By Winter's Light

by Stephanie Laurens

  He paused, then continued, his gaze still holding hers; she found it impossible to look away. “The position comes with an increased stipend, one sufficient to support a wife and family.”

  She couldn’t suppress her reaction—the instinctive stiffening—even though she retained the presence of mind not to act on the impulse to take a definite step back. The impulse to shake her head.

  This was precisely what she had feared, that he would read too much into her liking for his company, into the easy rapport that from the first they’d shared.

  Into the connection that had always seemed to be there between them—gentle, understated, nascent perhaps, yet a link of sorts nonetheless.

  That link made it impossible for her to pretend she didn’t comprehend his direction, that she didn’t understand the question in the depths of his eyes. That she didn’t hear the emotion underlying his words when, voice low, he said, “I wanted to ask if there was any hope. For me…for us?”

  Inwardly gathering herself, holding his gaze even though that cost her dearly—she owed him that much—she opened her mouth to say what she must…only to discover that the words she’d been so sure would be there, ready to trip off her tongue, had vanished. Gone.

  She stared, confounded, surprised, and suddenly lost. She knew she had to say no, that she had to let him down gently yet make it clear that such a hope on his part could never become a reality, not with her…

  Seeing her confusion, he hesitated, then said, “I’m not pushing for a firm answer—I just wanted to know if…the possibility was there.” When she still didn’t respond, his face tightened. “If you would consider—just consider—spending the rest of your life with me.”

  Her heart was suddenly in her throat, strangling her vocal cords. Again, she tried to speak. Again, the words wouldn’t come.

  Epiphany struck.

  And left her reeling.

  She couldn’t say the words, couldn’t give voice to them…because they weren’t the words she wanted to say.

  The realization rocked her. When had this happened? Surely not… How could this be?

  Was she—that restless, reckless her she’d successfully suppressed for so many years—actually considering…

  No.

  Yes.

  He’d started to frown. She had to say something. She moistened her lips—saw his gaze deflect to them.

  Felt something inside her hitch. “I…”

  “Mrs. Meadows! Medy?”

  Juliet, calling from the front hall. Claire hauled in a breath. Suddenly desperate—and she didn’t know why—she searched Daniel’s eyes, then she gripped his arm.

  “Later.” She felt the steel of his forearm beneath her fingers and gripped tighter for emphasis. “I promise I’ll give you an answer later.”

  Once she’d formulated the right answer and put it into words.

  Before he could reply, she released him, whirled to the door, pushed it open, and went through.

  As she closed the door behind her—leaving him alone on the chilly front porch—Daniel heard her say, “Here I am—what’s the matter?”

  Feeling…utterly discombobulated—was her response a yes or a no? How could she have managed to leave him with neither?—he looked out, unseeing, at the snow-draped landscape.

  He replayed the exchange, searched every word and nuance, every glance, for some clue to her intention, and found none.

  She’d understood him—and she hadn’t answered.

  Was he supposed to interpret her non-answer as a no? Or was she sincere in saying she would answer him properly later?

  Even if she did, would her answer still be no? Had she simply grasped the chance offered by Juliet to take more time to find better words in which to say him nay?

  He snorted. “I couldn’t have surprised her. She knew—knows—that I feel for her in that way.”

  But what did she feel? That was the point on which he’d sought elucidation.

  All he’d received thus far was an even greater degree of complexity and confusion.

  The chill air started to penetrate his suit coat; he’d left his overcoat inside.

  He finally focused on the landscape and realized that its empty bleakness was a perfect analogy for what his life would be—would feel like to him—without Claire in it.

  Straightening, stiffening his spine, he drew in a breath, then turned back to the house.

  Regardless of what her answer proved to be, he wouldn’t be giving up—on her, on them, on their future—so easily.

  * * *

  To reach the tower in which Raven’s room—the one Daniel was sharing—lay, he had to cross the Great Hall.

  Head down, wrestling with the hideous tangle of his thoughts, he was halfway across the large room when an imperious “Mr. Crosbie” fell on his ears.

  Looking at the dais, he saw the dowager beckoning.

  Stifling incipient wariness, he diverted toward that end of the room; Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, was not a personage it was possible to refuse.

  Halting before the dais, he met Helena’s pale eyes and essayed a polite smile. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  Folding her hands, she studied him, her penetrating gaze as always unsettling.

  To his relief, she didn’t study him for long. A small, commiserating—to Daniel, rather worrying—smile curved her lips. “From your demeanor when you came into the hall just now, I take it your embassy didn’t meet with instant success.”

  How had she—they—known? A swift glance showed Algaria nodding in sober agreement; McArdle, at least, was decently asleep.

  “That being so,” Helena continued, for all the world as if his embassy and his lack of success were entries in an open book, “I wished to advise you to stay your course.”

  Daniel opened his mouth, then closed it; he wasn’t sure what to say. Eventually, forcing himself to meet Helena’s uncanny gaze, he steeled himself and asked, “Are you sure?”

  In the present situation, he’d take help and encouragement from any quarter that offered.

  Algaria snorted, yet the sound conveyed approval of his question—which, of course, implied acceptance of Helena’s pronouncement. “We’re as sure as anyone can be when people and emotions are involved.”

  Helena’s smile deepened. “But yes, I am sure.” She paused, then added, “In such affairs, one should remember that anything worthwhile is indubitably—self-evidently—worth fighting for.”

  He considered both her words and her expression, and—insensibly, perhaps—felt heartened.

  Politely—with all due grace—he inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  He took a step back, then turned and continued on his way—inwardly shaking his head when he looked within and discovered that he did, indeed, feel more confident, certainly more sure and determined on his path, than he had when he’d entered the hall moments before.

  From their chairs on the dais, Helena and Algaria watched Daniel leave the hall.

  When he disappeared from sight, Helena sighed. “Such a nice young man.” After a moment, she cocked a brow at Algaria. “May we trust in your Lady to see to it that he receives his just reward?”

  Helena wasn’t surprised when Algaria tilted her head, her gaze growing distant as if she was listening to something Helena couldn’t hear.

  After a moment, Algaria blinked, then shook herself. “Him—and her, too. I believe we can count on it, regardless of what’s to come.”

  Helena arched her brows. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to share what’s to come?”

  Algaria pulled a face. “I would if I could, but that’s the sum of all I know.”

  Helena grimaced lightly. “Ah, well.” She looked toward the archway through which Daniel had gone. “In that case, we will simply have to have faith in those powers that are greater than us all.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Claire had never dithered in her life. Even when the worst had befallen her, she’d been shocked, aghast, horrified, but s
he’d always known her own mind. Yet now, faced with Daniel and his plans for a future with her as his wife, she…had no idea what she thought. What she felt? That was a different story, but she’d long ago learned that giving in to her impulses led to heartbreak, that her feelings were unreliable indicators as to sensible, much less safe, behavior. She’d learned the hard way not to trust her instincts.

  At least, not when it came to men and marriage.

  The gong finally rang for luncheon. Having presided over a brief sewing session to repair the hem on Juliet’s overcoat—Alathea Cynster was a firm believer in her children knowing the basics of survival, and sewing was one such necessary skill—Claire walked into the Great Hall in Juliet, Louisa, Therese, and Annabelle’s wake. A quick glance around revealed that, with the older children still out riding, the three tutors and Melinda had elected to join the remaining children at their table, filling the spaces normally taken by the fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys.

  Whether by design or simply luck, the space awaiting her was alongside Daniel.

  Claire hesitated for only a heartbeat, then, with wholly spurious calm, went forward to claim her seat; she couldn’t create a fuss over such a minor thing…and she wasn’t such a coward. She had to give Daniel some form of answer. She’d told him “later,” but hadn’t specified when “later” would be.

  Sadly, despite her thoughts having churned furiously ever since she’d come in from the porch, she was still no nearer formulating the right response—one that accurately conveyed her reaction to his suggestion.

  He’d been so heartbreakingly direct and honest. She simply couldn’t allow herself not to be the same.

  Which meant she had to grapple with the totality of the unexpected, unprecedented, and entirely unanticipated emotions his words, their implication, and even more him—just him—evoked in her. Not even over her late husband could she recall experiencing this depth of emotional wrenching, as if something buried deep inside her was struggling to break through. To break free.

  She was dimly aware of the others in the hall—of the Cynster couples filling the high table, the three older members at one end like three wise men, and the many other members of the manor household gathered about the tables. In a bustling stream, footmen and maids were ferrying covered dishes from the kitchen, delicious aromas wafting through the air as they passed.

  Then, noticing that the four girls had arrived, Richard Cynster, their host, rose and raised his goblet. “To the gatherers of the evergreens—well done, girls!”

  “The hall looks lovely!”

  “So pretty with all the holly.”

  “Perfect for the season.”

  With those and similar comments coming from all quarters, the girls beamed, accepting the accolades with becoming pleasure.

  Claire smiled appreciatively at the foursome, too. They had worked diligently, and the hall did, indeed, look wonderfully festive.

  Daniel rose as she neared. “Mrs. Meadows.” His gaze found hers as he offered his hand to help her step over the bench.

  Meeting his gaze only briefly, Claire inclined her head. “Mr. Crosbie.” Maintaining her mask of unimpaired serenity took effort; she steeled herself against the contact, put her hand in his, and allowed him to assist her over the bench. Strangely, this time, the sensation of his fingers closing, warm and firm, over hers steadied rather than unnerved her. Reluctantly slipping her fingers free, she sat and settled her skirts.

  Juliet joined Louisa, Therese, and Annabelle in the places to Claire’s right, while beyond Daniel, the six boys who, supervised by Raven and Morris, had gathered and prepared the Yule logs were in full flight, describing their activities of the morning and eagerly discussing the ceremony that was to follow that afternoon.

  From his place at the far end, Raven leaned forward to speak down the table. “It’ll take at least an hour to bring all the logs in and get the fires set and blazing. The whole household usually gathers to watch. In this house, the ceremony involves the four fireplaces here, plus the one in the entry hall and the one in the drawing room. The burning of Cailleach, the spirit of winter, is a very important ritual to all those who live here—to the locals, it’s a critical part of marking the turn of the year.”

  Morris, seated opposite Raven, humphed. “With the snow freezing on the ground and icicles hanging off the eaves, it isn’t hard to see why.”

  Raven grinned. “It’ll get a lot worse before spring comes, and I believe that’s part of the meaning behind the Yule log ceremony—that it acknowledges the hope and expectation that, in time, the weather will once again improve.”

  The children, predictably, were more interested in the details of the ceremony; as soup was dispensed and consumed, they peppered Raven, as well as Annabelle, Calvin, and Carter—the three of Richard and Catriona’s children present—with questions that the four did their best to answer. Then pots of stew replaced the soup tureens, and the heartier fare claimed the children’s attention; gradually, the rowdiness faded.

  Sampling her helping of the rich savory stew, Claire wrestled with her dilemma—with her difficulty facing the unexpected, disconcerting truth Daniel’s speaking of his wishes had revealed, and of how to be honest with him while simultaneously guarding them both against hurt.

  She didn’t want to risk being hurt again, but she didn’t want to hurt him, either. She knew all about that particular type of hurt. It wasn’t one she wished to court again, yet neither did she wish to visit it on him.

  “I…” She hadn’t made a conscious decision to speak, but some part of her awareness—the part that any good tutor or governess developed—had noted that all the others around them were presently engaged in and distracted by conversations of their own. Seizing the moment, she swallowed and, keeping her voice low, continued speaking for Daniel’s ears alone. “I need to explain…well, several things.”

  She wasn’t sure how to go on and took a sip of the wine the Cynsters had sent to their table. Conscious of Daniel’s gaze resting on her face, of being the cynosure of his attention, she cleared her throat, set down the glass and went on, “Your…vision of your future. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise, yet it was. It wasn’t something I’d considered—”

  “Mrs. Meadows—can we help the boys bring in the logs?” Therese fixed her blue eyes on Claire’s face.

  Claire blinked. She glanced up the table at Raven, then briefly met Daniel’s gaze before turning back to Therese and her three cronies. “Perhaps not the hauling in, but you can certainly supervise the setting of the fires—that would be more appropriate, don’t you think?”

  Louisa was quick to agree, and the girls fell to dividing up the fireplaces, with each claiming responsibility for one of those in the hall.

  “Supervising?” Cynical amusement rang in Daniel’s tone. “Very adroit.”

  “One has to be, dealing with those four,” Claire replied.

  After an instant’s pause, his gaze on her profile, he prompted, “You were saying?”

  Without looking his way, she drew in a breath and forged on. “As I was saying, I hadn’t thought—hadn’t envisioned the prospect at all…or, at least, not in the sense of it being a real prospect. Not in the sense of having to answer your question—the one you asked me on the porch.” She felt breathless, rattled, ridiculously nervous; drawing in another quick breath, she hurried on. “However, that doesn’t mean that I don’t wish to give you an answer. I just…”

  She shifted on the bench. Turning her head toward him, but unable, still, to meet his eyes, with her voice lower still and some emotion akin to desperation seeping into her tone, she forced herself to say, “I thought I knew the answer. I was sure I did—that in any such situation, the answer was—would be—obvious and straightforward, because after being married once, why would I wish to marry again? But instead…”

  The vise about her lungs cinched tight and she stopped.

  Then on a spurt of strength, she met Daniel’s eyes. “I’m babbling. I
owe you an answer—I want to give you an answer. But—”

  “Medy.” Juliet waited until Claire looked at her to ask, “Even if we’re not helping with the pulling, we can go out with the boys and all the others to cheer them on as they bring in the logs, can’t we?”

  What? Claire was momentarily at a loss, but she was too experienced to agree to something without understanding what she was agreeing to.

  Daniel saw her confusion. He’d already heard the details of the ceremony; quietly, he said, “The whole household usually goes out to line the way as those bringing in the Yule logs haul them to the front door. The logs are already beside the stable, so it’s no great distance.”

  “Ah, thank you.” Claire looked at Juliet and the other three girls. “Yes, of course—just make sure you put your coats back on, and proper boots, hats, and gloves.”

  On a chorus of cheery assurances, the four girls returned to their planning.

  Claire turned back to Daniel, one hand rising to rub her temple. A frown formed between her brows. After a moment, she sighed. “I’m sorry—I’ve lost my train of thought.”

  Her thoughts hadn’t been coherent enough to have a train. That beneath her outward calm she was agitated hadn’t escaped Daniel; that she was agitated disturbed him. Clearly, what he’d thought a simple question wasn’t so simple for her. After being married once, why would I wish to marry again? Although he’d known she was a widow, that question hadn’t occurred to him. And what did it mean? Was he competing with the memory of her late husband? Was there some comparison, some standard he had to meet?

  “Mr. Crosbie.” Jason, seated opposite and two places along, was waiting to catch Daniel’s gaze. Jason grinned, all but bobbing with anticipation. “You have to come and see my carving of Cailleach—before it burns.”