The Christmas Secret (12 page)
“No one!” Molly said. “It is our Christmas secret.”
“Your Christmas
secret
?” he echoed incredulously. “You have the entire county on tenterhooks with your little game and you will hurt the one person you pretend to help! Have you considered how Erin will feel when she knows she was the object of your jest? As if she were incapable of attracting love on her own, as if her situation is so dire that she requires the intervention of you two? Do you think that perhaps she already feels as if her happiness has been bartered away from her for the sake of rectifying old scandals, and that you two would make that need even worse by scandalizing her with some bloody letters and an American who has no title and nothing that could help this family?”
The twins at least looked chagrined. “You are right to be cross,” Mabe said. “But . . . you
do
esteem her, Mr. Bristol,” Molly said softly. “Will you not claim to have written the letters?”
“I will not dissemble for you, and especially not to Erin, even if I were so inclined to help you out of this mess. I must go home to my family, do you understand? My father is dying.”
The ladies winced.
“So
you
will tell Erin and her family what you’ve done.”
Molly and Mabe gasped in unison. “But we cannot!” Mabe exclaimed.
“You can and you will.” He strode to his door and opened it. “I suggest you tell her straightaway, for if you don’t, I shall tell her all before I take my leave on the morrow.”
The twins reluctantly moved to the door. “You are not very kind, Mr. Bristol,” Molly said missishly as she stepped out of his room.
“Do not complain to me, Miss Hannigan. I am, at the very least, honest.”
Mabe Hannigan, however, paused at the threshold and looked at him beseechingly. “We meant no harm. We want to see Eireanne happy, that’s all. And we did not think you would care to be without her. Can you not declare your esteem?”
Henry sighed. “Miss Hannigan, can you not understand how impossible it is to do what you ask? Good night.”
Mabe did not argue. She went out.
Henry shut the door, then paced at his hearth, dragging his fingers through his hair. He was angry, so very angry, and concerned about Erin. She would be humiliated to think they had manufactured those letters over the twelve days of Christmas. He was humiliated for her. She did not need their help, no matter how misguided it was.
He felt the burn of regret in his belly again. He would tell Erin, he decided. He would not leave it to those two—he didn’t trust them in the least.
“We did not think you would care to be without her.”
God help him, why did Mabe have to say it? Of course he didn’t want to imagine being without Erin! He did not want to imagine what the days would be like without her smile or her dancing blue eyes or her laugh. He’d had a taste of a life without her after their ride out onto the cliffs, of only a few days, and he had not cared for the feeling at all. He’d felt restless and at odds with himself. He’d had to concentrate on what the earl had been telling him, for every movement, every sound, had distracted him as he’d been thinking of Erin. Wanting, hoping, it would be her. Bloody well desperate for it to be her.
No, he did not care to be without her, but what was he to do? He had to go home, and he could not delay it. Erin had to marry some old duke, as Molly put it. Life, or God, had intervened and was sending them in opposite directions. Henry sank onto a chair before the fire, his hands on either side of his head, brooding about his rotten luck.
When the Hannigans had taken their leave for the evening—one wondered why they didn’t simply take up residence in the mostly empty east wing—Eireanne remained in the salon, sitting before the dying fire, a snifter of brandy dangling between her fingers. She was lost in thought. Mournful thoughts. Dark, mournful, bitter thoughts.
She didn’t hear or see Declan until he stepped before her, his arms folded, peering down at her snifter. “Brandy?”
“A wee bit. Shall I fetch one for you?”
“Ah, lass,” he said as he gave a practiced flip of his tails to sit beside her. “I do not squander my time on brandy.” He smiled and casually stretched his long legs before him. “I do not recall that you have a liking for brandy.”
“I do not care for it,” she said and eyed the amber liquid. “But it seemed appropriate.” She took another sip. It burned as much as the first.
“Appropriate for what, precisely?”
Eireanne glanced sidelong at her brother. They’d endured quite a lot, the two of them, and there was no one on this earth whom Eireanne trusted more than him. “For numbing a particularly deep ache.”
“I see,” he said and shifted his gaze on the fire. “Have you an ague? A fever?”
Eireanne shook her head.
“Would you care to tell me? Is it a physical ache?”
She sighed. “In a manner of speaking. I have already begun to miss Mr. Bristol.”
Declan said nothing. Eireanne had expected him to be astonished. “Haven’t you anything to say?”
He suddenly grinned. “Other than it is rather obvious?”
“Obvious!”
“Lass,
muirnín,
” he said. “You have never been very good at masking your feelings, aye?”
Eireanne groaned and sank against the back of the settee. “Is it terribly obvious? Does all of Galway know?”
“I would not go as far as that. However, I know you rather well.” His grin suddenly faded. “
Dia,
was it you who wrote the—”
“No!”
Eireanne cried, but she couldn’t help laughing at the notion.
“That is welcome news,” Declan said and relaxed, settling back with her. “I shall ask, quite delicately, and without desiring the slightest details, mind you, if you have let Mr. Bristol know your feelings?”
Eireanne shifted uncomfortably. “Aye,” she said. “Not in so many words, but I think it is quite clear. Just as clear as that it can never be.”
“Why is that? Has he offered for someone at home?”
“No, because his family and his life are in America. I am in Ireland and in Switzerland, and one day, London.”
“
Ach,
” Declan said, flicking his wrist. “I do not give a damn for you in London.”
Shocked, Eireanne gaped at him. “But you have spoken of it with great enthusiasm!”
“Aye, I have,
muirnín,
for I want what is best for you,” he said and affectionately squeezed her knee. “Yet above all, I want your happiness, wherever you may find it.”
“My happiness,” she repeated sadly. “I won’t find it now. I shall pine for Mr. Bristol and be put up on the shelf, just as everyone expects. I will wear lace caps like Megan Graham and sniff quite a lot and collect cats as if they were lace doilies.”
“That sounds rather grim,” Declan casually agreed. “Is there not the slightest hope Mr. Bristol will offer and save you from such a spinsterly fate?”
Eireanne shook her head. “He has his father very much on his mind at present. And if he were to come in this very moment and drop to one knee, I would refuse him.”
Declan looked confused. “Why?”
“Why?” she repeated. “Is it not obvious? I could never reside in America.”
“And why is that?”
“Declan!” she exclaimed. “Must you ask? I am to marry a title, or have you forgotten? I am to restore our family’s honor.”
“Our honor?” He laughed. “Grandmamma is the one who believes that a title will restore the grandeur of the O’Conner name. Personally, I have no hope for it. I cannot imagine that my wife will live the rest of her days without causing at least a ripple or two of scandal in the waters of County Galway, can you? No, lass, your happiness is more important to me than honor.”
Eireanne blinked. “But . . . but if I were to go to America, I would not see you ever again.”
“Nonsense,” he said instantly. “Think of it—all your life I have come and gone, have I not? Months have passed. But still, I come, and we reunite, and we are a family. If you were to marry your Mr. Bristol, you might spend one year here, and one year there. These things can be arranged, and for some, they are routinely arranged.”
“They could not be arranged to my satisfaction,” Eireanne said. “You were rarely an ocean away, Declan. And I would miss your children, and what of Grandmamma? She will not live forever.”
Declan smiled fondly. He took her hand in his and laced their fingers together. “And neither will you,” he reminded her. “Family is important, I will not argue. But I’ve seen a wee bit of this world, and I have found it quite traversable. It is not another world, Eireanne. It is a single voyage away. You must really think of it that way, and think these things are not only possible but also within your reach. I tell you this, for there is nothing more important than love.”
“But I love you, and Grandmamma—”
“No,” he said, shaking his head and squeezing her hand affectionately. “I am not speaking of that sort of love. I am speaking of love that consumes your body and soul. The sort that most experience only once in a lifetime. What is life without love? Is it not our reason for existence? Are we not put on this earth to love and be loved? That is the purpose of life,
muirnín,
and if you find it, you must seize it. For you. For
your
life.”
Eireanne was astounded. She’d never heard Declan speak of things such as love. “I fear you’ve drunk too much port.”
He laughed. “Quite shocking, I know. But I was ignorant, and I have been enlightened. If I can impart a single piece of advice to you, it would be to follow your heart. Follow it and be at peace.”
Eireanne stared into her brother’s face and thought of the years he’d spent looking after her, protecting her, providing for her. He’d been only fourteen when their father had died and she had become his ward. “I love you, Declan.”
“Of course you do,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side. “I am rather irresistible. And
right
. I am always right, and any claims to the contrary in this house may be ignored. By the bye, you may keep this conversation quite to yourself. There is no need to inflame the Hannigans.”
She smiled. “Not a word. But I thank you for it, Declan. Unfortunately,” she said with a sigh, “your sentiment will remain forever locked away in my heart, for Mr. Bristol has avoided me of late, and he is bound for America and his ailing father, and when he walks out the door on the morrow, I shall not see him again.”
“Then perhaps you need to stop him before he walks out the door and tell him how you feel. Don’t let fear keep you from your eternal happiness.”
Eireanne wanted to believe it was as simple as that, but as she and Declan sat together, staring into the fire, Eireanne could not help but believe her true love had come on a stormy night on the Irish Sea and would leave tomorrow across the Atlantic.
The weather was still abysmal the next day. When Declan and Henry met at the paddock to prepare the horses for their journey, the stable master informed them that the gentleman who would transport the horses to Dublin had not yet come. “The weather, milord. They say the road is impassable east of Galway.”
“Well,” Donnelly said. “You might have a bit of a wait, Bristol.”
Henry hoped not. He was feeling anxious about his father’s declining health as it was.
Donnelly looked at the two stallions Henry had bought from him. “Good horses. I fear I may have created a rival,” he said jovially. “Perhaps I shall come to America and have a look at your work.”
Henry looked at him with surprise. “You would come all that way to see my horses?”
Donnelly clucked at him. “You look gobsmacked, lad. It’s a voyage, aye, and a long one.” He paused to look Henry squarely in the eye. “But it is only a voyage. It wasn’t so very long ago that scores of troops and horses and provisions were sailing across the sea to corral you Americans. It is far easier for a man or two to make that crossing than an entire army, aye?”
“I suppose,” Henry said.
“
Ach,
” the earl said as he resumed brushing the coat of one of the stallions. “You lack imagination. So does my sister. She seems to think that marrying a titled man is the only hope for her, or that America is clear across the world from Ireland.” He glanced at Henry again, his gaze pointed. “I assured her neither was necessarily true.”
Henry was speechless—was Donnelly attempting to give him a message? Or was it merely chatter?
He had no time to explore it—a footman appeared at the gate. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Bristol, but a message come from Mr. Sneevely,” the footman said, referring to the gentleman who would transport the horses to port. Henry took the note and read it.
“What’s he say?” Donnelly asked.
“That the road to Dublin has been washed away near Athlone, and it will be a day before it can be made passable.”
Donnelly grinned and stood up, clapping Henry on his shoulder. “Then I suppose we shall see you at the ball this evening,” he said and walked around to the other side of the horse, leaving Henry mute as he led the horse away.
The twelfth night arrived with a star-filled sky. The weather had cleared and had left in its wake bitter cold. Henry had resigned himself to the fact that he could not leave until the following day. Part of him was relieved—he wanted to see Erin again, to look into those blue eyes and know her feelings for him, and if what Donnelly had said in the stable had truly meant anything at all. He wanted to tell Erin what Molly and Mabe had done, but he had not sought her out earlier as he hadn’t been able to bear hurting her any more than she’d been hurt.
As Henry finished dressing that evening, he could hear that the revelry had already begun. Strains of fiddle reached him, and occasionally laughter floated up through the flue. Matthew had explained to Henry that at least in this part of Ireland, the twelfth night could be a rather raucous affair, and that a prank or two should not surprise him.
Little did Matthew know that the worst sort of prank was yet to come.
Holly and sprigs of mistletoe greeted Henry when he walked into the ballroom. There was a beautiful ice sculpture of the three wise men on a sideboard, and ribbons of gold and green had been hung from the ceiling, sporting cherubic angels. Henry could not guess the reason for the angels, but he liked them. A troop of three men, dressed in costumes of the wise men, moved through the crowd, handing out sweetmeats and singing bawdy tunes. Henry recognized Mr. O’Shay among them.
The number of guests surprised Henry, especially given the state of the roads in Galway. There were easily more than one hundred in formal tails and glittering gowns and headdresses . . . and he began to understand why they’d braved the roads as he moved through the crowd and heard talk of the mysterious letter writer.
“It is not Mr. Canavan,” one middle-aged woman with a peacock feather in her hair declared to another woman. “I should think Mabe Hannigan would like that very much, but I have it on somewhat firm authority that Mr. Canavan has set his sights on Miss Dunne.”
“I only hope that we won’t be made to wait until the wee hours for the gentleman to make his appearance,” Henry heard another woman say to her male companion when he paused to help himself to a tot of whiskey.
These people, Henry realized, who had shunned Donnelly and Eireanne in the past, had come for the letter writer. They had come to have their mystery solved, to end twelve days of Molly and Mabe’s “Christmas secret.”
Speak of the devil—Henry spotted Molly Hannigan across the room and started in that direction. But Molly saw him, too, and quickly ducked behind a pair of men with broad shoulders. Henry promptly lost her in the crowd, and when he twirled about to search the crowd for her, he came face-to-face with Erin.
“Henry!” she said, her smile beaming as her gaze swept over him. “Declan said your travel had been delayed. Oh my, how handsome you look.”
His heart was beating hard, he realized. He could not imagine that Erin could ever look lovelier, but she was resplendent in dove gray and pearls. “I am nothing compared to you,” he said instantly, and absently marveled at the ability of his tongue to move on its own accord.
“Have you packed all your things?” she asked, her eyes sparkling beneath the chandeliers. Yet Henry could see they were not sparkling precisely with happiness—something was a bit off. He leaned in, peered into her eyes. “Erin O’Conner,” he said. “What have you done?”
She giggled. “Declan gave me a tot of whiskey. I did not want it, but he said it might very well be a long evening, and I should calm myself with a wee bit.”
Henry smiled. “A tot?”
She held up two fingers as the musicians began to play and giggled. “The weather seems fine now for sailing,” she said. “You remembered to stow the music box, did you not? Oh! You won’t forget the ginger beer, aye?”
“I have a cask of it on hand, thanks to the earl. I have only one last thing to be done.”
“What is that?”
He held out his arm. “Dance with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
Her smile deepened. So did her giggle. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The musicians began with a traditional set of songs that required some figures instead of the hopping about the Irish seemed to prefer. Henry bowed to Erin’s curtsy. Erin began to step through the figures he’d been fortunate enough to learn in London.
“May I ask a favor of you?” Erin asked as she crossed at his back.
“Anything,” he said, meaning it sincerely.
Anything.
She twirled back around to face him. “Will you write me when you reach New York? I should like to know you have arrived safely.”
Henry stepped around her back, turning and facing her once more, his gaze on hers. “Of course.”
“I’ll be on tenterhooks to know if the ginger beer helped you.”
“If you do not hear from me, you will have your answer,” he said with a smile.
She grinned. “I should also like to know how your father fares, if . . . if I may be so bold. And if Sarah likes her music box. And if your brother finds you different after all this time away. Oh! And if your dogs remember you, aye?”
“I shall write with every last detail,” he promised and lifted his hand. She did the same, pressing her palm against his, and the two of them went round in a circle, their gazes on one another.
“I will miss you, Henry,” she said softly.
Henry felt her despair deep in his chest. He was feeling profound sadness, a great loss. As if he was losing everything. His father, Erin . . . “I will miss you, Erin,” he said. “More than I can convey.”
They didn’t speak much more as the dance played on, but their gazes rarely parted, and it seemed to him that a rush of emotions were shared, without words. When the dance was over, he escorted Erin from the dance floor. “When will you go?” she asked him.
“At dawn’s light.”
“So early,” she said plaintively.
“It is a long ride to port.”
Erin pressed her lips together. She tried to smile but couldn’t manage it entirely. “Henry, I . . .” She paused, bit her lip as if debating her words.
“Yes?”
She blinked. Shook her head. “I wish you Godspeed,” she said. “I will never forget you. Never.”
He took her hand and kissed it, his mouth lingering there. Erin smiled in spite of the tears that pooled in her eyes, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
Henry stood rooted to the spot. His heart was racing, pounding against his chest. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes for a moment.
This is madness.
Madness.
The madness would not leave him. He could scarcely make conversation as people wished him well. His eyes kept finding Erin. She danced, she talked, her smile always present, but the sadness rimmed her eyes. When she laughed, the sound of it was flat, not the gay laughter he knew so well from her. He despised himself, despised the ocean between them, despised Ireland, for had it not been for Ireland, he never would have met her. He could feel the loss settling deep.
His thoughts were so wrapped up in Erin that he didn’t notice Mabe Hannigan until he all but stepped into her. Mabe’s eyes widened; he took her by the arm before she could escape. “There you are,” he said softly. “What have you and your sister done to end this charade?”
“We intend to confess all,” Mabe said, but at Henry’s look, she winced. “Truly.”
“When?”
“Perhaps later—”
“Perhaps now,” he said. “For if you don’t, I shall tell Donnelly what I have discovered and let him announce it—”
“No, no,” Mabe said. “I’ll fetch Molly now.”
“I’ll give you ten minutes, and not a minute more,” Henry warned her.
He took a position next to the sideboard, helped himself to a second tot of whiskey, and watched as Molly and Mabe conferred at the far corner of the room. They seemed to have a heated discussion, pausing once to look at him. Henry made a point of looking at Donnelly. The twins instantly turned back to more discussion, and at last, Molly said something to the musicians and took her sister’s hand. Together, they walked into the center of the ballroom as the music drew to a close. It seemed strange, Henry thought, that an angel swung lazily over their heads.
“Here it is!” said a lady standing next to Henry. “I was right! The letters were for one of the Hannigan twins!”
If only that were true. Henry glanced around him, looking for Erin. She was standing off to one side, her expression grim. His heart began to beat wildly.
“We do beg your pardon,” Molly Hannigan called out, gaining the attention of everyone.
Henry looked to Erin again. She had dropped her gaze, almost as if she suspected this jest had been made at her expense.
“My sister and I have something to say,” Molly said.
“No!” Donnelly said abruptly, striding forward. “No, Molly Hannigan, you will not say anything here tonight.”
“But it is about the letters,” Mabe tried.
“Not another word, lass,” Donnelly warned her.
When a man stands to lose all that he is, it is time.
“But we only wanted to say that they were from—”
“Me!” Henry said clearly. The madness he’d been feeling in his breast had erupted, for he was striding forward, to the center of the ballroom, unwilling to lose all.
“They were from me,” he said again, and a gale of hot whispering swept through the ballroom.
“Mr. Bristol, I have come to know you quite well these last few weeks, and I know very well that you did not pen such ridiculous letters,” Donnelly said. “They were written by these silly girls.”
“No, I wrote them,” Henry insisted and turned around. “I intended them for Erin O’Conner.” He heard Molly and Mabe gasp with delight.
“What?” Mr. Hannigan said, clearly confused. “Erin? Who is Erin?”
“
Eireanne,
dear,” Mrs. Hannigan said.
“As I wrote, I do not intend to hide behind the letters any longer and openly declare my esteem.”
“The letter said nothing of the sort,” Mr. Hannigan insisted. “I heard it read aloud myself. Mabe read it, aye?”
“But the sentiment was the same, husband,” Mrs. Hannigan said. “Do let the man
speak.
”
“You couldn’t have written the letters, sir,” Mr. O’Shay said, looking confused. “You were not at either of the last two gatherings where the letters were found.”
“I wrote them,” Henry insisted. “Erin? Where are you?”
Everyone turned about to look for her, and in doing so, the crowd parted. She was standing precisely where he’d seen her last, in the back of the room. Alone.
Henry felt something warm and powerful sluice through him. He couldn’t imagine how he’d ever thought to leave her. He didn’t know precisely how he would manage it, but he was not leaving her, and he sank like a puppet to one knee.