Elisabeth Fairchild (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Of course Lord Copeland had to return to his guests, no matter how much he longed
never to be parted again from his dearest Bee. He must give up the sweet honey of
her mouth, release his hold on her, allow her to fly away, let heart and head cool
as he stood a moment on the stairs.

Bliss, he felt such a surge of bliss whenever she was near, whenever she gave up her
lips to his. He set off to mingle again, feeling revived. He must dance with those
who stood without partner, share a friendly word with any who might otherwise consider
themselves snubbed. No one must feel ignored or left out. It was his duty, and his
joy, everything joyful in this best Christmas ever.

That something might have been left upon the stairs for guests to trip over never
occurred to him, until his boot heel found something hard, and rounded, like a walnut,
enough to turn his ankle. He stopped, bent down, stared in disbelief. A carved cup-and-ball!
James’s cup-and-ball. The toy he kept hidden in the back of his desk drawer. How had
this gotten here?

Perhaps one of his guest’s children had gone exploring. He palmed the toy, tossed
the ball in the air, caught it, and caught it, and caught it with boyish glee, as
he walked back into Christmas music, Christmas dancing, the smell of Christmas feasting—the
best Christmas ever, and the promise of the best part of the evening ahead of him.
Belinda’s game of hide-and-seek meant the promise of more kisses. Such bliss to anticipate,
to contemplate other gifts he might unwrap in the growing darkness. He pocketed his
childhood toy lightheartedly, and equally light on his feet, enjoyed every dance,
every fine morsel and treat, every candle burning, every gift of laughter and good
tidings with unstinting verve.

When, at long last, night cloaked the windows in starlit brilliance, and the guests
began to yawn and excuse themselves until Christmas service on the morrow which was
fast becoming today; when they had thanked him for a lovely Christmas, “the best Christmas
Eve ever, my lord,” Belinda stepped close to his chair, her skirt brushing his hand.
Copeland looked up with an eager smile, convinced that it was true. This was the best
Christmas ever, and just about to be improved upon.

Her breath wore the perfume of Christmas grog. Her eyes sparkled with spirits and
candlelight. Her voice hovered on the edge of laughter. “We must play one last game
before bed, my lord.”

Something brushed his hair. Her hand?

“Must we indeed?” he asked with a laugh, head and heart swimming, need pounding within—from
the dancing, from an abundance of spirits, from her very nearness. He tilted his head,
breath caught, pulse racing.

She touched him, not with her hand, but with a bunch of mistletoe.

His heart leapt. “What game is this?”

“Hide-and-seek,” she whispered, breath warm against his ear, the mistletoe whirling
away. “And you are it.”

He rose, a trifle unsteady on his feet, but game, oh so game, for this lighthearted
chase. She glanced back over a temptingly bared shoulder with a laugh. The white dress
was lost among the departing revelers before he could extract himself completely from
the last of his guests.

The room whirled. His head whirled. His heart gave an uneven thump. Did he imagine
it? Was it no more than too much mulled wine?

He gave his head a shake, which only served to make everything tilt the more precariously
in his muddled view, but there had been something in the playful tone of her voice,
in the provocative use of the mistletoe, that was undeniable. Determined to catch
up to her despite his dizzied state, he staggered through a crowd of coat-donning
revelers.

“Happy Christmas to you, my lord.”

“We had a wonderful time, my lord.”

“Blessings on you.”

He could not seem to move fast enough, or with proper coordination. His eyes did
not want to focus. He went at the task doggedly, however, wishing them all a good
night, and then he looked for her, room by room, asking the servants who went about
picking up the mess, “Has Miss Walcott been this way? She wears white.”

He was met with amused looks and shaken heads, and many a remark of the fun had. They
would see him on the morrow, and “Merry Christmas,” and “May you sleep well, my lord,
without any ghosties to bother you!”

There were those he saw to the door with its blast of cold air, and those who insisted
they could make their own way out, and soon the rooms echoed with emptiness, where
earlier they had echoed with laughter, dancing, and conversation.

How still the house seemed but for the clock chiming midnight, Bolton locking up,
and the footmen quietly carrying away trays full of punch cups. Heart beating faster,
Copeland climbed the stairs. Room by room he searched for her, Gabriel at his heels,
their steps echoing in the chapel, the drawing room, his study.

No sign of Belinda.

No sound.

All that remained were the bedchambers. His. Hers. The empty ones in between.

And in that instant, his head cleared. He knew where he would find her. There was
no question this time that his heart skipped a beat. Fear clutched his heart. He went
straight to the
Fleur-de-Lys
Room, threw wide the door, and crossing the chamber in three swift strides, grabbed
the dark lid of the chest she had brought with her.

It would not budge.

At first he thought himself too foxed to do it right. He tried the other side. Still
it did not move. Gabriel gave the chest a thorough sniffing, let loose a throaty whine.

“Miss Walcott?” He tapped lightly on the lid. “Are you in there?”

No response, not a sound from within, and yet his conviction grew. She was locked
in, like the Lady in White, the Mistletoe Bride. His heart banged faster as he ran
his fingers along the underlip of the chest, searching for a keyhole where there was
none.

Did she think to tease him?

He knocked harder, wood bruising his knuckles, the dog standing on hind legs in agitation.
“Belinda. Are you in there? If so, please say something.”

No sound but the beating of his heart, the rush of his breath.

“Belinda, please! I do not know how to open the chest. I would not have you suffocate.
There cannot be much air.”

Had he taken too long?

Sweat beaded his upper lip. He looked frantically about the room for something with
which he might force open the sturdy chest.

Heart thundering, he snuffed the candles on the heavy brass candelabra with a gusty
breath. Wicks still smoking, he lifted the contraption, almost as tall as himself,
wax spilling, candles tumbling, Gabriel making a tuck-tailed dash out the door at
the noise. An unwieldy tool, yet he would break the thing open—he would!

“Copeland,” she said softly, and stepped from behind the window hangings, a silhouette
against stained-glass bees.

“Oh God!” Gently he lowered the candelabra, smoldering wicks sending a silvery mist
between them. “Thank God!” He sank down upon the chest, hands shaking, heart at a
gallop. “I thought . . .” The words shook. “Thought . . .”

“I do apologize.” She sank down beside him, a bough of mistletoe clasped in her hands.
“I should have said something sooner.” Her voice was very small—apologetic.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, gave them a little shake, and without another word,
pulled her to him. He must hold her, hold her very tight, listen to the faint rasp
of her breathing, cherish the rise and fall of her chest against his. He must kiss
her. He did kiss her.

“I wanted you to find me,” she murmured against his lips when he allowed her to come
up for air. “I wanted so very much to see if you would find me.”

So forlorn her voice, so crestfallen her demeanor, he felt moved to say, “You are
found, my dear. I have found you,” and as the words slipped his lips, he drew her
closer still.

“There are times . . .” She spoke, head bent, to his lapel, “that I feel invisible—as
if no one knows I exist—as if my being here has no purpose, or sense.”

“I know you are here,” he said, lifting her chin on the crook of his finger. “I feel
you with all of my heart.”

Her eyes misted over. She pressed her lips together as she twisted the edge of her
sleeve. “I lose sight of myself in those moments—who I am, or was. All of life’s experiences
seem to add up to naught.”

“I know.” He caught at her hand, which fit perfectly in his. He did not want to let
go. “Too often I feel I am surrounded by unfinished business—unsaid words.”

“I suppose we must live minute to minute,” she said.

“As we are living this minute.” He kissed her palm, cool and smooth against his lips.
He wanted to warm and comfort her. Her presence comforted him in this moment to remember.
Could he carry with him, he wondered—the moments to remember?

She looked him directly in the eyes as he lifted his head, and said, “Yes,” as if
she read his mind, as if she knew the answer to such a question. Knowing she could
not know, he took that yes for something else, something just as sweet. Still holding
her hand, he leaned closer, their eyes locked, and in hers he read the same yes her
voice had sounded.

He kissed her deeply, a searching kiss, her mouth warm and welcoming, the kiss a yes.
Her mouth met his with the self-assured sensuality of a woman who had kissed before,
with heat, with passion, with need—perhaps need more than anything—for what was it
but mutual need that brought them together as they fell down onto the bed, that he
might spend the passion with which he had been prepared to break open the chest, to
reach her in a different way?

***

He whispered her name over and over as she wrapped him in her arms that night in a
sweet, frankincense-scented rush of joy—his most precious Christmas gift.

She cradled Copeland’s heart, cradled his body in ways he had only dreamt of, their
love a heartfelt carol unlike any he had sung before. This was love. This was beauty.
This was life at its fullest.

It filled every iota of his being, filled the room they shared—the bed, his heart,
his body—with a rosy glow of contentment that made him long for Heaven if it was half
as sweet.

He drank her in like Christmas wine, and nibbled at fingers and toes as if they were
sugarplums. He could not get enough, nor she of he. There were moments when he could
not tell where he left off and she began.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered many a time in his ear, voice resonating.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered back, into the scented strands of hair that flowed
like a silken river through his hands as words spilled from his mouth as though it
were the most natural question for a dying man to ask: “Marry me, Belinda.”

She turned her head, eyes glowing like Christmas stars, indeed her skin caught up
all the moonlight and shimmered in the darkness, pale and translucent and all of it
his for this moment. He would make the moment last.

Marry me.
The question filled him, head and heart overflowing, filling the space between them,
larger than the room.

She smiled to hear him ask. Her face reflected the moonlight, luminescent as a candle,
joy captured there. “So this is love!” Her words hovered on the edge of laughter,
the joy in her expression given voice, tripping songlike from her tongue. “A proposal
from the man who would not marry?”

“Yes. Now say you will before I drift off to sleep.” His eyelids drooped dangerously
as he spoke. “Say you are mine.”

“Yours forever?” she whispered, as the room faded, as languid limb, weary body, and
too deeply imbibed spirits claimed him. “For all eternity, my love.”

“Best Christmas ever,” he murmured as he nestled in her warmth, breathing deep the
Christmas smell of her neck, drifting, falling into a blissful, waiting darkness.

Chapter Twenty-Six

He woke with a smile. Before he so much as opened his eyes he reached for her.

The bed beside him was empty, the linens cold.

Copeland sat up abruptly, blinking, head heavy, head spinning from yesterday’s spirits,
in his own familiar bed, not his guest’s. He slept alone, the bedclothes in disarray.

“No!” He flung back the covers to find himself wearing, as was his habit in winter,
a nightshirt down to his knees.

He ran hands along his rib cage, smoothing fabric, remembering the night, the singing
heat of searching mouths and clinging arms. Not a dream. It could not have been a
dream.

“Cruel trick!” He plunged feet into waiting slippers, and rose to fling back the draperies.
“A cruel trick, dreams.”

Sunlight momentarily blinded him, winking on melting ice in the tree branches, painting
the countryside a brilliant white against a sky of unclouded blue. The sound of water
running, in the lead gutters, water dripping from the icicles along the roof line,
splashing into the shrubbery below, gave the placid scene a feeling of movement, and
change.

Like his life���no longer frozen by hopelessness.

He could not decide if the night was real or imaginary, a dream more vivid than any
he had ever before dreamed. He did not want it to be so. He could not, in the depths
of his soul, believe all that he had felt was nothing but a dream. In a way it did
not matter, for with either scenario his mind and heart occupied a different space
this morning. His future was changed. Potential warmed him, like the sun.

He wished to marry. He wished to marry Miss Belinda Walcott. He would marry her. He
would. Dream would become reality.

He hurried to dress without the assistance of his valet, and cut his chin in shaving,
so urgent his need to see her again, to taste her lips once more.

The house seemed still abed when he left his room. Small surprise with the late hours
they had kept. No sound of the servants. No sound or sign from Miss Walcott’s room,
but as he neared the stairs he noticed the door stood partway open throwing shadows
on the wall. He assumed her risen as well, and went to tap lightly to be sure, heart
aflutter, a child on Christmas morn again, unopened presents under the tree.

The door swung soundlessly open.

There stood the bed where he had found Heaven, the counterpane carefully made up,
unrumpled and smooth, the whole room neat, tidy and undisturbed. It wore an unlived-in
look. It wore no scent of frankincense, no evidence of their embraces, no sign of
her presence at all.

The painted traveling trunk was missing from the foot of the bed!

That vacancy of space shocked him into sudden movement, so that he bounded across
the room in a flash, to fling open, to gaze in disbelief at an empty linen press.

Gone! Where had she gone? Had his haste driven her from the house?

He took the stairs at a run, heart racing, afraid she was lost to him, afraid he might
be too late. The faces in the stairwell watched him go.

Outside he heard the sound of a coach in the drive, and Gabriel barking. Copeland
took the stairs two at a time. He must stop her from leaving!

His breath came in deep painful rasps as not one but three coaches thundered down
the avenue of oaks, a swirl of snow rising like a phantom in the wake of the one leaving.
Two more arriving.

And then Bolton was at his elbow saying, “Your guests arrive at last, my lord. That
is your brother’s coach, is it not?”

But Copeland was not focusing on the words, or the carriages, his heart beat happy
in observing that the coach that had just departed was turning back, falling in behind
the others. In seeing the timely arrival of his guests Belinda must have changed her
mind. She meant to stay, to meet them after all!

And he, unable to contain his excitement, in spite of the already loping pace of his
pulse, went running, Gabe at his side, to meet them.

Down the avenue of trees they came, a thunder of wheels and hooves, the ground shaking.
His legs pumped beneath him. Blood thundered in his temples. He had not run, thus,
since he was a lad. His cheeks flushed. His heart raced.

And there was Marcus leaning out of the lead coach’s window, shouting, “Here at last!
We are here at last.”

Snow whirled. The horses were reined in. The door to the second coach burst open,
and out flew Henrietta, beaming, saying, “Have you missed us horribly?”

Dear Henrietta. His heart warmed at sight of her, but his gaze wandered, to the last
of the coaches, as Henrietta’s sister climbed down as well, and Marcus and his wife,
and another woman with frizzled hair.

They were all smiling, and saying how glad they were to see him, to be quit of coaches,
and snow, and dreadful, damp accommodations.

All the while his gaze kept darting to the last of the row of coaches, the only one
whose door was not flung open.

The coachman jumped down, a most perturbed look on his face. He walked toward them,
refraining from interrupting as Copeland was swept into a frenzy of hugs and kisses
and parcels raining down from the rooftops, while Gabe ran about with a big spaniel
smile, tail wagging, nose into everything.

Then Marcus stood before him, the frizzled stranger in tow, saying, “Here is someone
you must meet, Copeland.”

“Just a moment, Marcus.” Copeland brushed past them, heart happy that the people he
loved most in the world were going to meet one another, after all. “There’s someone
here you must meet as well.”

The coachman pulled off his hat as he neared, and tugged at his forelock, and said,
with the oddest look, “I do not understand it, my lord. I saw the thing loaded with
my own eyes. But it is gone, my lord, simply disappeared, and the coach not yet into
the lane.”

What in blazes was the man babbling about? And why did Belinda not step down? Copeland
wrenched the door open, to find the coach empty. The scent of frankincense, of Christmas,
was the only indication she had been there at all.

“Where is she?” He turned on the driver.

“She, my lord?”

“My guest. The woman in your coach?”

“I know of no woman, my lord. Only the carved chest I was told to take to Andover.
And what I’m trying to tell you is that it is gone. I thought I heard it shift, and
fearing it might fall, I turned to find it had disappeared.”

How strange the coachman’s voice, how incomprehensible his words. Copeland’s gaze
rose to the top of the coach, empty, as the man said. Dizzy, he felt dizzy. The edges
of his vision went spotty. Knees weak, the snow-packed ground rose to meet him.