The Rocking Horse: A Regency Novella (9 page)

"No, I can see that. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know." She stopped pacing and turned to look at Lady Mary. A rueful smile touched her lips. "Strange, I never considered that one of the Christmas gifts I would receive this year was the knowledge of love. It's a beautiful gift, but I'm not certain what to do with it."

"Perhaps it would be best if you stopped thinking and just let it be. Enjoy the feeling."

"Live for today, for tomorrow it may rain?" Jocelyn asked cynically.

"Something of that nature."

"I don't know. . . ."

"Jocelyn, I promise I will not say anything to Tarkington if you promise not to avoid him. You mentioned yesterday you'd like to help with his rocking horse. Why don't you do so? He doesn't have much longer to finish it, you know."

"But I do not wish to throw myself at him."

"Helping him is not the same as throwing yourself at him," Lady Mary said with a laugh. "Honestly, Jocelyn, I've never heard you so tentative before. Explore your feelings, your thoughts, and let the spirit of Christmas guide you."

Let the spirit of Christmas guide you. . .
. Jocelyn turned that phrase over in her mind half an hour later as she stood before the carpenter's workshop. Today there was not the odd sound of the lathe. It was quiet. She pushed the door open. In the center of the room, on a low bench spotlighted by the afternoon sun, stood an assembled rocking horse. Behind the horse, with a tan, paint-laden brush in hand, stood the marques. He looked up at her entrance, and it seemed his eyes burned through her.

"Miss Maybrey?"

She hated that remote expression on his face and almost turned to leave. "I—I wanted to know if I could do anything to help."

He was silent a moment. "You really can paint something more than a watercolor?" he asked coolly.

"Yes."

He was silent a moment, studying her. Then he smiled, and it was one of his smiles that reached his eyes. "Do you think you could do his head, Miss Maybrey? Every time I even contemplate painting his eyes, my hand trembles."

She laughed then, knowing her apology for her earlier cold behavior was accepted, and she was forgiven. Maybe there was something to the notion of Christmas spirit.

"Excellent, Miss Maybrey," Tarkington said two hours later as she put the last touches on the horse's head. "And those touches you have added to your own face are quite adorable as well."

"What? I have paint on my face? Where?"

Tarkington laughed. "Hold still, and I'll remove them." He clasped her chin in his hand to hold her head steady.

Jocelyn froze. His very touch made her knees weak. She could have wept at the silence she must keep!

Tarkington's glance caught hers as he raised the rag to her cheek, and as easily as that Jocelyn knew that the awareness they'd both felt was back. It crowded in upon her senses, threatening to overwhelm her. Her eyes flared. Panicked, she twisted away from him, afraid of what might happen next, afraid of making a fool of herself. Afraid of revealing what was in her heart.

With her eyes she pleaded with him to understand, to let her be. His face turned to stone. He handed the rag to her. She turned away, willing tears not to fall as she scrubbed at the paint smeared across her cheek.

The gust of cold air coming into the room warned them both, as it had Tarkington the day before, that someone had come in.

Jocelyn looked around. "Mr. Bayne!"

"Hello, Charles. Be a good chap and close the door, please," Tarkington said easily.

Jocelyn glanced from him to Mr. Bayne, her cheeks flaming with the thought of what Mr. Bayne might have seen if she had not pulled away from Tarkington when she did.

"Miss Maybrey, I have been searching all over the estate for you!" Charles Bayne declared.

From his tone Jocelyn knew what would follow would not be a pleasant interview. She sighed. "And you have found me."

"What are you doing here?"

"I have been helping Tarkington. See, I painted the face," she said, pointing to the rocking horse. "What do you think?"

He blinked and stared at the rocking horse. Patches of wet paint still glistened. A dull red crept up his neck.

"You didn't think that Tarkington and I were . . . ?" Jocelyn trailed off, afraid to finish her thought.

"Well, dash it, Miss Maybrey, Mother said—"

"I'd stop right there, Bayne, before you make a fool of yourself."

"Damn it, Tarkington! You've been alone with her for hours!"

Tarkington leaned up against a post and crossed one ankle over the other. "Are you implying that Miss Maybrey has been compromised?" he asked as casually as if he were asking after the weather.

"Yes . . . I mean, no!" Charles ran a hand through his hair. "It's just, well, what would society think?"

"What would society think? Is that all you're concerned with?" Jocelyn asked, barely contained anger raising her voice higher.

Both men looked at her with surprise at her outburst. Mr. Bayne frowned; Tarkington grinned.

"I, for one, do not care what society thinks," Jocelyn continued, her tone now coldly modulated. "I am tired of being forever lectured on what society would like or wouldn't like. I am tired of bowing before that god, and I refuse to do so anymore!"

"Miss Maybrey, only consider—I didn't mean—"

"Well, I know what I mean!" Jocelyn said.

"And she is, if you have noticed, cousin, an honest woman. She cannot help but be honest. All her thoughts and feelings are reflected in her face," Tarkington interjected.

Jocelyn glared at him. Had he seen her love reflected in his eyes? She swore he was laughing behind that rigid expression he held. She saw it in his eyes, for they were not a cold, metal gray. Mortification chilled her soul.

"Tarkington, I do wish you would leave," Bayne said.

"So you could do what I haven't? No, no, dear cousin. Now that you have pointed out the situation to me, I can see that it would not be seemly. I suggest we all leave. Let some fresh air clear our heads and cool this anger you have developed."

He took down Jocelyn's cloak from a peg on the wall and held it out to her. Jocelyn slipped into it, settled her bonnet on her dark curls, and walked past the two gentlemen. She was angry with both of them, and with herself. She had been very close to making Mr. Bayne's imaginings real. But what right did he have to imagine anything of her? And to believe that what society thought was of so high importance! And Tarkington! His laughter and denying that they'd been tempted—even for a moment—toward further intimacy was hurtful. So much for a Christmas spirit.

"This is ridiculous!" Lady Mary exclaimed the next morning when Jocelyn arrived at her room before the breakfast tray. "You cannot hide here. All the guests are arriving today, and my ball is tonight!"

"I'm not hiding. I'm keeping you company until your fiancé arrives."

"You are hiding. You hid in here last evening, and I understood, after what you told me of Charles's and Tarkington's behavior. But this is not the answer, Jocelyn. Nor is it like you."

Jocelyn nodded. "That's the problem," she said sadly. She sank down into a chair by the window and looked out over the Bayneville park. "I don't know what is like me anymore. Every day I've been here I've grown more and more confused. How ironic, for I saw coming to Bayneville as an opportunity to sort things in my mind. I never expected to get them more jumbled."

"That's because you never expected to find love," Lady Mary said softly.

Jocelyn laughed weakly. "I didn't even know what that emotion was beyond what I'd read. And I'd always thought those descriptions to be exaggerations. I was wrong. They pale by comparison."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"Do?" Jocelyn asked, turning her head to look at Lady Mary.

"Yes. What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. What is there to do? I have received a great gift in discovering what love is, my Christmas gift, and I shall treasure it."

Lady Mary made a rude, exasperated noise. "Jocelyn, you have barely discovered anything about love and nothing about Christmas gifts! A solitary love is no true love. It needs its mirror reflection or it shrivels and dies, leaving bitter emptiness behind—"

"The memory is a treasure."

"Worse, you are forgetting what is the special magic of Christmas gifts.
Their magic lies in the giving
, not in the receiving. Give, Jocelyn. Don't be the lonely dragon guarding its hoard, for it shall turn to dust long before you will."

Their magic lies in the giving.

Jocelyn returned to her own room to think about Lady Mary's words once again. The phrase spun in her mind, echoing. How could she take her heart in her hands and give it to Tarkington? How could she let him know?

Then she remembered the gift line. One practical gift, one fanciful. Could she do it?

She had a practical gift. A token really. Meant to be a simple thank-you for the visit: monogrammed handkerchiefs. And for her fanciful gift . . . .

Smiling, she went to the nursery to borrow paper, paints, and glue.

"Lawks, miss, you're already half dressed!" exclaimed Miss Barnes when she came later that afternoon to get Jocelyn ready for the Christmas ball.

"I don't want to miss the gift line prior to the ball."

"But, miss, that's an affair for the family and their people. And belowstairs they're all looking forward to it."

"I know. Now hush and help me."

With Miss Barnes's help she was ready quickly, and for once without complaint from her abigail. Her gown was made of layers upon layers of white muslin gauze delicately embroidered with red, green, and gold thread. Through her dark hair Miss Barnes wove a gold cord knotted with red and green ribbons. Finally she draped a gold-spangled shawl over Jocelyn's arms and declared her finished.

To the woman's surprise, Jocelyn kissed her cheek in thanks. She'd scarce recovered when her mistress pressed two packages into her hands.

"One practical, one fanciful. It is up to you to decide which is which," Jocelyn said, smiling warmly.

"Oh, miss!" exclaimed her astonished maid. Quickly, as if she were afraid they would disappear, Miss Barnes opened her first gift. It was a new reticule, a most practical gift. The second proved to be one of Jocelyn's best Chinese silk fans painted with exotic Far-Eastern flowers.