by Mary Balogh
“Mm,” Rupert said. “They smell good.”
“At least we will not starve if we get stuck in a snowbank,” the marquess said, and the boy giggled.
They did not talk a great deal. But the air felt fresher with her sitting beside him, and the crunching of the horses’ hooves on the snow and the jingling of the harness bells and the squeaking of the sleigh runners were more intimate and more festive sounds.
“This is the most beautiful weather there could possibly be,” she said, lifting her face to the high broken clouds above and drawing in a deep breath. “It makes of the world a fairytale place.”
And Lord Denbigh knew that she shared his mood.
They paid eight visits in all and were invited inside each of the eight cottages. Lord Denbigh found himself living out an unplanned fantasy. What if she had not broken off their engagement? They would have been married now for eight years. They would be paying these calls together as man and wife, the ease of years of acquaintance and intimacy between them. And they would be going home together afterward to their guests and their children and a shared Christmas. And when it was all over they would stand together on the steps of Denbigh and wave good-bye to their departing guests. And they would be alone together again, with their family. Perhaps she would be with child again.
Mrs. Richards had delivered her fourth child less than two weeks before. The child was awake and fussing, though Mrs. Richards insisted that they come inside for refreshments. The baby had been fed already, she assured them.
“Oh, may I?” Judith asked, smiling at Mrs. Richards and leaning over the baby’s crude cradle.
Mrs. Richards was flustered, but she assured Mrs. Easton that the baby had had a clean nappy only a few minutes before.
And Judith lifted the child from the cradle and held it gently to her shoulder. The fussing stopped and the baby wriggled its head into a comfortable position and sucked loudly on a fist. Judith closed her eyes, smiling, and rubbed a cheek against the soft down on the baby’s head.
“Oh,” she said, “one forgets so quickly how tiny newborn babies are. How I envy you.”
Lord Denbigh turned his head away sharply and addressed a remark to Mr. Richards. He felt as if he had a leaden weight in his stomach. For some reason he felt almost as if he were about to cry. Steady, he told himself. Steady. He should not have let down his guard for even a moment. Had he not learned his lesson long ago?
“Was that the last one, sir?” Rupert asked when they emerged from the Richardses’ cottage and took their places in the sleigh again. “Are we going home now? Will the carolers be coming soon?”
The marquess laughed. “Not for several hours yet,” he said. “But I tell you what we will do, with your mother’s permission, of course. We are close to the village, and your aunt is with Mrs. Harrison and Mr. Cornwell and the children. Doubtless they have all sung carols until they are blue in the face. We will take you there and leave you in your aunt’s charge. How does that sound?”
Rupert shouted out a hurrah.
“Is that all right with you, ma’am?” the marquess asked. “This lad could well drive you to insanity within the next few hours if we do not rid ourselves of him.”
Judith laughed. “They will probably make you sing, Rupert,” she warned.
“I can sing,” Rupert said indignantly.
Five minutes later he was admitted to the house where all the children and adults were gathered and swallowed up into the noise and cheerful chaos.
“Amazingly,” Mr. Cornwell told them, “we have had not a single casualty all day even though Mary tried to box the ears of all the kings for setting down their gifts closer to Joseph than to her. The heavenly host are beginning to sound almost like a choir with Miss Easton to provide the accompaniment and to sing along to keep them in tune. And sometime within the next few hours we will have to decide how twelve volunteers are to carry five lanterns—a minor problem. I can confidently predict, Mrs. Easton, that we will be able to deliver your son to you this evening all in one piece.”
And so, Lord Denbigh discovered, quite without planning to be, he was alone with Judith Easton, a mile-long drive between them and home. He drove his team in silence, and decided on the spur of the moment to take a long route home. He turned along a little-used lane that led uphill until it was above a grove of trees and looking down on the house from behind. He had always loved the view from up there. He eased his horses to a halt.
“I used to come up here a great deal as a boy,” he said, “and imagine that I was lord of all I surveyed.”
“And now you are,” she said.
“And now I am.”
The silence between them was companionable. Strangely so, considering what had happened between them in the past, considering his reason for having her at Denbigh Park, and considering the fact that she did not trust him—she had told him so the day before.
“You are very different from what I have always thought you to be,” she said quietly.
“Am I?” He turned to look at her.
“You care,” she said. “All your house guests are people who would have spent a lonely Christmas without your invitation, are they not? And you are generous to your people. I expected that you would wait outside each cottage until someone came outside to take a basket from your hands. But you visited and made conversation. And there are the children in the village. You have far more than just a financial commitment to them.”
“Perhaps it is all selfishness after all,” he said. “I have found that I can secure my own happiness by trying to bring some to other people. Perhaps I am not so very different from what you thought, Judith.”
She frowned. “You used to be different,” she said. “You used to be cold, unfeeling. But then, of course, our betrothal was forced on you. Perhaps I was unfair to judge you just on that short acquaintance.”
Cold? Unfeeling? Had she not known? Had she not realized? Cold? He remembered how he had used to toss and turn in his bed, living for the next time he would see her, wondering if he would have the opportunity to touch her, perhaps to kiss her hand. Unfeeling? He remembered the pain of his love for her even before she left him and his fear that he would not be able to give her all she desired from life.
A forced betrothal? He had gone to his father the morning after his first meeting with her and begged to have the marriage with her arranged as soon as possible. Although he had been apprehensive at the prospect of allowing his father to choose his bride, he had forgotten his misgivings as soon as he had met her. The betrothal, the wedding could not be soon enough for him.
Poor naive fool that he had been. Twenty-six years old and entrusting his heart, his dreams, all his future hopes to a young girl he did not even know. A young girl who had preferred charm and flirtation and the apparent glamor of a near elopement. A young girl who had broken his heart without one thought to his feelings—because she had believed him cold and unfeeling. Had she ever tried to see beyond his shyness? Had she ever tried to get to know him?
And now she sat calmly beside him telling him that that was the way he had been. She still did not understand.
But she would. Oh, yes, my lady, he told her silently and bitterly, you will know what it feels like.
10
THE MARQUESS OF DENBIGH TURNED SIDEWAYS, rested one arm on the back of the seat behind her, and slid his free hand inside her muff to rest on top of her hand.
“Perhaps,” he said. “It is always difficult to know what goes on in another’s mind. I thought you were content with our betrothal, Judith, but apparently you wanted something different. Well, you had it—for a while. And you have your children.”
She was looking down at her muff. Her hand was warm and still beneath his own.
“Yes,” she said.
There was a silence between them again, not so comfortable as before. There was an awareness, a tension between them. Her hand stirred. He looked at her, his face hardening.
“Did you love him?” he asked
.
“Yes.” She answered him without hesitation.
“Always?” he asked. “To the end?”
“He was my husband,” she said, “and the father of my children.”
“In other words,” he said, “it was loyalty, not love, after the honeymoon was over. Did you not know about him, Judith, before you married him?”
He thought she would not answer. She stared downward for a long time. “I was eighteen,” she said. “I was still young enough to believe that one person can change another through the power of love. He was very handsome and very charming. And very persuasive. Did you know why he married me?”
He had often wondered, since though she had been beautiful and well-born, she had not been particularly wealthy. He had wondered why Easton had saddled himself with a wife when his subsequent actions had seemed to prove that it was not for love.
“He loved you, I suppose,” he said.
“You did not know,” she said. “I thought these things quickly became general knowledge in the gentlemen’s clubs.”
He felt a pulse beat in his throat. Had Easton raped her?
“Tell me,” he said.
She turned to look at him and smiled ruefully before looking away down the hill. “It was a wager,” she said. “It seemed that there were enough gentlemen willing to wager a great deal of money on the belief that Andrew could not snatch me away from a wealthy viscount and heir to the Marquess of Denbigh.”
The pulse was hammering against his temples.
“He told me,” she said, “after we had been married for about a year. He thought it a huge joke. He thought the story would amuse me.”
There was one thing the marquess wished fervently. He wished that Easton were still alive so that he could kill him.
“I thought you would have known,” she said.
“No.”
He withdrew his hand from her muff and turned in his seat. He picked up the horses’ ribbons and gave them the signal to start down the slope that would bring them around the east side of the house. He did it all mechanically, without thought. Her words were pounding in his head.
He thought of a shy and beautiful eighteen-year-old, fresh from the schoolroom, fresh from the country, pitted against the practiced charms of a handsome and accomplished flirt and rake. She had been married because of a wager. He had suffered those months and even years of agony because of a wager.
“Your daughter must be awake by now,” he said as the sleigh drew to a halt before the front doors. “Bring her downstairs for tea, Judith, will you? My aunts dote on her, if you had not noticed.”
“Yes, I had,” she said. “And I will bring her down. Thank you.”
He watched her ascend the stairs to the house and disappear into the warmth of the great hall before taking the sleigh and the horses to the stable block.
Did this change everything? he wondered. Did this mean that she had been as much of a victim as he? But she was still guilty of not having said anything to him. She had still behaved dishonorably, running away without a word or even a note. But she had been eighteen years old and in the clutches of an unprincipled rake.
He needed to think, he knew. But he had no time to think. He would be expected indoors for tea. Besides, he did not want to think.
If there was one place in hell hotter than any other, he thought viciously as he strode back to the house, he hoped that it was occupied by Andrew Easton. It was not a Christmas wish or even a Christian one, but he wished it anyway.
THE CAROLING HAD always been one of Amy’s favorite parts of Christmas. This year it was even more special with almost all of the singers being children. They went from house to house, singing lustily and not always quite on key. Several of the children pushed close to her when it came time to sing.
“You got a lovely voice, mum,” Joe told her. “The rest of us sounds like rusty nails.”
“Speak for yerself,” Val yelled at him.
Amy laughed and felt warmed and wanted and very happy. Mr. Cornwell always stood behind her shoulder, sharing the music with her.
At each house they were offered refreshments, always welcome after the cold walk. Where some of the children put all the cakes they took Amy could not fathom. For none had bulging pockets.
“There will be a few stomachaches tomorrow or the next day,” Mr. Cornwell said when she mentioned her concern to him. “But it is Christmas.”
Some of the smaller children showed signs of weariness before they had finished making their calls. Amy, feeling a slight dragging at her cloak, found little Henry clinging to her.
“Are you tired, sweetheart?” she asked him, and when he nodded she picked him up and carried him. How wonderful, wonderful, she thought as he nestled his head on her shoulder. She knew what the psalmist had meant when he had written of a cup running over. But Henry was no featherweight.
“Here,” Mr. Cornwell said, appearing beside her, “let me take him, ma’am. Henry, is it? He is our youngest.” He lifted the child gently into his own arms. “We cannot have you out of breath when we arrive at Denbigh Park, now, can we? You sing better than any angel I have ever heard.”
Amy laughed. “And how many angels have you heard, Mr. Cornwell?” she asked.
“In the last little while?” He grinned at her. “None, actually, ma’am, except you. And my friends call me Spencer or Spence. I consider you my friend.”
“Spencer,” Amy said, and flushed. She had never called any man by his given name except her brothers. “Then you must call me Amy.”
“Amy,” he said, smiling. “A little name for a little lady. You live all the time with Mrs. Easton?”
Yes, Amy thought, as Peg ran up beside her and took her hand, my cup runneth over.
IT WAS ALMOST ten o’clock when the carolers finally arrived at Denbigh Park, bringing a draft of cold air with them through the front doors and a great deal of noise and merriment. Cheeks and noses were red and eyes were shining. Stomachs were full. Five of the smallest children clutched the lanterns and hoisted them high when it came time to sing, though they were largely for effect; the hall was well lit. The smallest child of all was asleep against Mr. Cornwell’s shoulder.
The marquess and his guests came down from the drawing room to listen to the carols, quite content to have their own singsong to Miss Frieda Hannibal’s accompaniment interrupted. Kate, her cheeks bright with color, her eyes wide with the lateness of the hour, clung to Judith’s neck and waved across a sea of heads at Daniel.
Mr. Cornwell had a hand on Amy’s shoulder and watched the music she held in her hands.
The carolers made up in volume and enthusiasm what they lacked in musical talent, Judith thought after they had sung “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” as if they were summoning all listeners to the nearest tavern and “Lully Lulla Thou Little Tiny Child” as if they intended their rendition to be heard in Bethlehem.
It did not matter that the choir was unskilled. It did not matter at all. For there they all were, crowded into the great hall of Denbigh Park, a roaring log fire burning at either side of it, sharing with one another and their listeners all the joy of Christmas.
There was nothing quite like the magic of those few days, Judith thought. And every year it was the same. Even during those years with Andrew’s family, though she had not enjoyed them on the whole, there had always been some of the magic.
Or perhaps magic was the wrong word. Holiness was perhaps a better one. Love. Joy. Well-being. Goodwill. All the old clichés. Clichés did not matter at Christmastime. They were simply true.
Everyone was smiling. Mr. Rockford, whose conversation was never of the most interesting because he did not know when to stop once he had started, had one of the marquess’s aunts on each arm and was beaming goodwill, as were they. Sir William and Lady Tushingham, who had regaled them at dinner with stories of their nephews’ and nieces’ accomplishments and triumphs, were flanked by Lord and Lady Clancy and looked rather as if they were about to burst with genia
lity.
The Marquess of Denbigh was standing with folded arms, his feet set apart, smiling benignly at all the children. Just a week before, Judith thought, she would not have thought him capable of such an expression.
And Amy was smiling up over her shoulder at Mr. Cornwell, the singing at an end and the hubbub of excited children’s voices being in the process of building to a new crescendo. And he was pointing upward to a limp spray of mistletoe that some wag had suspended from the gallery above and lowering his head to give her a smacking kiss on the lips.
Judith, watching his beaming face and Amy’s glowing expression, felt as if warmth was creeping upward from her toes to envelop her. If anyone on this earth deserved happiness, she thought, it was Amy. And there would be nothing at all wrong with that match. Nothing.
“Mama!” Rupert was patting her leg and talking quite as loudly and excitedly as any of the children. “Did you hear me? I got to carry the lantern for part of the way. And I am going to walk to church with Ben and Stephen. They said I may.”
“ ’Ow’s my nipper?” Daniel was demanding loudly, and Kate wriggled to be set down from her mother’s arms.
There were more refreshments and a great deal more noise in the half hour that remained before it was time to go to church. The marquess’s aunts and Sir William and Lady Tushingham would ride to church in the sleighs, it had been decided. Lord and Lady Clancy would walk, though the marquess offered to have one of the sleighs return for a second trip.
Three of the smaller children, including Henry, gave in to the lateness of the hour and the long excitement of the day and the novelty of having the big house to sleep in and agreed to stay with Mrs. Webber and be put to bed. Kate, after several huge yawns, was persuaded to stay with them.
And so they set out into the crisp night air, the distant sound of the church bells ringing out their glad tidings of the birth of a baby in Bethlehem and the coming into the world of a savior.
“It is so easy to forget,” Judith said, finding herself walking beside the marquess and taking his offered arm. “There is so much to do and so much to enjoy that sometimes we forget what the season is all about.”