The Christmas Secret (11 page)

“But who is it for?” Mrs. O’Shay asked.

“A better question is who is so bloody careless with his letters?” Mr. Hannigan asked.

“Perhaps he means them to be found,” Keira suggested. “Perhaps he is too bashful to deliver them to the object of his esteem, and he hopes that she will recognize him in this way.”

“If she does, she will not own to it now,” Declan said with a laugh.

“Enough of these bloody letters! Who is for cards?” Mr. O’Shay blustered.

The gentlemen in the room were all very eager to turn to cards, but the ladies were not content to let the matter drop. The poem was dissected for clues, and any number of names was bandied about as being the author, or even better, the intended recipient. No unmarried woman, be she young or old, was exempt from examination.

Eireanne was grateful when Declan came to fetch her. “Keira is fatigued,” he said softly.

They left the O’Shay residence as another heated debate as to the author was brewing.

Eireanne hoped that was the end of it, but she should have known that between the Hannigans and the O’Conners, nothing was ever really
ended.
It merely took on a new form.

As it happened, the weather turned foul that week, and sleet coated everything. On the eleventh day of Christmas, as the Ballynaheath staff bustled about, preparing for the following evening’s ball, the men were driven inside, and it was there that Eireanne came face-to-face with Henry.

He was standing just outside the salon, shedding his coat and hat. The moment she saw him, her heart began to race. To Eireanne, Henry Bristol looked more handsome than any other gentleman she’d ever known. He was bigger, his build more rugged. And when he glanced up and saw her there, his smile melted her completely.

“Erin!” he said, genuinely happy to see her. He handed his hat to a footman and strode forward. He took her hand in his and bowed over it, kissing her knuckles. “I have missed you.”

There it was, that fluttering of her heart. “Have you?”

“Completely. Utterly. You are my one true friend in Ireland, have you forgotten? How are you, how do you fare?” he asked, his gaze searching her face.

“Very well,” she said and moved down a step. She wanted to fling her arms around his neck, bury her face in his collar. “Have you been very busy?”

“Quite,” he said, linking her hand through his arm. “I’ve been preparing for my voyage home. There are many arrangements that must be made when one has successfully negotiated for two stallions.” He grinned. “Your brother drives a hard bargain. And you? I suppose you’ve been occupied preparing for your return to Switzerland?”

“Mmm,” she said. “Henry, I—”

“Eireanne, is that you?” her grandmother called from the salon. “Bring Mr. Bristol to the fire. He must be frozen.”

Eireanne and Henry looked at each other for a long moment. “You were saying?” he asked softly.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “We should go in.”

In the salon, Grandmamma and Keira were seated at a table, but Declan was pacing before the windows overlooking the sea. He did not like to be confined to the indoors.

“Mr. Bristol!” Keira said brightly. “We have missed your company!”

“Thank you. I have missed yours, as well.” He gave Eireanne a subtle wink.

“You’ve missed all the excitement,” Eireanne’s grandmother said. “Dougal, pour him some tea. The gentleman looks as if he swam here.”

Henry handed Eireanne into a chair, then took the one beside her and sipped the tea the butler had poured him.

“We’ve had another letter,” Keira said, as if it had been a secret instead of spreading like the plague across Galway as it was.

“A poem,” Grandmamma clarified.

“A very bad poem,” Declan muttered.

Keira ignored Declan and told Henry about the incident last evening, even managing to recite the poem, which she had, surprisingly, committed to memory. When she finished her tale, Henry laughed. Eireanne could feel his knee pressing against hers.

Keira looked slightly affronted. “What do you find so amusing, may I ask?”

“That the desire for diversion is so great that these
letters,
” he said, with a dismissive flick of his wrist, “are made into something meaningful.”

Keira blinked. “Don’t you believe in love, Mr. Bristol?”

Henry looked at Eireanne. “Of course I do,” he said and looked again to Keira. “But I do not believe love exists in a pair of letters so plainly placed in a room precisely so that they might engender a lot of talking and speculating on long winter days. That is not love. That is theatrics.”

Keira was clearly disappointed with his answer. “Oh my. How very cynical of you.”

“He is being practical,” Declan said. “I agree—if a gentleman truly wanted to proclaim his affection to someone, no matter how poorly stated, he would do so and not stand behind a piece of vellum. Well said, Bristol.”

“I suppose as you stated your affection so plainly, my love,” Keira said wryly.

Declan grinned. “I did not claim that a man does so in a timely manner. Only that he will when the time is right.”

“When is the time right?” Eireanne asked curiously. “This gentleman seems to think the time is right for him.”

“
This
gentleman is playing a game with us all, and not very well, if you ask me,” Declan retorted. “When the time is right, one knows it,
muirnín.
The time is right when a man stands to lose all that he is.”

“Tell us what you think, Mr. Bristol,” Eireanne’s grandmother asked. “Have you ever penned a love letter?”

“No,” he said instantly, and Eireanne’s heart beat a little quickly. “And I would not,” he added, and her heart sank. “I agree with the earl—if I felt the need to declare affection, I would do so. Directly.”

Eireanne looked to the fire, wishing she could hear that declaration from him.

“Well, I do not believe that all gentlemen view things the way you two view them,” Keira said. “I think Mr. Canavan, in particular, is quite fond of writing letters.”

“Then he is a bigger fool than I gave him credit for,” Declan muttered.

“And I think,” Keira said, smiling smugly, “that he writes them for Eireanne.” She smiled devilishly.

The sound of someone knocking earnestly at the front door reached them; Dougal briskly quit the room.

“He does not,” Eireanne said wearily. “I told you, he has no regard for me. It is for Mabe.”

“Then he is the biggest fool,” Declan said and leaned over to kiss the top of his sister’s head.

Eireanne’s love, her disappointment, all of it, suddenly reared into a full-blown fit of impatience. “Please!” she said sharply, and everyone in the room looked at her, wide-eyed. “Will all of you kindly do me a courtesy and stop treating me as if I am an imbecile? I know when a gentleman esteems me, and Mr. Canavan does not. The desire you all have to make it so is as ridiculous as it is insupportable.”

No one said a word. They all gaped at her, stunned by her outburst. All but Henry, that was. His amusement was twinkling in his eyes as Dougal came striding back into the salon. He held a silver tray, and the letter was upon it.

Keira gasped. “Another letter?” she cried, clearly delighted by the prospect.

“For Mr. Bristol, madam,” Dougal said.

“For me?” Henry said, frowning lightly. He picked up the vellum from the tray. “It is from my brother,” he said absently as he broke the seal. He read the contents, his frown going deeper. When he had finished he looked up at Eireanne, then at Declan. “I regret, my lord, that I must leave straightaway, on the morrow if at all possible. My father is gravely ill.”

“Oh no!” Keira exclaimed.

“Please excuse me. I am needed at home and must finish my arrangements. I’ve been gone too long,” he said distantly, and stood. He glanced at Eireanne before making his excuses to go and write his brother at once with the news that he would be coming home.

Chapter Nine

The foul weather kept the O’Conners safely tucked away in Ballynaheath for an uneventful supper, which Henry was glad for, given the heaviness of his thoughts. What he most appreciated about that evening was that he felt at home. Perhaps not as comfortable as he felt at home with his family, but nevertheless, it was the next best thing to being in New York. The O’Conners kept the banter playful among them and did not press him.

If anything, Erin was particularly careful with him, sensing when to speak to him, when to leave him to stare at his plate, and ready with a warm smile when he needed it most.

It seemed apparent that the Hannigans would travel through fire and ice to dine in society, for they arrived as they always did in time for supper. The twins were particularly animated that evening, Henry thought. They had gossip to share, and naturally, it had to do with the most important thing to have happened in the history of County Galway from all appearances: another letter had been discovered.

“It was there, on Mrs. Gallagher’s mantel, put in with the holly boughs,” Molly reported. “It would not have been discovered at all if Mr. Gallagher had not begun to burn the holly.”

“Burn the holly!” Mrs. Sullivan said. “Does he not enjoy the season?”

“They needed kindling,” Molly said. “Can you imagine the courage the author must possess to have put it there, knowing that he might have been discovered?” she asked breathlessly.

“To think that such a hero exists among us mere mortals,” Donnelly said dryly.

Henry couldn’t help but chuckle at that in spite of his mood, and that earned him a look from the ladies seated around the table.

“You have us on tenterhooks, Molly,” Lady Donnelly said. “What did the letter say?”

“I will tell you,” Molly said eagerly, glancing around at her audience. “The author wrote that he cannot hide his esteem any longer and will make his affections known tomorrow night at the ball!”

She announced it as if the King of England was to make an appearance at Ballynaheath.

“For the love of God,” Donnelly said with a sigh.

“This is excellent news!” Lady Donnelly exclaimed. “What better time to make the announcement, when everyone is assembled? He is clever, this gentleman. No wonder we’ve had, just today, so many favorable replies to our invitations.”

“No wonder,” Donnelly said, drumming his fingers against the stem of his wineglass.

“He is very clever, whoever he is,” Mabe said, and looked, Henry thought, as pleased as if she’d written the letter herself. “I think we should all wear our best ball gowns,” she added, with a pointed look at Eireanne. “It would not do to have the light of such attention shine upon one and not be properly dressed, aye?”

“Why on earth do you look at me?” Erin asked, plainly exasperated.

“Well,” Mabe said with a shrug, “it is quite possible that the affections may be declared for you.”

“It is more likely you are all mad,” Erin said.

“A pity you will not be here to discover his identity, Mr. Bristol,” Mrs. Sullivan said.

“What?” Molly cried. “But you
must
be here, Mr. Bristol!”

“I cannot,” he said, shaking his head. “I must leave for home tomorrow.”

“You cannot miss the ball.”

“Do you honestly think Mr. Bristol is the least bit concerned with who is writing those letters?” Lady Donnelly asked her sister, and a spirited discussion ensued as to who had written the letter for whom.

Erin, Henry noticed, sat quietly. When she happened to look up and find him watching her, she smiled. He did, too. But neither of them seemed particularly happy. It was entirely selfish of him, but Henry hoped very much that the letter would not be for Erin. He could not bear to even imagine some Irishman publicly proclaiming his esteem for the woman that he loved.

Loved
.

Yes, he loved Erin O’Conner, he knew very well that he did, and had known it for several days. Yet he’d felt paralyzed by it. Perhaps because he’d been wholly unprepared for it, particularly as far from home as he was. He had assumed that he would, some day, fall in love, but here? Now? And with the news of his father, he was needed at home at once. His brother had said the situation was grave, and Henry could not fill his head with fruitless thoughts or divert his attention from his family that needed him.

It wasn’t as if Erin would come with him, either. It was plain that the O’Conners had pinned their hopes on her marriage to a titled man, and he knew her well enough to know she would not disappoint them. No matter how much he desired the situation to be different, it was not. He had fallen in love with a woman he could not have.

When supper was over, and Lady Donnelly had engaged her sisters at the pianoforte, Henry excused himself once more. He had much to do before he left on the morrow. He had promised Erin he would attend the ball, but he could not be any longer than that.

In his rooms, he was sorting through his things when someone knocked on his door. He assumed it was Matthew. “Come,” he said and absently glanced over his shoulder, and started at the sight of Erin.

Henry dropped the shirt he was holding onto the bed.

She smiled shyly. “May I come in?”

“Please,” he said and hastily moved to pull a chair around for her to sit in. But Erin didn’t sit. She clasped her hands behind her back and glanced around, her gaze falling on his things. “I hope I am not disturbing you. I am certain you must have much to do, aye?”

“You could never disturb me,” he said. “Come, come,” he urged her, gesturing her inside.

She walked a little deeper into the room but kept a respectable distance. Her gaze fell to something on his bed. Henry looked down, saw the music box he’d purchased for his sister Sarah. “Ah. What do you think?” he asked, holding it out to her. “It is for my sister.”

Erin took it and examined it. “It’s beautiful,” she said and handed it back to him. “She will be pleased.”

“I hope that she is,” he said, and returned the music box to the bed. “I am entirely uncertain how she feels about music boxes in general.”

Erin smiled a little wistfully. “I suspect she would think a rock was beautiful if you brought it to her.”

“A rock, eh?” He chuckled ruefully. “I might have saved myself a few farthings had I known.”

Erin smiled sympathetically at him. “I came to inquire after your father, Henry. It must be such a shock for you.”

Henry glanced anxiously at the palm of his hand. “He is quite ill. He’s had these bouts before, but my brother informs me this time, the doctor is not at all confident. I pray I reach him in time to at least say good-bye.” Tears burned the back of his throat.

Erin put her hand on his arm. “I am so very sorry,” she said. “I know how painful it is.”

He had no doubt; she had never known her mother and had lost her father at a young age. “What distresses me most is that I feel a bit guilty,” he confessed, surprising himself.

“Guilty? But why?”

“Because I should have been home. I should have been there with him.” He clenched his jaw. Henry had not voiced these thoughts aloud; he hadn’t consciously thought them in the swirl of activity since he received the letter, but it was something he felt at his core.
I should have been home.

“I understand,” Erin said quietly. “I will not be here when Keira gives birth. It is such an important event in our family, yet I will be halfway around the world.” She looked uneasily about her, as if she, too, had trouble voicing the words aloud.

Henry watched her brow furrow as she thought of her own predicament. “We are a pair, are we not? These events pull us apart.”

“Pardon?”

She was so lovely, so very lovely. He would never forget her. Every night for the rest of his life, he would lay his head on a pillow and think of her. “You and I,” he said. “So many obstacles. So many regrets.” He moved to her and cupped her face in his hands. “I wish we had met in another place and time, Erin.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, Henry,” she whispered. “
Aye
.” A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

He bent his head, kissed that tear away, then her eyes, and then her mouth. It was a tender kiss, a parting kiss, a long good-bye. And while he felt the pleasure of it—one could not touch Erin and not feel pleasure—he also felt a hard rock of regret in the pit of his belly, a pain unlike anything he’d ever felt. It burned him, sinking into his marrow, inflaming every sinew and tendon.

He could not say how long they stood there, kissing good-bye, before Erin wrapped her hand around his wrist and pulled it from her face. “I must go. When will you leave us?”

He sighed and laced his fingers with hers. “I should like to be away by noon on the morrow. I fear I cannot stay for the ball, Erin. I cannot stay another day.”

“Of course, you must go,” she said. She tried to smile, but her lips quivered a bit, and he kissed her once more before letting her go. He watched her go out, the tail of her gown sweeping behind her.

She did not look back.

When she’d gone, he shut the door and turned to the fire. With his hands on his hips, he stared into the flames, his thoughts jumbled, his heart aching. He could feel that hard ball of regret grow and sink its tentacles into him. So many conflicting, painful thoughts tore through him, ripping him apart. When he heard a second knock at the door, his heart leaped. It was Erin. She’d come back, come for one night. He strode to the door and jerked it open, and his face fell with his disappointment when he saw the Hannigan twins.

“We beg your pardon, Mr. Bristol, but we cannot bear the news that you are to leave us.”

“Yes,” he said tightly. He didn’t want them here now, he did not want their chatter, their smiling faces, their speculation as to who adored Erin. “I am needed at home.”

Molly and Mabe exchanged a wary look. Henry looked between them and their sheepish smiles, and his suspicions grew. “All right then, out with it. What are you two about?”

“We’ve . . . we’ve had a bit of fun,” Molly said apologetically, but she winced, as if this bit of fun had pained her.

“There is something we must tell you,” Mabe added, sounding grave.

Henry frowned. This would not be pleasant news, that much was certain. He stood aside. “You may as well come in and give me the bad news.”

With faint smiles, the twins stepped past him into the room.

Henry shut the door and leaned against it, his arms crossed, and stared at the two women. “Well then? What bit of fun have you had that has to do with me?”

“Please don’t be cross, Mr. Bristol,” Mabe said quickly.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

“You should know that we had the very best of intentions,” Molly added.

“It is worse than I thought,” he sighed heavenward.

“It has to do with the love letters,” Mabe said.

That brought his head down. “I beg your pardon? I hope you did not say love letters, Miss Hannigan,” he said sharply. “You’d best explain yourself straightaway. One of you, begin to speak.”

“You wrote them,” Molly said quickly.

That stopped Henry in his tracks. “I did not!”

“For Eireanne,” Mabe added hastily.

He looked from one set of green eyes to the other. “I did
not
write them—”

“But don’t you wish you had?” Molly asked and flashed an unconscionably hopeful smile.

“For Eireanne’s sake,” Mabe interjected. “She’s had a rather unfortunate life, aye? And really has such faint hope of a decent one unless she marries a title in England, and the only sort of title who will have her, what with the scandals, is probably a dried-up old prune of a lord. Eireanne deserves far better than that.”

Henry could not believe what he was hearing. “Far better than a titled man? Far better than the legitimacy that would bring this troubled family? You are mad, the pair of you,” he said angrily.

“You misunderstand us!” Molly said, still smiling, as if her smile would smooth everything over. Which, Henry guessed, it had more than once. “Truthfully, we meant to aid you—”

“To
aid
me?”

“Aye,” Molly said. “We have seen how you look at her—”

“And she at you,” Mabe finished, nodding furiously.

“And time was so short really, what with you off to America and Eireanne off to Switzerland, so we meant only to give you a bit of a nudge.”

“But you have suggested it was Canavan,” he pointed out, confused.

“Of course,” Molly said. “We didn’t want her to guess it was you. We wanted to surprise her. We thought to give her and Mrs. Sullivan time to become accustomed to the idea that perhaps Eireanne would be much happier with someone other than an old duke, but now you are leaving, and—”

Henry whirled away from them. His mind raced as quickly as his heart. He imagined how hurt Eireanne would be to have been made the object of this horrible scheme, and if he’d been anything less than a gentleman, he might have said some things these two ladies had never heard a gentleman say. He turned back around to them, glaring. “Who else knows of your deception?”