by Nina Clare
He did not know what impulse possessed him, but he turned his own face so that her fingers were on his lips, and he kissed the tips of them just once. It was so small a gesture, but it felt full of meaning. That one small touch, that one tiny kiss seemed to change everything, as though he had crossed an unexpected border in his life. She said nothing, but withdrew her hand, tucking it back beneath the cover of his coat. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the stone wall, wondering what new madness was gripping him, and prayed that the coachman had raised the alarm by now, and they would be found soon before the madness got any worse.
15
‘I can hear someone!’ Lord Marbury struggled to his feet, his limbs stiff from sitting so long. He groped for the door, found the bolt in the dark and tugged it back.
The wind had died down, and the rain had ceased. Patches of sky had cleared of clouds, and swathes of stars emerged.
‘Over here!’ yelled Lord Marbury, running out into the field, a thick layer of hail crunching under his feet. ‘Here! Here!’ He waved and shouted furiously as though he were back at university, at some boxing match or horse race.
Lantern lights swung and horse hooves pounded the freezing ground as the searchers caught the sound of his voice and turned back.
‘I was never so glad to see that beast,’ cried Lord Marbury, when Neville was the first rider to appear.
‘So this is your idea of an evening stroll, is it?’ said Neville, ‘Or were you just finding amusement in making me wait for my dinner? Sweeting refused to serve a single dish until the master was home, so I had no choice but to come and find you.’
A groom from the hall rode up and promptly dismounted, that his master might ride home. Lord Marbury thanked him, and told him to hurry back to Highmott, taking the lantern with him.
‘You’re not hurt, are you?’ said Neville.
‘No, but there’s someone with me who is.’
‘Who?’ Neville lifted his lantern to peer towards the barn.
Lord Marbury watched until the footman was out of view, not wishing there to be gossip regarding the lord of the manor and a local servant girl. There was movement at the door of the hut and Celia appeared.
‘Is that—?’ began Neville, holding up his lantern.
‘She’s hurt,’ said Lord Marbury. ‘I will take her to Roseleat.’
‘Thank you for your help, sir,’ said Celia, limping out, ‘but I can walk home now the storm has passed. It’s only a mile.’
Lord Marbury muttered something about stubborn mules and promptly lifted her onto the horse, where she sat in side-saddle fashion. He took the reins and led the horse on, calling to Neville to ride on to Highmott and send on to Roseleat whatever the housekeeper deemed fit for a bad cut.
‘I am quite able to walk, Mr Neville,’ said Celia, from the horse. ‘I have put you to enough trouble for one evening.’ Lord Marbury was too busy picking out a path across the field to answer. ‘At least put your coat back on,’ said Celia, who was still wrapped in his greatcoat. ‘It is such a cold night.’
He was horribly cold, and resolved that walking a mile was a folly when he could ride it in less than half the time.
‘Permit me to sit behind you, Miss Celia, that we might get there the sooner,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ she replied.
Roseleat manor looked dark and unwelcoming. ‘Is there no one home?’ said Lord Marbury in surprise.
‘Only the kitchen and drawing room will have lights on,’ said Celia. ‘I will go through the back door of the kitchen.’
He helped her down, but refused to let her walk, catching her up in his arms a second time to bear her round to the kitchen door. ‘Put me down before anyone sees us,’ she begged, as they neared the door. It flung open and the stout figure of Agnes was silhouetted against the light.
‘Mercy!’ cried Agnes, ‘Does she live!’
‘Of course, I do,’ said Celia. ‘Put me down, Mr Neville, I can walk perfectly well.’
But Lord Marbury ignored her, carrying her to the warmth of the fireplace and calling for cushions and blankets and brandy and hot water as he put her down on the settle.
‘It is just a cut on my foot,’ Celia was reassuring the anxious Agnes. ‘I got caught up in a hailstorm and had to shelter for a while, that is all.’
‘Robin is still out looking for you,’ said Agnes, pulling off her shawl to drape it over Celia, a thick new shawl which Lord Marbury recognised as the one he had picked out in town. He busied himself with building up the fire, reminding the old servant to fetch some brandy and hot water for the girl.
‘We don’t have any brandy,’ said Agnes, putting a pot on the stovetop. ‘But you shall both have hot broth as fast as I can heat it.’
‘Agnes, I thought I heard a horse outside,’ came a voice from the hall. ‘Is Celia back yet? Ah, so you are here.’ Lady Asher appeared in the doorway. She did not see Lord Marbury, who was out of view in the alcove beyond the fireplace, gathering up an armful of logs. ‘What foolishness have you got yourself into now? Robin has been out searching for you the past two hours.’
‘She’s injured,’ said Agnes. ‘We need the physician.’
‘We cannot afford the physician. What kind of injury?’
‘It is only a cut to my foot,’ said Celia. ‘I don’t need a physician, but I am worried about Robin being out in the dark.’
‘He’ll come back soon enough,’ Agnes assured her. ‘He’ll pick up the horse trail and follow them home.’
‘So there was a horse,’ said Lady Asher. ‘Whose was it?’
‘Mine, my lady,’ said Lord Marbury, emerging from the wood corner.
‘Mr Neville!’ said Lady Asher, startled at his sudden appearance. ‘Is Lord Marbury with you?’
‘No, only me. And I shall be gone again just as soon as I am assured that your young lady has all she needs. Is there no brandy in the house?’
Lady Asher hesitated. ‘I have a little brandy put aside,’ she said, casting what looked like a warning look at the old servant, who seemed surprised at this admission. Lady Asher disappeared then returned with a small flask. ‘A cup for Mr Neville, she ordered Agnes, handing over the flask with a stony face.
‘Some hot water,’ Lord Marbury said.
Agnes poured a little hot water into the cup and handed it to him.
He promptly gave it to Celia, telling her to drink it, then gave an order for the brandy to be used to clean Celia’s wound.
The back door burst open with a bang and a blast of cold air that stirred the flames in the fireplace. ‘Is she home?’ bellowed the hulk of a young man.
‘Don’t shout so, Robin,’ snapped Lady Asher. ‘What is that you’re carrying?’
‘’Tis a basket!’ cried Robin, thumping it down on the kitchen table. ‘I looked all over for you!’ he cried at Celia.
‘You are the best fellow in the world, Robin,’ said Celia. ‘But I hope you haven’t caught cold. Come and sit by me and warm up.’
‘Where did the basket come from, Robin?’ said Agnes, pulling out its contents. ‘Bandages, arnica salve, wine…’
‘It were a boy from Highmott,’ said Robin. ‘I met him in the lane, and he said he had a basket sent from the housekeeper, so I brought it in!’
‘You did well, Robin-me-lad,’ said Agnes, patting the hulk on the arm. ‘Now warm yourself and I’ll bring you some broth.’
‘I don’t think there is anything more I can do,’ said Lord Marbury. ‘I will leave the young lady in your good care, Lady Asher, and trust that your servants will not be permitted to go out in winter so ill shod and dressed.’
Lady Asher looked furious at such words, but was too surprised at being rebuked before the servants to reply. Lord Marbury nodded a farewell to Celia, bid her a speedy recovery, and swept out of the back door and into the night before she could thank him again.
Celia had never seen her stepmother so affronted; it made a change to see her usual cold demeanour fired up with ind
ignation. ‘What an impudent, disagreeable man!’ Lady Asher raged, when the door had closed behind Mr Neville.
‘Who is a disagreeable man?’ said Lavinia, coming into the kitchen, her hair wrapped up in rags that she might have ringlets for the morrow.
‘That Mr Neville,’ growled her mother. ‘How dare he speak to me in such a manner.’ She turned her glare onto Celia. ‘And how dare you go traipsing about the countryside, like some hoyden village girl, and bring disgrace to me. He thinks I mistreat my servants!’
‘Shall I inform him of who I really am, and then he won’t think badly of you, ma’am?’ said Celia bitterly. She was not in the mood for her stepmother’s railings. She felt weak and shaken and all kinds of strange thoughts and feelings were swirling around her mind. All she wanted was to eat something hot and then be alone for a time. If only her bedroom wasn’t so damp and icy cold, she would very much like to retire to her bed at that moment. But she had become accustomed to sleeping in the kitchen during the winter months, it being one of the few heated rooms in the house.
Lady Asher stalked out of the kitchen. ‘What happened?’ Lavinia said, wide-eyed. ‘Oh, you have a nasty cut on your foot, Celia. Have you been holed up in one of the cottages? You really should not go there in such weather. You have been gone all evening. I had to tie up my own ringlets. Is that Mama’s secret brandy? Why, she never lets anyone have that!’
Lord Marbury lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to think about Celia, and the way she had felt in his arms. It took an exertion of his will to redirect his thoughts, but other thoughts were of an equally troubling nature – there were just two days left until he must make his decision. Would he propose marriage to Lavinia Asher in two days’ time, or would he leave Highmott forever?
Ideas kept coming to him of how he could improve the estate, the repairs he would make, the refurbishments and modernisations to the old house, the restoration of the farms, the industry that would be generated, and the work it would supply to the village – an increase in prosperity for everyone.
He could tear down those cursed cottages and build modern ones and give the families work. He could give aid to the charity school, so that all the children could be properly educated that they might make their way in the world, fit for trades, pulling themselves out of the poverty they had been born into.
The local workhouse, the orphanage hospital, all in desperate need of support; support that he could offer when his estate produced a good income. There was so much he could do that would answer the empty, slightly lost feeling he had always carried around with him. The feeling that he did not know what his purpose in this world was. Here was a lifetime of meaningful work and purpose. But at what price?
The price was the sacrifice of any hope of love. He could never love Miss Lavinia Asher. Not in the way a man ought to love his wife. There was no common ground. No shared interests. No fellow feeling. She could giggle and chatter amiably with Neville, who was full of stories and society gossip, but such things bored Lord Marbury.
She was like a little doll, he mused, pretty and delicate Many men would think her the perfect wife, so why did his thoughts reject the neat, soft curls of Lavinia Asher to think instead of the bold, unruly hair of the young woman called Celia? Why not the petite figure of Lavinia Asher, sat at her embroidery? Why did he think only of Celia, hurling rocks into a barrow and marching about the countryside to nurse a cottager’s sick child? He could talk to her of his plans and hopes, and was sure she would be interested. How would if feel to have someone to talk to who cared about the things he did? And who was she really? She was no common servant, everything about her was uncommon. And then he realised he was sliding back to the memories of her in his arms, and he threw himself out of bed with a growl of vexation. He would have to master such thoughts before they destroyed everything.
He reached for the envelope on his bedside table and groaned, just as Morris came in with his morning coffee.
‘Are you well, my lord?’ Morris asked, alarmed to be met with by such a sound. ‘Have you caught chill from last night? I will send down for a posset immediately.’
‘I’m not ill, Morris. I will ride out this morning after breakfast.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
It was the contents of the envelope that had caused the groan. He crumpled it up and took his coffee cup to his writing table. He would have to pen another invitation to Miss Asher, and in his present mood, it was a most unwelcome note.
‘A kissing bough!’ exclaimed Neville at breakfast. ‘What nonsense is this?’
Lord Marbury shrugged. ‘That’s what today’s directions are.’ He pulled the crumpled note out of his pocket and tossed it at Neville.
‘Request the assistance of Miss Asher in constructing the kissing bough for the hall on Christmas Eve,’ read Neville. ‘One of those wreath things of greenery and mistletoe?’
‘Plenty of mistletoe,’ said Lord Marbury. ‘My aunt’s notions of romance gets steadily worse.’
‘She hasn’t specified any actual kissing,’ said Neville, grinning at his cousin’s long face. ‘I’m not sure if I’d prefer to kiss the red-haired maid or dainty little Miss Asher.’ He laughed at the black look he now received. He leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at Lord Marbury, saying slowly, ‘I have an idea I’m not the only one who would like to kiss the red-haired maiden. How long were you shut up in that hut for last night?’
‘Neville, if you cast any aspersions on her, I swear I’ll…’ Lord Marbury ground his teeth to keep from saying any more.
Neville’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I have touched a tender spot.’ He winked. ‘Never fear. Your secret is safe with me. As if you had it in you to behave badly, given the chance. You’re more frigid than any nun.’
Marbury glared at him, feeling that he felt anything but frigid at that moment. But Neville ignored the look and cheerfully speared a thick rasher of bacon from the platter on the table. ‘Good thing it’s me who gets to play at kissing today.’
’You’re not supposed to actually kiss her, you libertine, you’re only supposed to make festive decorations.’
‘While you play duenna?’
‘I’d sooner not be there. I’ve got some things to order in town this morning.’
‘Oh no, you’re not getting out of it that easily. I shall need chaperoning if I’m not allowed to do any kissing.’
‘I’ve sent a note,’ said Lord Marbury gloomily. ‘And she sent one back. She’ll be here at noon.’
‘Make sure you’re home by noon, then, or I can’t promise not to get carried away.’
16
Celia followed her stepsister and stepmother down the stairs, still limping a little. The Marbury carriage had come to convey Lady Asher and her daughter to Highmott.
‘A kissing bough!’ Lavinia had gloated all morning. ‘Why, it is practically a proposal.’
‘The note said festive wreath,’ Celia reminded her.
‘And everyone knows that the big wreath is a kissing bough,’ said Lavinia stoutly.
Before the coachman took his seat, he unstrapped a basket from behind the coach. ‘Shall I take this round the back to the kitchen, miss?’ he enquired. He was a new servant at Highmott, hired to drive the family carriage which had sat gathering dust in the carriage house for long years.
‘Give it to me,’ Celia said, reaching for it.
She stood with the basket at her feet, shivering a little in the cold air, watching the carriage roll away down the drive, and wondering why she felt so flat. Why should she care that she was not sitting in the comfortable carriage, her hair curled, her gown that of a lady of the manor? She didn’t want to make kissing boughs with the young earl. She didn’t even much like the young earl. He seemed too flippant, too flighty; she had heard him laughing and joking with Lavinia, overheard his endless stories of life in town. All he seemed to care about was pleasure and gossip and fashion and horses, and he still rode that unruly horse of his
around the countryside. He was an irresponsible earl. The late Lady Marbury would have called him a coxcomb, she was sure of it. He and Lavinia would suit very well.
But his friend…quiet, serious-looking Mr Neville. Polite, courteous, concerned for her welfare. She had heard of the new earl visiting the poorhouse, and was sure it must be due to the influence of Mr Neville. What a pity he was not the new earl. She was sure he would do good for the county. She remembered his arms about her, as he held her, driving out the bitter cold. How startling had been the sensation of another person so very other to her, so very close.
She had never been touched by a man before, had never been near enough to smell the warm notes of a man’s cologne. And what had possessed her to reach up and touch his face as she did? She must have been under the influence of the brandy. When he had turned his head, his features just discernible in the shaft of light coming through the gap in the eaves – she had thought he was going to kiss her. But he had only kissed the tips of her fingers in so gently a manner.
She picked up the basket to take inside, but stopped, hearing another horse coming from the direction of the manor driveway. If it was one of those lawyers come to persuade her to sell Roseleat, she would run inside and bolt the door. But it was only a little dogcart and grey pony that came into view, and she waited on the doorstep, watching its approach and wondering who it could be.
‘Morning, miss!’ greeted the driver, a young man in an old-fashioned tricorne hat. He leapt down from his seat to lift a large wicker chest from the back of the cart. ‘Got a delivery for a Miss Celia!’ called the youth.
‘Bring it round to the kitchen,’ said Celia, feeling both curious and glad to have a distraction from her thoughts of Mr Neville.
Agnes’s eyes lit up at the sight of the basket in Celia’s arms. The daily gifts from Highmott grew more luxurious the nearer they got to Christmas.