her face in my hands, tipping it back so that the moonlight illuminated her features. She had grown pale beneath the rouge, her eyes, wide and dark and filled with such—emotion. Fear. Hope. Confusion.

“Please know this. I love you. I want a life with you.” I paused and expelled a deep breath. “And I do want this child. Our child.” I smiled into her eyes. “Of course I want it.”

I felt her body relax as she sighed softly. “I-I have been so—worried. Fearful of your reaction. The signs have been there, but it took Amelia to help me see what was happening to my body.” She shrugged her shoulders.
“I suppose I have been so, so—happy, it has been like some glorious dream.”
She glanced down and then looked up through her lashes at me, her mouth twisting.
“I had forgotten about—that possibility.”

“Oh—Lizzie.” I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her soft mouth. “It has been glorious for me as well. You make me so—very, very happy.”

I licked my lips and gave her a nod.
“We shall simply have to set the wheels in motion sooner than I expected on our plans for Horace.” I paused, expelling a breath. “Have you heard from our friend the Chequered Domino?”

Lizzie shook her head. “No. He has apparently been laying low as we suggested. I shall dispatch a message to him tomorrow if you wish.”

She gave me a half-smile. “I suspect he is going to enjoy all this. I think he also has a flair for the dramatic.”
I tilted my head, stroking her cheek, and smiled.

“Oh, Mon Ange, I suspect he will enjoy it much more than Horace . . .”

I have not actually fallen off the face of the earth. It just seems as if I did. Amazing how cut off from civilization one can feel these days when there is no internet access.

After several events in which we lost our connection for anywhere from a few minutes to several hours, it went completely kaput in the Lady Writer household during the wee hours of December 30.

No checking of email, or responding to messages or reading/commenting on blogs. No watching videos on YouTube. No uploading or downloading of videos, or cruising iTunes; no doing any additional online research for my novel, beyond the stack of reference books by my bed. (Knowing that Mr. A apparently has had similar stacks of reading material by his bed always makes me smile. We bookworms have to stick together.) No sending a portion of a chapter to my friend to read and check for any major bloopers.

Having always been a cinephile, I have become a truly dedicated viewer of Turner Classic Movies during my unemployment and recovery from a busted tailbone (American Movie Classics—your original programming is just dandy. But repeats of CSI:Miami every afternoon? Really? Come on . . .).
I find I enjoy doing additional research on some of the films and their casts and crews. Doing it online. *sigh*

I can’t tell you how many times I very nearly picked up my laptop to look up a particular film, only to remember I couldn’t.

Or I wanted to look up a term or word to see if its use would not be an anachronism in my period story. Only I couldn’t.

Call me “frustrated.”

After more than one conversation back and forth between here in the boonies and tech support at Centurylink, hey presto! We finally have the issue resolved as of tonight. Now 250 emails in my box (and a few more in another account) later, I’m baaa-ck!

I’ve had a good hot shower, washed my hair and pin-curled it, applied lots of girly body lotion, put on my cozy Christmas PJs and fired up my laptop.

It’s good to be back in the saddle again.
Which reminds me of Guy—and Thorin—in the saddle. I feel fanvids and trailers calling me. *mmmmmmmmmmm*

Sloth Fiction: Santas, Santas Everywhere! By fedoralady
Rated PG
It’s been quite a while since I wrote an installment of SF, and this holiday season seemed a perfect time to share. I wish you all a wonderful Christmas and a joyous time together with family and friends. God bless you . . .

“Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, please put a penny in the old man’s hat . . .” Harry Kennedy, the world’s most adorable accountant, sang with a cheeky gusto on a wet, stormy late December morning in LA (Lower Alabama).


He had a mug of cocoa in each hand and a sunny smile on his handsome face as he strolled into Lady Writer’s guest bedroom.

It was the place she’d been more or less camping out for since her car accident, better known as “The Great Crown Vic Offroading Misadventure” or “LW’s Unexpected Journey,” back in early November.

Recovery had been slow and frustrating. Occasionally, in the wee hours, she would have a little weep.

Still, the support of her own dear Harry Kennedyesque husband, the therapy provided via her cuddly felines-- not to mention all the inspiration given by the Creator and the ChaRActers--helped tremendously.

And on this gloomy morning, Harry’s attire alone was a day-brightener.

“Harry, I swear, it looks like that sweater—excuse me, jumper-- of yours should light up,” said Lady Writer as she took a sip of her cocoa (laced with a dash of Bailey’s Irish Cream).

Harry gave her a cheeky grin. “Funny you should mention that, LW . . .” Swapping his mug of cocoa from his right hand to his left, Harry then squeezed a spot on the neck of his jumper.

Suddenly, the ornaments and lights hanging from the antlers of the smiling reindeer on his chest began to twinkle red, green, gold and silver.

Sitting her mug down on the bedside table, LW clapped her hands in delight.

“Oh, Harry, that’s great!”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Ah, but wait. There’s more,” he said in a husky, teasing voice.

Reaching into the neck of the jumper a second time, he gave it a squeeze.

The strains of “Jingle Bells” could be heard coming from Harry’s chest.

“It plays a medley of six Christmas tunes,” he said, and holding up one long and elegant finger, he added, the merry twinkle in his eye belying the solemn set of his mouth. “And notice-- the lights blink in time to the music.”

“Oh—Harry—I—love—it!” LW was giggling so hard she was having a hard time getting the words out.

Harry shrugged his broad shoulders and took another sip of his cocoa. “Well, I know things have been a bit hard of late. Thought a bit of Christmas cheer would do you good, dear LW.”

“Well, I think it is marvelous. Only you, Harry, could pull that look off, only you,” she replied, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

“You’ve made me laugh ‘til I cried.”

Harry grinned. “My vicar always says a merry heart does you good like medicine.”

LW nodded. “I have to agree. And –like cuddly cat therapy-- much cheaper than some of my meds from the pharmacy.”

There was a sudden ruckus from the vicinity of LW’s front entrance.

She raised her brows. “Wonder what that could be? It doesn’t sound like the dogs bumping against the storm door . . .”

“I’ll go and see, LW.”

Moments later, she heard the sound of several baritone voices mingling and then a loud “shhhhhhh,” followed by a mysterious whispering.

LW suspected a certain group of ChaRActers was up to something.

Harry’s smiling face reappeared as he peeked inside the bedroom door.

“Just the lads, LW. No worries.”

There was a curious clanging sound from the vicinity of the living room, followed by a muttered oath.

“God’s tears! Watch what you’re doing!”

“Sorry, mate. You need to watch where you put those gigantic feet next time . . .”

A loud snort. “MY gigantic feet? Have you taken a look at your feet lately?”

A deep sigh. “Will both of you please be careful and not step on my cadmium red? Monet is coming over later to paint with me.”
A loud grunt.

“Lift with your legs, lads, not with your backs. Otherwise, you could end up injuring your back.”

“Well, you’re the doctor, I guess you would know . . .”

“Ah—things are back to normal, I see,” Lady Writer murmured wryly as she took another sip of her cocoa.

“Let the bickering begin . . .”

Harry disappeared from the doorway, no doubt to referee.

She could hear him shushing his fellow ChaRActers and more rather noisy whispering going on along with intriguing sounds of—furniture being moved about?

Suddenly another head was peering around the door at her. His silky raven mane grazed broad black-clad shoulders; his azure eyes were rimmed in smoky kohl and his mouth was made for smirking, amongst other things.

“Guy of Gisborne. I see you are wearing your funereal holiday black.”

He raised one brow in clear consternation. “It is a colour extremely flattering to me. You’ve certainly never minded dressing me in it in your stories, LW.” Guy gave a manly sniff and tossed back his mane.

LW never tired of seeing him do that. It was a bit like having a beautiful wild stallion hanging out inside your house.

At least with Guy, she didn’t have to worry about him soiling the carpets (he took endless delight in the mechanics of the flush toilet. Such an improvement over Nottingham Castle’s garde-robes).

Although, he could eat as much as a horse . . . where did he put it all?

“Guy darling, I am teasing you . . . of course, I love you in black. Dark, dangerous, mysterious—bad ass. That’s my dark knight.”

Not surprisingly, Guy’s lips curved into a rather smug smirk at LW’s words. He slipped inside the room and folding his arms, lounged against the wall with a devil-may-care attitude.

A deep voice rumbled from the vicinity of the living room, the words tinged with more than a touch of sarcasm.

“Oi. Sir Loin of Beef. We could use your help if you’re not too busy.”

LW was not the only one who enjoyed teasing Sir Guy.

She saw her favourite knight’s nostrils flare and that ominous glint appear in his eyes. Good thing the sword she had given him last year for Christmas could only be employed when SHE said so.

He was apt to fly off the handle every now and then and it was wise to kept sharp objects out of Sir Guy’s grasp.

“Guy. Remember. Play nice.” Lady Writer put down her mug of cocoa and folded her arms, giving Guy as stern a look as she could manage.

“’Tis the season, my dear boy. A time for peace on earth, goodwill towards your fellow chaRActers.”

“Uhmmm—yes. Of course.” Guy gave her a courtly little bow.

“And if you would excuse me, LW, I shall go and see what Sol-, errr-- Sgt. Porter wants.” Guy gave another affronted sniff as he turned on his heel, then paused and looked back at LW, his eyes not quit meeting hers as he gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

“I—don’t suppose you would care to drop a few hints regarding our Christmas presents, would you, Lady Writer?”

LW pressed her lips into a thin line in an effort not to laugh.

In some ways, Guy was very much like a boy inhabiting a man’s body. Lady Writer found it slightly maddening at times, and yet, endearing.

“If you behave yourself, perhaps you WON’T get a lump of coal and a bag of switches. Anyway—you know I like to keep things a surprise. That’s part of the fun of Christmas. So—no snooping.” LW wagged her finger at Guy.

He gave her another little bow, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Yes, milady. Just remember—the no snooping rule can go both ways . . . but I will say no more.”

And with another sly smirk and a toss of his jetty locks, Guy made his exit.

Lady Writer crinkled her forehead (which, sadly, didn’t look nearly as nice as the Creator’s forehead bearing a similar expression) as she absently wrapped a strand of hair around her finger and pondered Guy’s cryptic words.

“OK, just what ARE you boys up to?” She mumbled to herself before giving in to a sizeable yawn.

It had been a sleepless night, the unsettled weather not helping; Lady Writer decided a little nap might be in order.

She would sleep on the mysteries implied by her Dark Knight.

That is, if he and the rest of the lads could keep the noise down, of course . . .

*~*~*~*
It had been an eventful year for Mr. Lady Writer and his missus.

Some of which they would gladly have done without.

Mr. LW’s summertime “sprained ankle” which turned out to be a broken leg; Lady Writer’s unanticipated loss of her job, and the freakish accident that left her feeling as if she’d been put to the question with a visit to some medieval ruler’s torture chamber.

And then, the sudden, unexpected loss of Lucky Cat, Mr. LW’s last tie to his late parents. Big, stolid, stoic Lucky, with those impossibly huge eyes, the cat who smelled inexplicably of hot buttered popcorn.

If it had been a pickup truck instead of a Crown Vic, and a blue tick hound instead of a cat, I think I’d have the makings of a great little country song, LW thought as she slid her sleep mask into place and pulled the snuggly fleece throw over her.

She couldn’t complain about a dull life, that’s for sure . . .

“Lady Writer . . .”

She opened her eyes and looked up into a bearded face.
A big, fluffy white beard, a lot like—

“S-Santa?”

The blue eyes twinkled merrily beneath the fur-trimmed red cap. “Tell me, Lady Writer, have you been a good girl this year?” Santa’s voice was deep, warm and as velvety as the familiar costume he wore. He sat down on the bed beside her, taking her hand in his gloved palm and patting it.

“I-I’ve tried, Santa.”

Santa crinkled his brow as he studied LW’s face.
“You had that freakish accident in the autumn . . . have you been taking proper care of yourself? Taking things slowly and striving for progress in manageable increments, using hot and cold therapy as needed, taking your pain medications before the pain reaches high levels?”

“Y-e-esss. My goodness, Santa, you sound like a doctor.”

He laughed, a big, jolly belly laugh (although LW had to say that Santa didn’t seem to have much of a belly).


“Well, let’s just say Santa has had to look after quite a lot of reindeer and elves in his time. He wants to make sure all the boys and girls he visits—no matter their age—are in good health. Nourishment and nurturing, that’s my motto . . . now, close your eyes and just relax . . .” His voice caressed her ears and bathed her in a delicious warmth.

She could feel herself drifting away, even as Santa seemed to be—taking her pulse? Odd . . .

“Lady Writer . . .”
A very tall, lanky angel was smiling down at her. An angel with tissue paper and tinsel wings and a coat hanger turned into a slightly askew halo, like a very overgrown member of a primary school nativity play.

Only this angel was also wrapped in old-fashioned C7 bulbs as if he’d had a collision with a Christmas tree. And the lights were shining in a rainbow of colours.

“Must have a battery pack on him,” she murmured drowsily. “Or a really long extension cord . . .”

“Hullo, LW. How are you this lovely morning?” the angel inquired with a sunny smile.

“It’s actually a rather dismal morning—but you certainly brighten things up. You know, I have always thought you were something of an angel. Even dreamed you were one, once,” LW said, smothering a small yawn.

“Excuse me, darling. I am just so tired. But I certainly am having an interesting dream . . .” She narrowed her eyes as she looked up at her angelic visitor.

“You wouldn’t happen to be my guardian angel by any chance? Because if you are, I wouldn’t know whether to thank you or fuss at you after my accident.”

She smiled up at him. “Actually, considering it could have been a lot worse, and I am still in one piece, I guess I should say thank you.”

He gave her another cheeky grin. “Well, there you go.”

LW’s angelic visitor took her hand and bending over, lifted it to his mouth for a hearty kiss.

“Sadly, I cannot lay claim to being your official guardian angel. But I do like trying to look after you. Merry Christmas, dear LW—and best wishes for a better 2012!”

“Merry Christmas,” she said, feeling her eyelids growing heavy once more.

“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa was back, it seemed.

Only this time he appeared to be clad in head-to-toe black leather, topped off with an especially plush Santa hat, his face largely hidden beneath luxuriant false whiskers.

But he definitely was not wearing any false padding under that sleek, form-fitting leather.

Ho, ho, ho indeed.

“So, tell me, Lady Writer. Have you been a naughty girl?” Santa’s voice was deep, honeyed rumble.

LW suddenly realized she was lying there with her mouth hanging open.

“Uhmmmmm . . . why do I think I should say ‘yes’?”

Santa tilted his head and started to tug off his gloves (black leather, naturally) with his incredibly perfect teeth.

“Because—I like naughty girls best of all . . .”

LW’s eyes grew very wide. “Ahhhhh . . .”

Suddenly she felt something soft and fuzzy rubbing against her cheek.

“S-Santa?”

“Muurrrrow.”

“Huh?” She opened her eyes and found herself nose-to-nose with Puddie Cat, who standing on her chest, kneading the fleece blanket whilst purring loudly.

“Ouch! Watch those claws, Missy,” LW said with a small yelp.

“Seems my dream is over with—dang it. And it was just starting to get really good, Puddie.”

She glanced over to the right and saw her sleep mask lying there. Did she take it off in her sleep? LW shrugged. Stranger things had happened . . .

“Lady Writer . . .” Another Santa stood in the doorway. LW blinked and shook her head a little. OK, maybe the Lor-Tabs and muscle relaxers were making her a bit loopy.

“We’d like you to come in the living room. You’ll have to close your eyes, so I will assist you,” said Santa.

“Ah, I must have a surprise in store.” She stood up a bit slowly and creakily and took Santa’s arm.

“Close your eyes, LW. We won’t rush. Take your time.”

They stepped out into the little hallway and rounded the corner into the living room. She could hear more whispering and the clearing of throats.


“OK, LW. You may open your eyes now.”

“Merry Christmas!” A chorus of baritones rang out from—what? Five Santas, identically dressed? And an angel in tinsel and lightbulbs?—all standing in a semicircle in front of the Christmas tree, which seemed to glow with at least a thousand white fairy lights, ivory and gilt ribbons and all the treasured ornaments she had collected throughout the years.

The Christmas tree? Wait a minute . . .

LW’s mouth dropped open. “The—tree. Where did it come from? I mean—I wasn’t going to bother with a tree this year because of my back—and we won’t be here for Christmas. It’s—beautiful.”

“We knew you’d scaled back things due to your back injury--” said one Santa.

“And we also knew you were feeling a bit down--” chimed in another.

“And we wanted to help out--”

“So we went tramping through your woods to find a tree.”

“And got into an argument over which tree was the best.”

“But we think this one is a corker, Lady Writer.”

Lady Writer nodded. “It is, indeed, a corker, lads.”
She felt the tears forming in her eyes and a major sniffle coming on.

“Lady Writer, you are not going to cry, are you?”

“No—well, maybe just a little, you guys.” She heaved a big sigh. This was—incredibly sweet and thoughtful of you all.”


She glanced around the room with a bemused expression on her face.

“Only—I don’t know exactly who is who underneath all that Santa gear. You all do bear a striking resemblance to one another in your street clothes, much less matching suits and beards.”

The Santas looked at each other, nodding. Then, one by one, each Santa lifted his cap and wig and tugged down his beard.

“Ahhh—Guy’s stubble—and now I see those kohl-rimmed eyes a little better. And—Dr. Track! I dreamt about you when I napped. Is that a stethoscope I spy? Lucas—do I detect a spot of paint on your cheek?”


Lucas smiled and nodded his head. “I’ve been painting with Claude.”

The next Santa lifted his cap to reveal rumpled brown locks and neat little goatee. His blue eyes were positively incandescent.

“And a very fine painter he is becoming, too, Madame.”

Lady Writer crowed with delight. “Monsieur Monet! How delightful to see you!”

“Mon plaisir,” he said with a sweeping bow and sweet smile.

There was one more Santa (and Harry the Angel, of course).

“And who do we have here?” Lady Writer said.

The last Santa tugged down his beard.

“Cheers, Lady Writer. Nice to be out of that bloody desert . . . and away from terrorists—and certain scriptwriters.” He gave LW a wry smile.

“Portah! Oh, Sergeant, come here and give me a hug.” Lady Writer was soon enveloped in one of Porter’s bear hugs, the sort that made a girl feel safe and cherished.

“Thank you—and all the other admirers of our Creator—who Loved Me Into Being, granting me SND status. I think that’s the best gift ever, LW,” Porter murmured into her ear.

“Well, we have to give credit to the Ultimate ChaRActer Strike Force, John—led by Lucas and Guy. Once again, all the lads came together in support of their brother,” LW said, her eyes shining with pride as she smiled up at Porter.
“That is definitely one of the high points of my year, John. You are a soldier who so many admire and love. Your Creator gave us a true hero in you.”

John looked down at his feet with a lop-sided smile. “And you gave me the love of my life and a family and a future.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“It was my pleasure, John. And my readers. You are a very popular character, you know.”

There was a sudden sharp rapping at the front door.

“Were you lads expecting someone else?” LW queried.

The ChaRActers looked at each other and shrugged as they shook their heads.

“I shall answer it,” said Guy, clapping on his cap and putting his beard back into place before striding to the door.
Sweeping it open, he looked through the storm door and froze.
“Who is it, Guy? What’s the matter?”

“It—appears to be a bearded creature the size of a child . . .”

“Thorin Oakenshield,” announced the creature, who, though small in stature, possessed a booming voice easily heard through the storm door.

Lady Writer’s eyes grew wide. “Thorin—Thorin’s here. Oh, Guy—where are your manners? Welcome him in!”

Guy’s eyebrow shot up and he gave a sniff—possibly pondering the prospect of the lack of presents for a naughty Guy--before inclining his head. “Of course, milady, I will be happy to let this—diminutive hairy creature in, if you wish it.”

He opened the door and with a flourish of his hand, indicated Thorin was invited inside.

The “diminutive hairy creature” strode purposefully into the living room. He carried himself so ramrod straight in his silver and blue robes and furs, with such a take-no-prisoners glint in his eyes, he seemed much taller than a mere four feet.

Lady Writer didn’t usually feel attracted to such a vertically challenged man. But for Thorin, as for so many other ChaRActers, she was willing to make an exception.
So what if he was a dwarf? Thorin was a proper MAN.

His hand resting on the hilt of his gleaming sword, the warrior dwarf and rightful King Under the Mountain bowed his head before Lady Writer. “My Lady, I am at your service,” he announced solemnly.

She gazed into those keen blue eyes and smiled. “It is a pleasure to meet you . . . and the first time I have welcomed royalty to my home.”

The other characters crowded around Thorin to warmly welcome him as they introduced themselves to this curious new character in their brotherhood.
Everyone except, that is, Sir Guy. He stood back from the rest, those broad shoulders slumping just a little in his Santa suit.

“Guy? Aren’t you going to welcome Thorin?” Lady Writer said softly as she linked her arm with his.

“You—find him quite impressive, do you not, Lady Writer?”

Guy kept his eyes fixed on Thorin as he spoke.

“Oh, yes—the Creator’s newest character knocks my sock off. And a great many other socks, too.”

Guy heaved a sigh and looked at his feet.

“So. I—suppose he is now your favourite.” In spite of the beard masking it, LW was certain the Adam’s-apple was bobbing in Guy’s swan-like throat. “Since he is royalty, after all.”

“Oh, Guy. Don’t you know me well enough by now to realise I am no snob? Thorin is wonderful. So are you.”

She squeezed his arm. “You will always be my favourite, because you will always be the first; the first to earn my love and break my heart. The first ChaRActer to be Loved into Being.”

LW smiled up at him. “So cheer up, Santa Guy. There’s a lot to celebrate. Red velvet cake. Homemade chocolate-covered cherries.”

She saw the familiar gleam in his beautiful blue eyes.

She rose up on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear. “An unopened box of Cheez-Its with your name on it.”

His lips twitched. “Well, between traipsing through the forest and decorating this tree, I did work up quite an appetite . . .”

Lady Writer laughed. “As our friend Angel Harry would say, ‘Well, there you go.’”

“Lady Writer.” John Porter called out to her. “I believe we started a Christmas tradition last year. Serenading you with a song?”

“Oh, yes. Please sing for me, lads.”

“I believe a certain French carol is a particular favourite of yours, cherie?” said Monet.

Harry grinned. “Yep, one that you could say features me.”

LW clapped her hands together. “’Angels We Have Heard on High?’ Absolutement.”

And soon the seven ChaRActers , old and new, joined their honeyed baritones in singing the traditional carol. Lady Writer didn’t think even angels straight from heaven could sound one whit more beautiful than her lads.

What did they get for Christmas? Ah well, that is another tale to tell.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.