CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming and as a librarian. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.

Chapter One

Generva Marsh gave the kitchen a final sweep and sighed in resignation. It was not her job to be keeping her own house. Mrs Jordan, the housekeeper, would disapprove of her meddling. But Mrs Jordan was above stairs, transfixed by the wailing and lamentations coming from Gwendolyn’s bedroom. Generva had been more than happy to abdicate that role. The girl had cried nonstop since Sunday, and the sound preyed upon her nerves.

Perhaps it was unmotherly to admit such a lack of sympathy for one’s only daughter. Perhaps the ladylike response to the chaos surrounding them was to have a fit of vapours. She should shut herself up in a bedchamber, as Gwen was doing, and turn the whole house upside down. But it was still a damned nuisance. It might be mortifying when one’s gentleman proved himself to be no gentleman at all. But when it happened before the wedding and not after, it was cause for celebration and not tears. It would have been far worse had they married.

Perhaps it was her own, dear, John who had given Generva such an annoyingly sensible attitude. When one was the widow of a ship’s captain, one learned to sail on through adversity and live each day prepared for the worst. When she had lost him, she had cried for a day as if her heart would break. Then she had looked at her two children and dried her tears so she could wipe theirs.

Now she must do so again, for one child, at least. Little Benjamin did not need her help. When he had heard the news he had declared it good riddance, stolen one of the mince pies she’d set aside for the wedding breakfast and disappeared into the yard. Generva frowned. The boy was a terror, but at least he was out of the way. The girl could have one more day, at most, to sulk over the unexpected turn things had taken.

Then she would be ordered to pull herself together, wash her face and prepare to meet the village on Christmas morning. The congregation had been promised a wedding at the end of the service. Instead, the Marshes would be proving a veritable morality play on the dangers of pride and youthful folly. They would be forced to hold their heads high and accept the condolences of the town gossips who smiled behind their hands even as they announced that it was, ‘a terrible, terrible shame, that such a lovely girl was tainted by scandal’. The old women would cluck like chickens and the young men would look away from them in embarrassment, as though Gwen was something more than an innocent victim of another’s perfidy.

Generva’s hands tightened on the handle of the broom. If John were still alive, he’d have called the fellow out. Men were far more sensible in that way than women. They saw such problems and found a solution. But as the widowed mother of the wronged girl, there was little society would permit her to do, other than wring her hands and bear her share of the disgrace.

‘In dulci jubilo...’ From the road outside, she heard the sound of a deep voice raised in song.

For a moment, she paused to lean on the broom and listen. John would have declared the fellow to have ‘a fine set of lungs’ and thrown open the door to him and any friends who accompanied him. Then he’d have poured drinks from the hearth and matched them verse for verse with his own fine tenor voice. He’d told her that, for a sailor on land, a good, old-fashioned Christmas wassail was as near to grog and shanties as one could hope.

She smiled for a moment, then glanced at the empty pot beside the kitchen fire. It was a lost tradition in this household. If a widow did not want to incite gossip, she did not open the house to misrule and invite strangers to drink punch in the kitchen. She missed it all the same.

‘There was a pig went out to dig, on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day...’ The singer had finished his first song and gone on to another. He sang alone, but

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