Christmas Ghosts - Fiction River (31 page)

Whirling, she rang for the maid, counting the seconds until the girl hurried up.

“Martha, we need another set of rooms made up immediately. Marcus has brought the Earl of Tarrick to stay for the holidays.”

The maid’s eyes went wide. “Of course, Mistress. The gold rooms?”

“Those will do very well. Make haste.”

Martha bobbed a curtsy and hurried off.

Moments later, Marcus reappeared in the doorway, followed by his guest. The Earl of Tarrick was tall and solidly built. As she had imagined, he was dark and angular, with steely gray eyes set in a forbiddingly remote face. Judging from his expression, he rarely smiled.

He removed his hat, revealing hair as black as a raven’s wing.

Marcus stepped forward. “Tarrick, allow me to present my sister, Miss Cecilia Fairfax. Cecy, this is Liam Barrett, the Earl of Tarrick.”

“Miss Fairfax, the pleasure is mine.” The earl made her a stiffly correct bow.

Judging by his appearance, she would have expected his voice to be rough and growly, but the earl’s tone was surprisingly smooth—like a cup of warm chocolate.

Cecilia dipped a curtsey, wishing she were not wearing her drabbest gown. Would the earl mistake her for a shadow, as her brother had? No. Indeed, his gaze rested on her a trifle too long, and she felt heat rush into her cheeks. What dreadful stories had Marcus told about her?

“Lord Tarrick,” she said. “Please, come into the parlor. Your rooms will be ready as soon as possible, given that I had no notice of your arrival.”

She shot her brother a narrow-eyed glare. Surely Marcus could not see her expression, but he grinned back at her anyhow.

“My apologies for the unexpected visit,” the earl said. “Your brother insisted.”

Cecilia ushered them into the parlor, where a fire was burning merrily, thank heavens.

“Marcus is too persuasive for his own good,” she said, wishing the earl had resisted. Well, half-wishing. “Make yourselves comfortable. I must see to the maids.”

“Cecy, sit with us.” Marcus made a grab for her hand, and missed. “Let Mrs. Bess arrange things.”

“I cannot. Please excuse me.” She nodded at the earl. “Marcus, offer our guest some brandy. It’s on the sideboard.”

“I’ll pour,” the earl said, an unexpected dry humor in his tone.

Cecilia shot him a glance, but his eyes were as cool as ever. Heart pounding in her chest, she hurried out of the room. Heavens, she had so much to arrange.

***

Liam watched Miss Fairfax leave the parlor, her step firm, her chin high. She was, as he’d suspected, as fair as her brother, with the same long, slim nose and smoky blue eyes. There, the similarities ended. Her brother was more sturdily built, while she was—yes, willowy was the word. Where Marcus was full of open humor about the world, his sister seemed much more contained, her expression guarded.

He glanced about the room, which seemed cheery and warm. No black draperies hung at the windows to signal the family’s ongoing grief, yet Miss Fairfax had been wearing a markedly dreary gown.

“Is your family still in mourning?” Liam asked.

“No,” Marcus said. “Father has declared we’ll celebrate the holidays without that pall. Mother loved this season. I forgot to warn you—there will be singing. And a Yule log, and greenery, and the best pudding you’ve ever tasted.”

“It sounds splendid.” And like no Christmas he’d ever known.

“Brandy?” Marcus gestured in the general direction of the sideboard. “When Cecy commands, we must obey.”

Liam found the crystal decanter and poured them two glasses. He made a point of handing Marcus his brandy, not releasing it until he was certain his host had a firm grip.

“How will you keep your father from noticing your blindness?” Liam asked. He took a swallow of brandy, a bright fire warming the inside of his mouth.

“Father is…” Marcus threw back a swig of his own drink. “The last time I visited home, he was so overtaken by his own infirmity he would not notice anyone else’s.”

“What’s the nature of his illness?”

“A broken heart, mostly, with gout and rheumatism complicating matters.” A rare, pensive look crossed Marcus’s face. “He’s old, you know. Cecy and I were rather a surprise, coming a good fifteen years after Edward was born.”

At least they had been loved—that much was clear. Liam drank his brandy and stared out the window. Bare branches etched a sky pearling into evening.

“Your brother and his family arrive soon?”

“Tomorrow or the next day. At which point, you and I shall go riding, and make many expeditions to gather boughs in the forest.”

“Are evergreens that difficult to find in this part of Wiltshire?”

Marcus made a face. “No. The difficulty lies within the walls. Come, I’ll introduce you to Father, and we’ll see about settling you into your rooms.”

Liam set his half-empty glass of brandy aside, and followed Marcus. Not for the first time, he wondered if coming here had been a mistake. Well, and he could always leave again. He’d delivered Marcus safely home, and met the pale, lovely Cecilia Fairfax. His escape was parked in the stables, should family interactions prove too difficult for his taste.

And what of Miss Fairfax?
an errant voice inside him whispered.
Has she any refuge at all? A coach to bear her away? The excuse of rambling about in the woods?

The uncomfortable answer was, no. There had been a shadow behind her eyes, a trapped look like that of a hare pursued by the shivering howls of wolves.

He suspected Cecilia Fairfax was running nearly as fast as she could, inside, where no one would ever see.

***

“Begging your pardon, Mistress, but Martha said as how there was
a
nest in the chimney of the gold bedroom. Well, there was, and now the carpets are sooty. And there’s, er, a pair of swallows loose in the room.”

“The laundry soap is wet through, completely ruined—how shall we wash all the linens in time for your elder brother’s arrival tomorrow?”

“Mistress, cook says the partridges are all burnt on one side. So sorry—would half a bird each do for dinner?”

“Mrs. Bess has set herself to polishing the silver, and there’s no forks fit to dine with. Please come!”

“Milady, the best bottle of claret has gone missing. Perhaps you might check your father’s study?”

Cecilia paused inside the study, her fingers tight around the neck of the half-full claret bottle. Instead of opening the door and returning to the hallway, she leaned against it, resting her forehead against the slab of oak. If only she could keep all her troubles from reaching her, held at bay by the solid wooden door.

Dinner was going to be dreadful; all the mishaps of the afternoon compounded by the presence of the Earl of Tarrick. If it were only family, they could smile through their difficulties, but having a stranger in their midst made everything more difficult.

She could hear Martha calling for her. Taking a deep breath, Cecilia opened the door and stepped into the hallway. They would have to make the best of it, as ever.

As she had feared, dinner was a strained affair. The earl, seated on Father’s right, watched everything with his cool gray eyes and said very little. Father had nipped too much of the claret and alternately pontificated at length about the joys of family and lapsed into long silences.

Marcus was his usual cheerful self, though he was using his utensils in an odd manner. Both knife and fork were engaged in poking and chasing bits of food around the china, and each successful mouthful was lifted carefully to his lips, with a few near-misses. Luckily, Father was too far gone to notice when a stray piece of turnip tumbled off Marcus’s fork to lie forlornly on the white tablecloth.

“You have a charming home, sir,” the earl said to Cecilia’s father.

“’Twas all my wife’s doing. She had the touch, you know. Domesticity. Children about the knee.” He peered from beneath his bushy white brows and scanned the table. “I say, where is Edward and his brood?”

“They arrive tomorrow,” Cecilia said, doing her utmost to keep her voice even, though her heart pounded at the thought.

There was so very much to do.

***

Liam slept well enough, though it had been years since he’d slumbered on a mattress other than his own. The maid had come in that morning to rake up the coals, and a fresh fire burned merrily on the hearth. Before leaving the room, she informed him that breakfast would be laid out shortly in the morning room.

He rose to dress, for the first time regretting the lack of a valet. Not that he was incapable of donning his own clothing, but he was well aware he did not possess any elegant flair. He did not know the most fashionable ways of tying his cravat, he did not have anyone to pull his coat just so across his shoulders or keep his boots polished to a high shine.

Vanity. Liam shook his head, but still spent an extra moment in front of the mirror, tidying his sleep-rumpled hair. He leaned forward, trying to see his face as a stranger might.

His eyes were unremarkable. His jaw too wide, his cheeks too hollowed. His hair might hold a certain appeal—years ago a young lady had told him it was like black silk—but other than that, he had very little to recommend him.

With a sigh, he straightened and tugged his cravat back into place. Truly, he would be better off finding some excuse to leave. This moping about in front of mirrors was inexcusable.

The Fairfaxes kept country hours, for which he was thankful, being an early riser. The smell of eggs and bacon wafted down the hall, and he increased his strides. A true English breakfast would be a pleasurable change from his usual bowl of oatmeal. Of course, his servants would cook him bacon and eggs if he asked, but it was simpler to have a bowl of porridge each morning. Less trouble for everyone.

A strange noise reached his ears, and he paused. He did not think the household boasted any pets, yet a quiet mewling issued from a nearby passageway.

For a scant second, his skin prickled. Was it the fabled ghost of Wilton House?

Certainly not. It was the sound of a living creature in distress. Liam turned the corner and paused outside a small paneled door—a closet of some kind. By the sound of it, the creature had been prisoned within.

He turned the knob and gently opened the door a few inches. Light slanted into the small room, revealing shelves stacked high with linens.

“Here, now,” he said softly. “Come out, kitten.”

No sign of the creature. Liam pulled the door wide, then jumped back in surprise as the
ghost
—no, no, it was only Miss Fairfax—whirled to face him. He caught a glimpse of tear-wet cheeks and disheveled blonde hair before she turned her face from the light.

“Go away.” Her voice wavered unsteadily.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

Gentlemanly courtesy demanded he shut the door and depart, never to mention the fact that he had found Cecilia Fairfax weeping inconsolably in the upstairs linen closet.

She sniffed, her hands balled in a pillowcase that had no doubt been muffling her sobs, and something within Liam gave way.

Instead of withdrawing, he stepped into the closet and shut the door behind him. The air smelled of lavender, and he heard Cecilia’s skirts rustle in the dimness.

“Whatever are you—”

“Come here.” He opened his arms.

She could not see him, he was certain of it, yet she stepped forward, just enough that he could touch her shoulders. She let out a shivering sob, and he folded her against him, murmuring hushing syllables from some long-forgotten time.

Her hands fastened on his coat and she clung there, crying, while he held her. In the close darkness they were not mere acquaintances, not earl and miss. No, they were elements of the world, meeting as inexorably as shadow and light. Grief and comfort. Loss and love.

A strange, perfect contentment settled over Liam. He would stand there for centuries letting Cecilia Fairfax drench his shoulder with her tears, if that was what she required of him.

At last, the storm of weeping abated. Cecilia’s sobs turned to sniffles.

“Oh dear,” she said, stepping back. “I must beg your pardon, Lord Tarrick. This is most—irregular.”

Liam reluctantly let her go, the cloth of her sleeve wisping against his fingers. He supposed she was correct. Proper young ladies did not inhabit linen closets, weeping into the arms of unexpected guests. Still, he could not be sorry for the circumstance.

“Are you sufficiently recovered, Miss Fairfax?”

She drew in a breath, yet did not speak. Liam felt the gossamer touch of her fingertips across his cheek, so light he might have imagined it. But he had not. He held very still, the scent of linens and lavender suffusing his senses.

“Yes,” she finally said. “Thank you.”

He wished there was light enough for him to see her, so that he might take her hand and press a warm kiss across the back of it.

There was no good way to bid her farewell. He reached behind him, the knob cool beneath his fingers, and opened the door just wide enough to slip out into the hallway. She did not follow, and Liam gently closed the door behind him, wishing for something he could not name.