Elisabeth Fairchild (4 page)

“Tell me something of yourself,” he urged.

In the same instant she wondered aloud, “Will your friends brave both ghosts and bad
weather?”

He laughed and poured steaming cups of a golden liquid.

“Strange,” he murmured, dark eyes sparkling through the wisps of steam. “In the same
instant I wish that they will, and yet hope they would not be so foolish.”

She warmed a cold hand against the smooth bowl of her cup. “Not strange at all. Do
we not all wish for just such friends?”

She stared down at the cheerful, floral-patterned plates, her mouth ashen dry. “I
once thought myself blessed with a great many. Time and circumstance taught me otherwise.”

“Time for new friends.” He raised his cup, smiling warmly.

New friends? She frowned. A wavering, uncertain, ambered mirror image frowned back
from her cup. Was it possible at this juncture? She gave the faintest of nods before
she breathed deep the warm aroma of the beverage, confused by the smell.

“What is this? I thought it must be cider—”

“I never drink cider,” he said abruptly, and then mollified his sharpness, saying,
“Tea has a good brown cider coloring, hasn’t it?” He leaned forward, no smiles now,
only concern for his guest, and curiosity, as if her opinion really mattered to him.
How warm and inviting his eyes. How entrancing the intensity of his focus in observing
her—as if he hung on her every word, her every desire. “Do you like it? I’ve become
quite fond of Earl Grey’s private blend. I find it something quite out of the ordinary.”

Like his attention, she savored the scent. “Perfume in a cup,” she whispered.

“Exactly,” he agreed, closing his eyes as he sipped. “Rather like swallowing the spirit
of a woman.”

His words startled her, made her insides as warm and sweet as the tea she imagined
sliding down his throat as he held his mouth just so, above the cup, holding the taste
on his tongue as a connoisseur of wines might. She imagined herself wetting a man’s
lips just so, her spirit savored.

A tempting thought, elusive and sweet, like an idea not yet formed, like the tea,
she decided as he drained his cheerfully flowered cup.

Chapter Five

When the tea was reduced to dregs, the remaining finger sandwiches stiff as corpses
upon the tray, Copeland asked his guest, “How shall we spend our afternoon? Do you
care to stretch your legs, or are you in the mood for a hand or two of cards?”

Nothing too stimulating.

“We must hang holly, ivy, and mistletoe,” she said, as if it had been long ago decided.

Copeland’s brows rose in surprise. Henrietta’s brows would have risen as well, to
hear such a suggestion.

“It is scratchy, sticky work. Are you sure that is what you wish to do?”

Her chin rose. The cleft in the apex of that chin drew his attention completely. How
odd that he should be attracted to, of all things, a woman’s chin. Like a heart, upside
down, that cleft.

“In perfect keeping with the Christmas spirit, if it please you,” she said politely,
and yet he was beset by the notion that she would hang evergreens for her own sense
of pleasure, not his.

“By all means,” he said. “You are certainly welcome to decorate if you wish.”

She smiled, and yet, seemed in some way unhappy.

“I always helped with the decorations as a child.” He rose from the table. “In this
very room. Me, Marcus, and James. Margaret, still in leading strings, on the floor
with her doll.” He could see it. “Garlands. A wreath. Candles. I remember standing
on Bolton’s ladder . . .”

An odd feeling—off balance—like teetering at the top of a ladder—like balancing on
the blade of his ice skates—the same feeling he got whenever he looked into Miss Walcott’s
eyes, beset him. Sadness wrung his heart, and anticipation.
Like Christmas morning—yes—just like Christmas morning.

His heart fluttered, reminding him this might be his last Christmas. Funny, he had
always thought Bolton’s Christmases would end before his. The old gent was twice his
age, after all. That would be the correct order of things, would it not?

As if thought summoned him, Bolton appeared in that instant. Copeland suffered a moment’s
guilt, counting another man’s Christmases. As the butler held wide the door, it occurred
to Copeland that despite their talking over their cups for more than a quarter of
an hour, he knew little of the woman whose skirts swayed like a ringing bell before
him. He must remember to ask her about herself, to voice his growing concern that
she might be his only guest for the evening—for the holiday, and she without a proper
chaperone. For now, there was something delightfully festive in informing Bolton,
“We mean to help with Yuletide decorating.”

“Do we, indeed, my lord?” Bolton sounded surprised.

“Just like when we were children.”

Bolton looked at him a moment, remembering, a slow smile forming. “Very good, my lord.”

And so the fourth Earl of Copeland rolled up his sleeves and, with his guest beside
him, stood shoulder to shoulder with the footmen and the maids in the main drawing
room, snipping greenery. They wound it into swags, tied off with twine, brightening
paneling, picture frames, and mantelpiece. The perfume of Christmas filled nose, head,
and lungs—stung his eyes. Aromatic resin stickied his hands. Evergreen needles pricked
arms and fingers, the outdoors come in, life arranged, shaped, and tacked on a wall,
cool and springy, twig, branch and garland.

When had he outgrown the joy of this? It seemed he had left the holiday garlands to
the servants for the better part of his adult life. Better things to do with his time.

What better things? Odd, how he could not remember.

The musicians joined them, full of tunes and good cheer. The footmen sang along to
“Good King Wenceslas” and “I Saw Three Ships” and “The Holly and the Ivy.” Copeland
joyfully added his voice, words conjured out of memory, the Christmas spirit warming
him, filling his heart—his poor, uneven-tempered heart.

Good cheer took Copeland’s mind off the weather and his guests. He forgot to listen
for an unruly heartbeat—even forgot to think of James.

He laughed and chatted with the footmen in a manner most unusual. It occurred to him
as he stood atop a ladder, mistletoe in hand, that these people, his people, who daily
saw to his needs and comfort, had not the option of going home for Christmas. The
Earl of Copeland’s residence, wherever that might be, was their home for the holidays.

His best Christmas ever, should be for them! He had made provisions in his will, seen
to it that they had references and the means to survive, left instructions that Marcus
was to keep them on at Broomhill. But Christmas, this perfect Christmas he planned,
should be theirs above all others.

One of the maids called out, “Mistletoe, Mr. Scott.”

A tall, gawky lad, youngest of the footmen, blushed to find himself beneath a sprig
in the company of the prettiest maid, Megan.

Oh, to be young again, and flustered by life’s potential!
Copeland thought.
Dear Henrietta, how shall I tell you that we have none?

Maid Megan stood tiptoe and kissed Scott’s crimsoned cheek.

“It begins to look like Christmas,” Belinda Walcott said from the foot of his ladder.

He turned.

She held a length of ivy ready for hanging, her eyes gone strangely green in watching
him. Was it interest he detected? Rather gratifying, really, that this lively lass
found a dead man interesting.

Dearest Henrietta,
he thought.
Would that we might share such a moment. Where are you, my love? Have you found warmth
and shelter for the night?

He came down two steps, his eyes drinking in another young woman’s face, the captivating
eyes, the golden aura of her hair, the touchable smoothness of her cheek. Again came
the cry, “Mistletoe!”

This time the giggling maids pointed at him. He glanced up at mistletoe just hung,
then at Belinda Walcott, and felt an unexpected rush of youth’s flushed anticipation.
He was a lad again and the potential of budding love stood waiting.

“Who will take advantage of me, then?” He waggled his brows, ready to make a game
of it, a jest. He laughed along as the maids shrieked with laughter.

Belinda’s eyelashes fluttered like candle flame in a breeze, but she did not look
away. For a moment, it seemed they two were alone in the room, caught in a heartbeat,
she trapped in his eyes, he in hers. His head filled with the evergreen perfume of
Christmas, and his arms longed to hold her, his lips to kiss hers.

“Oh-ho-ho!” The footmen murmured in anticipation.

Belinda’s lips stirred, pale lips, he thought, and yet he would test their petal softness.
Her eyes brightened, as if she found the prospect of this very public mistletoe kiss
rather enticing—and yet there was a wariness to her stance. It did not befit her station
to readily fall prey to enticements—the music mistress of Andover must not lose her
head in the presence of her titled host’s household. She was wise to show restraint.

Copeland smiled, thought of his lost chance in the stairwell, and determined not to
repeat it. Brows high in mock amusement, he stepped away from the ladder, fully prepared
to kiss a pair of evergreen-scented lips.

Not evergreen!
Frankincense!
Her room smelled of frankincense. Like the chapel. Angels on the ceiling. To his
astonishment, the pleasure of a sweetly scented kiss was interrupted by bespectacled
Maddie, who dropped the wreath she fashioned, saying with a laugh, “I will not hesitate,
my lord, though these silly younger girls do.”

Cheese. The old woman smelled of yeasty bread and Stilton with a touch of mustard.

To the accompaniment of hoots and clapping from the staff, he accepted her enthusiastic
bussing of his cheek, the press of her spectacle rims to his temple. Everyone went
merrily back to work as he turned to see if Belinda Walcott might be affected by the
missed potential of a kiss as much as he.

She was gone. No longer in the room.

“We need more ivy,” Maddie said.

“I’ll go,” he volunteered, glad to step into the quiet solitude of the chill, sunlit
solarium, where bundles of greenery lined the floor, where pots of ivy were grown
for the occasion, where he might find his guest.

Two kisses Belinda Walcott owed him now. Two mistletoe kisses from a young woman’s
lips, and both times she had slipped through his fingers. Was it too much for a dying
man to ask of life at Christmas?

“Such a pretty room.”

He whirled, surprised.

She stood in the doorway, an unexpected opportunity, just the two of them alone.

Frankincense. She definitely wore the scent of Christmas that permeated the room.
He looked about, seeing the solarium with fresh eyes, as she did. It was a pretty
room, high ceilinged and bright, with mullioned windows overlooking the white wonderland
of the garden. He had been much struck by this room, by its view, when he first began
renovations.

“I claim no credit,” he said. “It stands very much as I found it.”

“I am glad.” She walked past him, to the wall of windowed arches.

He swiveled to continue facing her, the room spinning in a Christmas-scented blur.

“It was my favorite room when I was a child.” She ran her finger along one of the
frosted glass diamonds, watching the dribble of water that followed her touch. “I
should hate to see it altered.”

She never failed to surprise him. “You’ve been here before? I’d no idea.”

Belinda’s gentle laughter was lost in the sound of rustling leaves as he took up a
bundle of mistletoe. She came closer, lashes lowered in a pale golden sweep, her hair
glowing like a halo from the window’s light.

“Did you know my uncle?” With a pair of garden shears, he sliced open a bundle of
mistletoe.
Snick. Snick.

“We met but once,” she said, lips faintly upturned, eyes sad. “Then there was an accident.”

Breath caught in his throat, his heart ached.

“A little boy.” So quiet the room, as if the words had not been said, only imagined.
“No one came to the Hall for Christmas afterward. It has been a lonely place for many
years.”

It was true. Uncle Cope had never spent another Christmas at Broomhill. Not since
James.

He could see his uncle running toward him, kicking up white spurts, the image dreamlike,
seen through the fog of pent breath and willful forgetfulness. He shivered, shook
away the memory, pulse pounding uncomfortably.

He had inherited a house in complete disrepair, along with the tenant’s houses.

“Not lonely this year,” he promised, hand to heart, the scissors falling open. “This
will be the best Christmas ever.” It must be, no matter what. He would make it so.
He might not have another. Would James be waiting for him, he wondered—on the other
side? He laughed. “I have decided.”

“Have you, indeed?” She turned, aglow in the white light from snow-rimed windows,
twined braids running in twisted, honeyed gold tracks turning ever inward.

What would that hair look like falling long and rippling down her back? He imagined
the weight of it in his hands. Imagined burying his nose in silken frankincense.

“I should like to see that.” She twined her fingers through strands of ivy.

He started, thought of Henrietta, and wondered at the wanderings of his mind. He swallowed
hard, pushed away all vestiges of the past, focused on the present. “My younger brother,
Marcus, brings his wife, Katherine, on whom he dotes. A pair of lovebirds. Rarely
a harsh word between them. You will like them both.”

Her eyes narrowed, though whether from disbelief or too bright the light, he could
not tell. “They sound the perfect couple. But there is no such thing as the perfect
couple, is there?” She shrugged, the fluid movement of her shoulders strangely eloquent,
and entirely alluring—though not so touching as the jealousy in her voice when she
said, “I cannot believe in such a love.”

The ivy runners in her hands looked like a bouquet. She would make a beautiful bride
someday.

“You do not believe there is, somewhere, a perfect match for you?” Her answer was
important, for he began to wonder if Henrietta had ever been his perfect match.

Miss Walcott pulled ivy strands roughly through her fingers. “I believed,” she admitted
harshly. “Once upon a time. With all of my heart.” Her eyes held pain and skepticism.
“Do you believe?”

“I do, I think. Yes.” The uncertainty of his voice startled him. He sounded almost
as hopeless as she. He smiled ruefully, unwilling to reveal his own regret, remembering
his vow to focus on the uplifting rather than the melancholy. “I believe my friend
Nathan Sheridan has found the perfect match. He means to marry the eldest of the Gooding
sisters. They come with Edgar Hooking and his wife. Dear friends.”

“So, you play matchmaker? You must believe.” She measured him with her gaze. He wondered
if she saw the true height, breadth and depth of him. He wanted to be seen—truly seen.
He wondered if anyone truly understood that while his cheeks felt tight from smiling,
his heart ached.

“And yet, you are not married?” she pressed.

He frowned, thought of Henrietta, watched her hands, the skin translucent, veins showing
blue, imagined them twined about a lover’s neck.

He fingered his collar and shook his head.

“A shame to cut life short,” she said.

Had she discerned what none but the doctors knew?

She held her scissors suspended above the ivy, pulled the tender green, heart-shaped
leaves out of the path of her scissors.

The plant! She meant the plant.

“The ivy might live on, left in their pots. Shall I send the lads in to fetch them?
They are rather heavy.”

She nodded, pleased. “Splendid idea.”

He plucked up pine boughs and yew, the needles harsh, the evergreen tang overriding
her perfume, stinging eyes and nose. He thought again of the question she had asked,
of Henrietta.

“I once dreamed of marriage.” He forced a smile, made his admission merry, a jest.
“But I have awakened to a state of dedicated bachelorhood.” With a lighthearted gesture
he led the way back to the doorway, deliberately enigmatic. He had no intention of
further explaining himself.