“Eat some soup,” Nell ordered. “Before you freeze to death in that chair.” She ladled out a hefty serving and handed it over. Clutching the bowl close to her chest, Rena ran her spoon thoughtfully along the rim, breathing in the savory steam. The soup was mostly broth, with a few carrots and onions and even fewer potatoes, but she still ate thankfully.
Nell crossed to the table. “Oh yes,” she remembered, snatching up an envelope. “A letter arrived for you.”
At first, as Rena’s hand closed around the envelope, she thought it might be from her parents. She had written to them only twice since arriving in England. Once to assure them she had arrived safely, the other letter posted just that afternoon. Nell had pleaded with her for several weeks to send them word again, but writing to her parents was a task of tears and ink, and Rena knew that useless words could never explain her choice to them or come close to easing their grief. Though post took only a few months to arrive from India, she’d been able to understand their seven-month silence. Did words feel as hollow to them? Or had there been delays, perhaps, and so their letters had simply not reached her yet?
As she flipped the thin envelope over in her hands, she knew at once it was not from them. The writing was too ornate, a flourish of green ink which was sealed with an elaborate crimson crest.
She slid her fingers beneath the seal, read the contents quickly, and frowned.
“It’s an invitation,” she announced, her voice muddled with confusion, as if puzzling aloud through a riddle.
“An invitation?” Nell’s surprise battled Rena’s as she craned her neck for a sideways glimpse of the writing. “Whatever for?”
“Lord Barric’s annual Christmas party.” Rena let the letter drop in her lap. The invitation did not make sense. The party was to be held the next day, and he had not mentioned it on the road. “It must be a mistake,” she decided, though Barric did not seem the type of man to make such a careless mistake.
Nell took up the letter in her hands and shook her head as she scanned it. “Mrs. Rena Hawley,” she read. “Seems too precise for a mistake. Perhaps he wanted to surprise you?”
Rena thought back to their interchange on the road. He had told her he wished for her to consider Misthold her home, but he had also cautioned them, rather wisely, to keep their distance from each other.
“I can’t go.” Rena turned her attention back to her soup, but her mind was still in a tangle.
“Oh, but you must go,” Nell replied, ladling out a bowl of soup for herself. “Think of all he has done for us. You cannot snub him now.”
“But your name is not on the invitation,” Rena pointed out, still grasping, unsuccessfully, for a reasonable excuse to decline. “Nell, I could not think of leaving you here, alone.”
“I’m sure he has his reasons,” Nell answered. “You must promise me you’ll go and that you’ll have a wonderful time, and that you’ll tell me all about it. I know you will feel easier about it once you are there.”
Rena stood at Lord Barric’s door, wearing another of Alice’s dresses, this one a yellowish gold which matched the lantern glow. She did not feel any easier, as Nell had promised she would, and had been all the more perplexed to learn William had not been invited to this particular party, nor Alice.
“I’m not really sure what Barric means by it,” William had said, frowning at her invitation just that morning. “He’s said nothing of it to me, but I don’t handle his parties.”
Though William hadn’t let on, he seemed unaccountably troubled by the invitation, brushing his fingers over his jaw as he pondered its meaning.
Alice, meanwhile, had dropped her gaze from the invitation and found something to busy herself with in the other room, emerging moments later with a dress for Rena to borrow and a weary half smile that made Rena feel all the guiltier for attending.
And so Rena arrived—alone—feeling oddly stiff in a dress that fit her like a foreign skin. The door to Misthold was opened, and a stately butler bowed her through, though his eyes betrayed uneasiness, perhaps even confusion, at finding her on the steps. She considered apologizing, leaving, rushing back to Nell before Lord Barric would see her, but she was ushered into the hall before she could consider such an escape.
The last time she had been in Misthold Manor, Barric had brought her in a back door, through a shadowy hall which had felt like a catacomb. The main entryway, however, was open and lit, with luxury written in every detail. She craned her neck, tracing the chandeliers, then the royal oaken staircase which curved at an endless angle, up to thick balustrades and a carved balcony heavily bedecked in holly.
Festive music clambered through the halls, its notes carried on lively piano keys. There were at least two Christmas trees in each of the front rooms, some decorated with ruby apples, others with ornate ribbons and shiny baubles. Rena stared at the lovely trees, charmed and perplexed by the sight of them. According to Nell, the strange tradition of decorating trees had come to England through the influence of Prince Albert, the queen’s husband, who was from Germany, where such things started. When pictures had first circulated of Prince Albert’s Christmas tree in Windsor Castle, he enchanted the entire country, and the tradition blossomed. Nell had already enlisted William to cut down their own tree for the cottage.
At the butler’s nod, Rena stepped into the sitting room. She didn’t recognize most of the people gathered. Parson Richardson was there, sitting by the fire with a drink in hand as he spoke with an unfamiliar cluster of men. In the other corner, Thomas was in the process of teasing two elegant ladies who were dressed in mauve silk and pretending to be bashful.
As soon as Rena was through the door, she knew something was wrong. All eyes turned to her in unmasked astonishment, and the lady at the piano lost her place in the middle of a trill, clunking the wrong key. Charlie lazed beside the piano, dressed in a fine suit with a daring purple velvet waistcoat, his hand balanced on top of the instrument. He’d been leaning down to whisper something to the lady seated there, but like everyone else, his gaze cut to the door as soon as the piano hushed. There was an obvious question on his face, a pressing look which was trying urgently to tell Rena something—but Rena did not know Charlie well enough to read the message written in his eyes.
No one in the room approached Rena, or said a word, but only stared at her, until Lord Barric came out of nowhere, grabbing a firm hold of her arm and tugging her into the hall.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered, all but dragging her toward an alcove at the base of the staircase. When she didn’t answer straightaway, he released her, searching her face with an expression that was impossibly creased around his eyes.
Rena drew back from him, his distress making her more anxious.
“I…I was invited…”
His mouth formed a thin line. There was an unusual stiffness about him, confusion perhaps, followed by a glance of peculiar dismay. He opened his mouth, clearly in protest, when a smooth voice interrupted from the doorway. “Ah, so our last guest has finally arrived.”
As Barric registered the voice, his eyes softened momentarily on Rena’s face, a look of near apology. Turning toward the intruder, Barric said in a low voice, “You invited her, then.”
The older man wore a thick, trimmed mustache and an immaculate suit of black. He leaned against the doorframe, casually, as if he had been watching them the entire time. “Now, don’t be too angry with me, Barric. What’s Christmas without a little mischief?” As he crossed the marble floor, his eyes flitted over to Rena. “Let’s just say I couldn’t help my own curiosity.”
“Mrs. Hawley, this is my uncle, Mr. George Fairfax.” Barric carried out the introduction tightly, lifting an arm toward the stranger. “He is Sir Alistair’s cousin.” He looked at Rena more directly. “And I do believe you have already met my uncle’s son”—he paused, jaw clenching slightly—“on the evening we first met.”
Thomas. This man was his father? Barric’s uncle George tipped her a low bow, his sm
ile warm, but Rena couldn’t bring herself to trust it. She could now see the resemblance to his son too easily. Thick, dark hair hung low on the brow. Angular features came to a point at the chin. But even more than physical features, father and son shared the same look of prowling confidence, entirely undaunted. She didn’t understand why Lord Barric’s uncle had invited her to his party or why he had withheld his intentions from his nephew, but neither uncle nor nephew seemed at all confused by what had happened.
“I can leave,” she whispered to Barric. This time he didn’t meet her eyes, anger etched in his gaze as he looked instead at his uncle.
“I had no idea,” she went on weakly. “I thought the invitation was from you.” Still, he said nothing, only stared past her as if waiting for his uncle to say something else.
“Barric,” his uncle scolded. “Escort your guest into the sitting room.”
When Barric wouldn’t reply, Rena decided for him. “I will leave you both to your party,” she said, tipping a curtsy before heading hastily toward the door.
“Leaving?” This time it was Charlie’s boisterous voice that cut the awkward silence. He strode quickly into the room, his smile tight but strangely valiant. “You are the first interesting person to arrive, I assure you.” Coming to a stop between Rena and the door, he offered his arm, then another smile. “I insist you sit beside me at dinner. We are all delighted to have you, aren’t we, Jack?”
Jack. Rena glanced back at Lord Barric, taken aback by the unfamiliar sound of his Christian name. After several seconds, Lord Barric spoke. “She sits by me.” With a solemn bow to Rena, and a last rebuking glare at his uncle, he coolly strode back into the sitting room, where the merry voices had returned, rising in volume as a new swell of music echoed through the halls.
Uncle George lingered a moment longer than his nephew. “Always had a temper, that one,” he confided to Rena with a look of bemusement, then followed Lord Barric out of the hall.
Charlie gave Rena a few seconds to stand and breathe before he burdened her by asking, “Are you all right?”
Her hand tightened around his proffered arm, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his jacket. “Let’s get this over with,” she answered miserably, and allowed him to steer her back into the sitting room.
At dinner Rena was indeed seated beside Lord Barric—the place of honor though it felt like a farce. Like the rest of the house, the table had been impeccably trimmed for Christmas, its linen cloth decked with Christmas garlands and luminous red bouquets. Barric wore a single-breasted evening coat which was stylish in its simplicity, tailored to fit him narrowly, with a cream-colored waistcoat and a crisp white cravat knotted high beneath his chin. His hair seemed two shades redder in the candlelight.
As they waited for the first course, conversation had been sparse, generally quiet. Most of the women spoke on matters of fashion, the men of hunting, but Rena was carefully silent. When she finally braved a glance at the party, Charlie caught her gaze almost immediately, as if he had been waiting for her, and offered a sympathetic grin from his place across the table.
Soup a la Reine was the first course announced, paired with an expensive smoked salmon from Scotland. Wine glasses were filled liberally by a tall butler with a hooded gaze. To Rena everything looked and smelled unreal, impossibly lavish. As soon as the soup arrived, Uncle George took a spoonful, nodded its suitability, and turned to face her. “Mrs. Hawley, won’t you tell us about yourself?” He spared a subtle smile for his nephew. “Barric has told me very little about you.”
“That’s because he knows very little,” Rena replied, taking a quick drink of her wine and smiling, faintly, over the rim. With a crooked grin, Uncle George tipped his glass toward her as if awarding a silent point.
Barric shifted in his seat. “And am I to allow such a rebuke at my own table?” he challenged, his lips touched by a slight smile of his own. “That I know very little of my own guest?” He slanted an eyebrow in mock rebuke. “Then I will say, Mrs. Hawley, in my own humble defense, that I know enough.”
Rena stared, dumbfounded as he eased back into his chair and turned to Charlie with some inquiry she could not hear. Those were the first words Lord Barric had spoken to her since they’d been seated, though his fingers had lingered on the back of her chair, brushing the side of her neck as he had helped push in her seat. At the time, she’d trained herself not to think of it, but the way he looked at her just now—and then those words of challenge—made her wonder if the gesture had been altogether incidental.
As the rest of the wine glasses were filled with sparkling claret, several of the ladies made flirtatious banter with Lord Barric.
“You celebrate in style, Barric,” one lady observed, her winter-white gown laced so tightly her shoulder blades nearly brushed each other. Green ostrich feathers were arranged in the lady’s chestnut hair, and a heavy gold necklace was fastened around her neck, which caught the candlelight and made it dance. Her smile was a faint curve. Playful.
From previous conversation, Rena gathered that she was Lady Angelina Prim, the daughter of a marquess, and, as such, should have been seated where Rena sat, at Barric’s right side. Rena had to admit that Lady Angelina, in her fine white dress—a bold choice compared to the fashionably bright colors of the other ladies’ evening gowns—would have matched Lord Barric rather nicely. Instead, she’d been escorted by Charlie and was seated beside him on the other side of the table. The rest of the party was settled fastidiously according to rank, men and ladies staggered. Lady Angelina’s eyes were sharp as they fell on Rena, clearly pricked by the slight, but she addressed Lord Barric instead. “You’ve such an eye for elegance.”
“I see a good deal of elegance at this table, none of which was my own doing,” Barric answered, his smile trailing briefly to Rena as he lifted his own drink.
As Lady Angelina prattled on about the impossible task of finding the right gown, Rena stared vacantly at her wine glass, fighting the hitch in her chest that had settled with Barric’s gaze. To feel anything at all for Lord Barric would be absurd. Even with his handsome smiles, he was far too high above her, and she still too strangled by grief, to entertain such nonsense.
“Tell us about India,” suggested the parson from his place toward the end of the table. Two ladies across from him shared a glance. Thomas coughed away a laugh. “I would very much like to go there myself one day,” the parson went on, ignoring them. “As a missionary, of course.”
“Oh, it is a beautiful place,” Rena exclaimed, grabbing instinctively for the thin cord around her neck, as she often did when she ached for home. Barric’s eyes followed the path of her hand, but she wasn’t sure if she was imagining the way his eyes creased as he looked away.
Noting her sudden silence, the parson nodded encouragingly. “And?” he pressed, holding her eyes so she would not have to look at Barric’s guests as they murmured among themselves. “What do you miss the most?”
She considered the question, allowing herself to drift home inwardly in a way she didn’t often allow herself to do. “It is hard to narrow to just one point,” she admitted slowly. “But I miss the sand that gathers between the tiles in the entryway of our home, and the hibiscus that grows outside my chamber. I miss the way my father’s study smells in the early evening, of spices and ink, and the way the endless heat drags on for forever, hazing the horizon until the monsoon season comes. And if you look just right from the outer terrace, you can see men and women as they walk to the market, or the crimson coats of soldiers as they pass….”
Rena trailed off at the end of her sentence, dropping her eyes to the flowered pattern of her china bowl, but it was too late. The image of a soldier’s uniform had branded itself in her mind. When no one spoke right away, she allowed herself a taste of soup, but the memory of Edric was too thick for her to swallow easily.
Uncle George leaned closer to her over the table. She was afraid he might mention Edric, but he didn’t. He waited for her to meet his ey
es before he asked, “Tell us of your father, Mrs. Hawley. What, exactly, does he do?”
“He assists the British with translations.”
“Ah,” he remarked. “Well educated. He must be a Brahmin, then?”
She straightened. Nodded. Feared falling into a trap.
He laced his fingers together in a thoughtful gesture. She could tell he was still measuring her, though she doubted he was much impressed. “And so he studies languages?”
She allowed herself another spoonful of soup before answering, “Yes.”
“Yes, that explains it,” he said. “Your accent, my dear, is tolerably proficient.” Beside her, Barric’s hand tightened around his wine glass as if preparing for something unpleasant. She forced her eyes back on his uncle, who went on casually. “And how old were you when you began to study our language?”
“Ten.”
“Ten!” he exclaimed, sitting back in his chair again. He glanced at Barric, obviously impressed, but Barric did not meet his eyes.
“Very impressive, I’m sure,” Lady Angelina remarked in a droll tone that sounded not at all impressed.
“You were there for the mutiny, I suppose.” This time it was Thomas who spoke, his tone sharp as he eyed her down the length of the table. The servants had begun clearing the bowls from the first course, and as hers was lifted from its place, Rena realized how little she’d managed to eat.
“Of course,” she answered.
“Particularly nasty bit of business,” Thomas mused. “Your people killed our women, you know, our children. Locked them in a little hut and hacked them all to pieces. Then threw their bodies down a well.”
A few of the ladies gasped, though none as loudly as Lady Angelina. Barric set his own spoon down with a hard clank. “Is this really an appropriate conversation for a party?” His voice was so soft that Rena had a hard time hearing him over the din of her own rising anger.
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