A Victorian Christmas (13 page)

She leaned back against the seat and laughed at the memory. Grey chuckled as he pierced the needle into the fabric. The silver lance went through the cloth, glanced off the thimble, and slid straight into his fingertip.

“Blast!” He jerked upright and grabbed the wounded finger. “Look, Miss Ellis, I’m not—”

“Now don’t have a hissy fit, Grey. Everybody makes mistakes at first. Learning how to sew is a tricky business.” She took his hand and spread it open. His fingers were long and tanned, hardened by some unexplained work he must have been doing in India. She bent over and pressed her lips to the tiny red spot on the tip of his finger.

“Better?” she asked.

He sucked in a breath, his focus lingering on her mouth. “Not . . . not entirely.”

Star smiled. “All right then. One more kiss and back to work.”

As she held his hand to her lips, their eyes met, and his thumb grazed across her cheek, touching her earlobe. A ripple of surprise ran down Star’s spine and settled in the base of her stomach. How many men had touched her cheek in her years of courting? And not one of them had ever sent curls of delight across her skin as this Englishman did with just the brush of his thumb.

“Much better,” he said in a low voice. “Very much better.”

Star swallowed. “Needles can be dangerous,” she managed. “Please use your thimble.”

“As you wish, madam.”

Grey picked up the diamonds and the fallen needle and went back to work. As she pieced her own patches, Star covertly observed the man. She was more than a little dismayed at his inability to create straight, regular stitches. In fact, his thread leapt and danced across the fabric in long, crooked strokes that looked like the tracks of a half-drunk chicken in search of grain.

At one point he stopped to stare out the window, as if pondering some earth-shattering dilemma. When he resumed sewing, he looped the thread over to the wrong side of the patch and made three stitches that didn’t know whether they were coming or going.
Good heavens,
Star thought.

Her dear mother would have jerked away that piecework and ripped out those pitiful stitches. A person ought to do things right, or not at all, Mama always said. But Star had made enough mistakes in her own life to allow the viscount to keep right on sewing to his heart’s content. Later, she would iron the diamonds he’d pieced and work them into the pattern of her quilt—and no one but her mother would know the difference. Of course, her mother might never see this quilt. . . .

“Gold,” she said, when the viscount’s big hand reached for another blue diamond. “We’re working a pattern, you see. Blue, white, gold, burgundy, green—and blue, white, gold, burgundy, green. If you put two blues together, the quilt will look all whomper-jawed.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’ll be a mess.” She spread sections of the pieced fabric across her lap. “This is called Lone Star. It’s a four-patch quilt pattern. I’m making it to help me remember Texas. Some women call the design Star of Bethlehem, which is a pretty name for this time of year. Later, I’ll join these strips together to form patches, and then I’ll join the patches into huge diamonds, like this.”

She illustrated by extending the piecework onto his lap.“Then I’ll sew all the large diamonds together,” she continued. “Can you see how the diamonds will work outward into the points of a star? My Lone Star quilt will have eight points and nearly a thousand patches. After I’ve finished piecing the diamonds, I’ll put a soft cotton batting between the top and a length of blue calico. And then I’ll quilt it all together.”

The viscount frowned as he studied the fabric. “But I understood we were
already
quilting.”

“We’re piecing. Quilting comes later.” Star shook her head. “I sure do hope somebody will build a quilting frame for me. I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t work a quilt in that big manor house. Quilting helps me keep my thoughts in order; it makes sense out of the world when things are mixed up and confusing.”

“Rather like the Almighty,” he said, to Star’s surprise. “I’ve learned that when nothing else makes sense, He does. He arranges events in proper order and sets our lives to right after we’ve put everything at sixes and sevens.”

“If we let Him,” she murmured. She searched the man’s face, praying for recognition in those blue eyes. If Grey could understand what she wanted to tell him next, Star felt, she would make her first true soul-to-soul connection in this new country.

“I’ve always thought of God as the Master Quilter,” she explained softly. “He takes the little worn-out patches that we give Him, the mistakes, the terrible holes we’ve caused with our sins, the frayed edges of our lives, and He pieces them all together into something beautiful and useful. If we give him our scraps, He can make quilts.”

“I agree,” he said. “Miss Ellis, have you a name for the quilt God is making of your life?”

She looked down at her lap. “Lone Star, I reckon. I’d sure like to be Star of Bethlehem—a ray of brilliance that everyone could look up to and count on, a bright light pointing the way to the Savior. But I doubt I’ll ever go to India and teach anyone about Jesus, and I’m not sure I’ll shine at all once I’ve married that baron. Lone Star, that’s me.”

Feeling suddenly ill at ease for revealing so much of herself, Star began gathering up the strips of diamonds. When she reached for a length of fabric on Grey’s lap, he caught her hand.

“Miss Ellis,” he said in a low, urgent voice.

“Star,” she corrected.

“It must be Miss Ellis from this moment on. I’ve news I must share with you. It’s about the earl of Brackenhurst. About his son. He has two sons, actually, but first I must tell you about the man you’re to marry, and then I must explain—”

“Rupert’s ugly, isn’t he?” Star stuffed her piecework back into her bag. “I just know he is. I mean, what else can go wrong? Here I am, ten thousand miles from home, headed for a bleak old stone manor on the misty moors of England and marriage to a stranger. I’ve tried to prepare myself for the worst, imagining that Rupert looks like Frankenstein’s monster, or Count Dracula—”

“He looks like me.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Really?”

“And furthermore—”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

“I do. I know him well. When you first spoke the surname of your intended husband, I misunderstood your pronunciation.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Grey.” She laid her hand on his. “No one around here can understand me. It’s as though I’m speaking a foreign language. If I can’t talk to anyone, if I can’t quilt, if I’m not allowed to string bob wire—barbed wire—well, I don’t want to even think about it. These are the pieces of my life. The shreds. The tatters. I’m giving them to God, and I’m praying He can make a quilt out of me.”

She struggled to hold back the tide of hot tears that stung her eyes. It would do no good to feel sorry for herself. The best thing to do was pray . . . and rest.

She leaned against the back of the seat and shut her eyes. “You’ll go to India, Africa, China,” she whispered. “You’ll help people. You’ll make a difference in the world. There’s a quilt pattern called Trip Around the World. That’s who you’ll be. And I’ll just have to trust the Master Quilter to make this Lone Star into something useful.”

“
That
he already has done. Miss Ellis, if I may be so bold, I would term you useful, beautiful, and a far more brilliantly shining light than you are aware.”

“Star of Bethlehem. No, I’m afraid not.” She leaned her head against the viscount’s broad, firm shoulder, his words comforting her heart. “May I rest here, Grey? I feel like I’m running down faster than a two-dollar watch. I’ve traveled so far, and I have to be at my best when I meet Rupert Cholmondeley.”

“Chumley,” the viscount said.

Star drifted in the sound of his voice as sleep wound cozily through her mind. Chumley. Chumley. Was that the pronunciation of her new surname?
Chumley
.

“Rested, Miss Ellis?” the viscount asked. “We’ve stopped at Doncaster for the midday meal.”

“Mercy!” Star exclaimed, coming awake inside the carriage. “I forgot you were there. You just about scared the living daylights out of me.”

As the elderly couple made their way out of the coach, Star realized—to her mortification—that she was snuggled against the man as though he were a cozy pillow. He had slipped his warm arm around her shoulder, and his enormous black greatcoat lay draped across her knees. Sitting upright as straight as possible, she righted her bonnet and brushed at the wrinkles in her skirt.

“I can’t believe I slept away the morning,” she said. “You must think I’m as lazy as a chilled lizard.”

The viscount chuckled. “Not at all. My journey from India was exhausting. Had I not been occupied with such a fascinating activity this morning, I’m quite certain I should have dozed as well. But—” and he made a dramatic pause—“I have been piecing.”

He held up a length of calico diamonds that looked like a rattler run over by a wagon wheel. Star clapped a hand over her mouth, torn between horror and amusement. With stitches that looked like scattered hay, the jewel-colored patches marched this way and that as they dangled from the viscount’s fingers. Star would have laughed out loud had she not seen the serious expression on the man’s handsome face. His blue eyes were soft and his smile gentle.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you, Miss Ellis,” he said, “but you’ve made this leg of the journey my most enjoyable experience since leaving India. I thought perhaps I could help you along with your quilt. I’ll admit to being more comfortable at polo and cricket, but—”

“It’s wonderful,” she exclaimed, receiving the gift with both hands cupped. The image of her father handing her mother his latest four-patch for the quilt they were piecing leapt into Star’s mind, and her eyes clouded with tears. “I’ll work your diamonds right into this pattern. And then you’ll always be a part of the Lone Star quilt.”

“You told me you were the Lone Star,” he said, dropping his voice. “Shall I always be a part of you, Miss Ellis?”

She looked into his eyes, hardly able to breathe. “Oh, Grey, but I must—”

“The baron is why I must take a moment to speak with you alone. It is essential that you know the situation ahead.”

“Plannin’ to sit there all day are you, milord?” The coach driver’s head popped through the doorway. “I’ve unhitched one ’orse already and the other’s restless to tuck into a nice sack of oats. I know I could do wi’ a bit of hot grub meself. The eel pie at this place is tip-top, mind you. What of it, now? Why don’t you and the young miss take your chat inside where it’s warm and friendly-like? That’s the ticket, milord.”

The viscount nodded at Star. “We shall speak at the table then. After you, Miss Ellis.”

“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ve got to round up my quilt scraps and needles.”

Though her scrap bag was in disarray, Star wanted a moment to mull over the viscount’s comment.
“Shall I always be a part of
you?”
His deep voice reverberated through her. They had known each other less than two days, their words had been careful, their conversation limited, and yet she knew her answer would be yes.

Not only would the man’s creative stitching live on in her quilt, but his friendship and genuine concern would remain always in her heart. He had intrigued her with his tales of India, amused her with his attempts at sewing, and touched her with his understanding of her plight. His smile dazzled her, and his blue eyes thrilled her. Oh yes, Lord Stratton would always be a part of her.

But Star sobered as she tucked his pieced calico diamonds into her bag. They would spend this meal and another half day together—and she must be wary. It was one thing to marry a Yorkshire baron for business purposes. A woman could find a way to tolerate such an unemotional arrangement. It would be quite a different matter to fall in love with a Yorkshire viscount first. Then her marriage to Rupert Cholmondeley would be a torment.

She could not allow it to happen, Star thought as she reached for the leather strap beside the door. She gathered up her skirts and prepared to distance herself from the viscount. It shouldn’t be hard. She’d run off plenty of suitors in the past.

As she stood to step down, the coach suddenly lurched forward, knocking her off her feet. She landed on the floor in a tangle of skirts and petticoats, the pouf of her bustle cushioning her fall. A dog barked, one of the horses neighed, and the carriage swayed from side to side. Star grabbed for the seat to keep from sliding through the open door.

“Blimey!” the driver hollered. “Me ’orse is boltin’! Wait for it, miss, don’t try to get off!”

Star watched her scrap bag tumble out as the carriage rolled wildly down the street. The clatter of iron horseshoes on cobblestone echoed through the crowded streets of Doncaster. People screamed and ran for cover. Clutching the edge of the seat, Star managed to scoot backward far enough to grab one of the dangling leather straps.

Well, if this didn’t beat all—a runaway horse!

At that moment the coach rammed into the corner of a half-timbered house. A wheel spun loose, wobbling on its axle and causing the carriage to bob and weave down the street. Star decided she’d had enough of being a passenger.