by Erica Taylor
Lydia had offered comfort and declared William a fool for not coming for her or contacting Sarah in any way, condemning the entire species of men as unworthy, as one would expect from your very best of friends. But in the end, Lydia had kissed her cheek and told Sarah she was too good for him anyway. Pretty words, but nothing to erase the emptiness in Sarah’s heart.
It took Lydia showing up and demanding she dress for the ball for Sarah to find an ounce of energy to ready herself.
“For all that is holy, Sarah, you will not sit in your room and mope about—especially over some man!” Lydia chided, and Sarah conceded, dressing in record time.
Lydia had brought a dress for her—a square necked black gown with long, wide sleeves, something that was more in the style of her great-great grandmother’s generation than her own. The satin dress was covered in black lace and shrouds of muslin, with a black hood that stretched up over her head, resting just at her hairline. Lydia was dressed in an eerily similar black gown.
“Where did you dig this up?” Sarah inquired as Lydia pinned the hood to her head, wincing as she dug the pins in a little too deep. “I have skin and scalp in there, you know.”
“Oh, hush,” Lydia chided, pins clutched between her teeth. “You look wonderful. And it doesn’t matter where the gown came from. I didn’t rob it from some poor dead woman, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“That’s reassuring,” Sarah replied.
Lydia sent her a sharp look. “Sarcasm? You must really be torn up over this gentleman.”
“I doubt he deserves to be called such a thing.”
“Ooh, and insults!” Lydia laughed as she stepped away, glancing her over.
Sarah frowned at her friend. “Who are you supposed to be?”
Lydia’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Lady Montague.”
Sarah’s frown deepened. She didn’t remember Lady Montague being a widow. “What am I supposed to be, the Horseman of Death?” All she needed was a scythe to complete the ensemble.
“Lady Capulet, of course!” Lydia proclaimed, as if it should be obvious.
“Of course I am,” Sarah muttered. “This is blacker than anything I’ve worn in my entire life, even when I was in mourning for my parents and my husband. I look like a shadow.”
And she felt like a shadow. Throughout the ball, she felt detached, deflated. She stood up straight and put on a pleasant but cold smile, disguising the dying heart beneath her chest. She longed for William to come to her rescue at the ball, sweep her off her feet and save her from the tedious boredom. But he was not there, much as Sarah searched each masked face for him, for his hair or his build, or his startling blue brown eyes. It seemed her savior was nowhere to be found.
She was partially distracted by the almost-abduction of her sister Susanna, but Andrew and Westcott assured her all was well in hand, and that it had all been a part of some plot to apprehend the monster who had murdered Westcott’s sister. Sarah had listened through the story, though at the speed it had been rattled off, she would need further explanation in order to truly understand. At one point, Andrew had pulled her from the ball, and she knew something had gone wrong with their outlandish plan. She’d been so overcome with fear that her brother had to console her in the hallway, something he hadn’t done since Geoffrey had died.
By the end of the night, Susanna was safe, and the mystery of Westcott’s sister’s murderer was put to rest. And in the middle of the mayhem, Westcott thought it opportune to propose. The timing was appalling, but Susanna happily agreed. Sarah was truly pleased for the new couple. Westcott doted on Susanna; he would make her a good husband. Susanna gazed towards her new fiancé with a look in her eyes that made Sarah’s breath catch. Faced with her sister’s happiness, it only made the absence of her own much more obvious.
Where is William?
“I am sure he will come around before too long,” came Westcott’s answer. Sarah looked at him, startled. Had she spoken her thoughts out loud?
Westcott chuckled. “It was easy to deduce what you were worrying over.”
“I am not worrying over anything,” Sarah said defensively.
“You worry all the time,” he countered. “Over everything.”
Crossing her arms before her, Sarah’s brows pinched together, but she didn’t contradict him.
“I hope to alleviate one of your burdens,” he said sincerely, glancing at Susanna. “Her happiness is of the utmost importance to me.”
“I’ve been worrying over my siblings for almost thirty years,” Sarah said in reply. “It is not something that one can just escape. And with you, Susanna was almost kidnapped. Forgive me if this does not fill me with confidence.”
Westcott shrugged. “Almost only counts in horse shoes,” he replied nonchalantly. “Just know you are not the only one who wants the world for her. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”
Sarah stiffened, her back standing straighter. “Alone seems to be the way of my world, my lord.”
Westcott watched her with his peculiar grey green eyes, and she worried he might see more than she wanted him to.
“Your Mr. Gordon will return to you,” he said, his voice low enough no one would overhear them, but Sarah’s eyes darted around the room nonetheless. “You, my darling sister-in-law-to-be, are not someone any man with his wits about him would just walk away from. Have faith.”
Faith, Sarah thought sadly, was something she was not too familiar with. Faith that things would work out? What sort of idealistic nonsense was that? Things didn’t just work out, people made things work out. For one person who saw everything falling into place, there was another person pulling the strings to make those arrangements seem convenient.
If life had taught her anything, it was the only thing she could have faith in was herself.
There was small optimistic side of her. It was tiny in comparison to the pessimistic mistress that ruled her life, but it was there buried under the hurt and neglect and unyielding duty to her family. The untroubled young woman she had been before tragedy had begun to strike her life. She had glimpses of that girl when she was with William, laughing and carefree and unencumbered by the burdens her life had saddled her with. She yearned to be that girl again, to shed the darkness that clouded her life and dragged her down in its dreariness. If only William would return; she feared he was a key to her moving into the light.
She prayed Westcott was correct that she would see William again.
She just didn’t expect it to be two months later, when he appeared on her brother’s doorstep, a duke with a pregnant duchess in tow.
Christmas was one of Sarah’s least favorite holidays. Perhaps it was a reminder of everyone who was no longer with them. Perhaps it was the cold weather. But Sarah could just never get into the Christmas spirit. She and her sisters decorated the windows with boughs, laughed and sang along to the hymns Mara played on the pianoforte, but the joy the others seemed to feel never truly reached her heart.
Perhaps it was because Geoffrey had died on Christmas Eve.
But, Sarah decided, this Christmas was going to be different.
Susanna and Westcott had married just three weeks earlier and after a week-long honeymoon, Westcott left for France for a quick recruiting mission, whatever that meant. Sarah assumed it had something to do with his work for the Home Office, but she didn’t ask any more questions. Susanna was blissfully happy with her earl, and Sarah couldn’t be happier for the couple. He had also kept secret their previous encounter, and that spoke volumes about his character. She could cross Susanna off her list of “Siblings to Find Marriages For in 1814.”
Her sister Norah had now been moved to the very top of that list, though Norah didn’t seem to be of the same opinion. Watching Norah interact with her twin brother Nick, Sarah realized interacting with Nick seemed to be the only time lately that Norah was in a good mood. She had become awfully disagreeable since befriending some unpleasant ladies
—other débutantes in Norah’s year who had yet to find husbands—but Sarah knew there was more to her sister than Norah let on. Norah went through the motions; she smiled and danced when she was expected to, but there was something amiss with her younger sister Sarah just could not put her finger on. No gentleman had caught her eye just yet, though Norah was already two years removed from her debut. Sarah put a mental pin in the topic of Norah’s marriageable prospects, opting to think on it more.
Glancing across the room, she spied Andrew underneath what looked like a large tree in the drawing room. He and Clara were expecting a blessed event in the late spring. Sarah intended to spoil the next batch of Macalisters silly, starting with the young blonde four-year-old sitting on her lap— Andrew and Clara’s adopted daughter.
Miss Mary-Claire Baker-Macalister was threading walnuts and raisins onto a string, but more of them were ending up in her mouth than on the needle in Sarah’s hand.
“Mary-Claire, sweeting, if you eat all the sweets, we won’t have any to decorate the tree with!” Sarah exclaimed, tickling the young girl’s side. Mary-Claire giggled and popped another walnut into her mouth. She gave a wary glance to the evergreen tree her papa, uncles, and two footmen were attempting to wrestle into position on the other side of the room.
“Why is there a tree in the sitting room, Auntie Sarah?”
“It was a gift from your Uncle Ben,” she explained, though she really didn’t understand the gift in any way.
“A tree is a strange gift,” Mary-Claire declared, her nose scrunching up in disgust. “And it smells funny.” It was remarkable how closely her expressions matched those of her adopted mother. Mary-Claire was the spitting image of Clara, due to the fact she was the daughter of Clara’s identical twin sister, who had died soon after Mary-Claire’s birth. In the six months since Andrew and Clara had become her guardians, Mary-Claire had become cherished as one of their own.
“Mary-Claire, come with me and we will find some more walnuts,” said a young lord, bending down to the young girl’s level.
“And sweets, Uncle Paddy?”
Clara’s younger brother Patrick, the new Earl of Morton, grinned. “Only if you don’t tell Auntie Sarah, for she will tattle on us to your mummy.” He winked at Sarah.
Giggling, Mary-Claire hoped off Sarah’s lap, slipping her little hand into her uncle’s and followed him out of the room, chattering about the silly smelly tree.
Standing, Sarah brushed the crumbs from her lap where Mary-Claire had left at least half the bowl of nuts and raisins and went to watch grown men wrestle with a tree. Standing beside Clara, she watched as Andrew, Nick, and Charlie attempted to wrangle the rather large coniferous tree into place.
“Explain this again?” Sarah asked, waving her hand in the general direction of the tree.
Glancing at the papers in her hands, Clara frowned. “Bennett says it’s a tree to decorate for Christmas.” Clara handed over the papers, and Sarah shuffled through them. Bennett’s travels with the navy took him all over the globe, and he had a penchant for sending odd gifts, but this seemed a step off of sanity.
“I heard something about the Queen doing this once,” Sarah murmured as she read through Bennett’s letter. “They all thought she was a bit mad for it as well. Bennett says it’s a tradition he admired during his time in Strasbourg. What was he doing in Strasbourg? There aren’t any ports anywhere near there.”
“I don’t even know where Strasbourg is, I’m afraid,” Clara replied, watching the scene warily, her hand absently stoking her swollen abdomen.
Reading through her brother’s letter, Sarah muttered, “I believe it’s in Prussia.”
“Are we truly to put candles on the tree?” Clara asked, picking up a small unburned candle from the crate that accompanied the tree when it arrived earlier in the day. “Won’t that light the entire thing on fire?”
“Candles and sweets on a string for decoration,” Sarah read from the letter, nodding as she flipped through the pages. Nothing in the letter offered reassurances of her brother’s sanity.
With a deep sigh, Sarah folded the papers and handed them back to Clara. “Ben has been gone for too long,” Sarah concluded.
Andrew, Nick, and Charlie stepped away from the tree, having managed to get it into place, the footmen attaching some sort of wooden stand at the base to support its height. It stood a foot taller than Andrew, though well shy of tracing the ceiling. Needles had already begun to fall from its branches, scattering across the floor.
“Are we certain there is not anything living in this tree?” Clara asked, frowning.
Sarah shook her head. “Your guests are going to think we’ve lost our minds,” she noted to her sister-in-law.
“Probably,” Clara admitted. “But honestly, we probably have.” With a glance at her husband, Clara smiled. “Andrew seems to do whatever any of you say, even if it means bringing a dead, potentially vermin-filled tree into the house and lighting it on fire.” Clara smirked, looking to Sarah, the gold flecks in her brown eyes twinkling in the candle light of the room. “Though men are seldom known for their cleverness.”
Sarah wanted to laugh out loud at her sister-in-law’s cheekiness, but instead she simply nodded. She didn’t have much light and laughter inside her anymore, having felt rather empty since . . . well, since a week after she’d arrived in London two months ago. Sarah gave herself a mental shake, swallowing down the flood of emotion that always followed whenever her thoughts strayed to him, he whom she would never speak of ever, ever again.
The first few days after their parting had been spent in a sort of blissful cloud, floating from room to room, dreamily anticipating his return. After a week, she had begun to really worry, keeping a careful eye on the mail, searching every face when they went out, hoping he would appear. As the weeks rolled on, her blissfulness had turned hard and cold, accepting the situation for what it was. William was dead, or worse, he had abandoned her. Luckily she was not with child, but she held little hope that would ever happen. No, the only reminders she had of their time together were her own memories, and they weighed on her more every day. Escaping London with her family for Christmas to Bradstone Park in Kent, her brother’s ducal seat, had been a godsend, a lifeline she could hold on to and an opportunity to reorganize her life.
The thought of returning to London in the spring made her stomach churn. Society held little interest. She and Lydia had made plans for their lives, to remain widows, gaining the ton’s respect by intimidation. They had lofty titles; they were beautiful and wealthy. Together they formed a formidable pair, dragons in the making. It had been their intent to age into their roles with ease and elegance.
Except now Sarah didn’t want to go back. After spending three days carefree and laughing as she hadn’t in years, being back in her widow greys, curtailing her emotions, playacting the role that wasn’t truly in her heart any longer, she did not want this life. Pretending to be someone she did not want to be was exhausting.
“The Duke and Duchess of Foxton,” the butler announced.
Andrew had mentioned they would have three additional guests, as the Duke and Duchess of Foxton had appeared on their doorstep late the evening before with a cousin, lost in the raging snowstorm outside and having been turned away at the inn. The previous Duke of Foxton had been a surly, disagreeable man who squandered his fortune in everything unpleasant, most of it bordering on illegal. Had the old duke been the one to ask for admittance, Andrew might have allowed it, but he certainly wouldn’t have been invited to visit with the family. But the old duke had died, and the son who had recently inherited was by all accounts a different sort of man than his father. Sarah hadn’t met their graces yet, as neither were at breakfast this morning, but now, just before luncheon, they made their appearance. She hoped the son was truly more agreeable than the father.
Sarah put on a polite welcoming smile as she turned to greet their guests, but the sight of the man standing in the doo
rway stopped her dead.
He was there. He whom she would never speak of ever, ever again.
William appeared to recognize her a moment after she recognized him, and his jaw tightened in agitation.
“Your grace, allow me to introduce Bradstone’s sister, Lady Radcliff,” Clara was saying, but her voice was faint through the thick fog in Sarah’s ears. She managed a curtsy at the correct time and as William made his bow, a movement at his arm caught her attentions.
“Sarah, please meet our guests, the new Duke of Foxton. And his wife.”
The Duchess of Foxton was stunningly beautiful, in a way that made Sarah feel rather dowdy. She had a young, thin face and nose, large dark eyes, and bright golden-blonde hair. Her frame was lithe and slim, except for her swollen abdomen, clearly at least six months pregnant.
“We thank you for your hospitality, your grace,” William was saying to Clara, his face now devoid of any recognition.
Was he just going to pretend he didn’t know her? Like the promises they made to each other meant nothing?
“We couldn’t just leave you out in the cold,” Clara scolded with a bright, genuine smile, brushing off his gratitude as something anyone would have done. “And to think the inn was at capacity.”
“There was no room at the inn?” Sarah asked, finding her voice, and her fire.
Looking to her, William’s lips quirked up, almost in a smirk. “At Christmas, no less.”
“We are truly thankful for your hospitality,” the young woman said, her voice light and buoyant. With a glance at her husband she added, “Palmer insisted we stop, even though I was more than willing to attempt to beat the storm to London. Your hospitality is far superior over those dreary inns!”