A Timeless Romance Anthology: Winter Collection

by Heather B. Moore

  Luisa could feel color rise in her cheeks, wishing that even a thimble’s worth of alcohol could account for her recent childish behavior. She had barely formulated what she hoped was a much more sophisticated reply when, with a swoop of his well-formed hands, he pulled his cloak from behind his shoulders and produced a hideous bird-shaped hat from its resting place on the ground beside him.

  “Oh!” was all Luisa managed to say before he, with a paltry bow, pushed his way past her and everyone else he encountered in the course of his journey to the front of the room. Two other men, one wearing a jester’s hat and the other fingering a mustache so thick and luxurious it could only be counterfeit, were already waiting by the fire, their entire beings appearing to throb with anticipation. Once the birdman joined them, they conversed in low tones, scanning the crowd and generally seeming to be at a loss.

  Finally the man with the mustache stepped forward and addressed the crowd consisting of twenty or more of Percy’s closest friends and admirers. “Ladies and gentlemen, please,” he stated, raising his hands and beseeching them with a severe look. “We are ready to begin our Mummers Play, but seem to be missing a key ingredient. Has anyone seen our good host?”

  Luisa could have owned that she had indeed seen Percy, and only moments hence, but deemed it unwise to say so. Cassandra stood with her Donald so it would seem that Percy was meeting yet another girl, perhaps this one in the summerhouse, providing she was in possession of more robust eyelashes than Miss Gardner. The crowd burst into babbled conversation teeming with speculation; however, no one possessed any knowledge as to Percy’s whereabouts. Glancing at Cassandra from the corner of her eye, Luisa thought she looked a bit flustered, but Cassandra merely grasped Donald’s arm more tightly and fluttered her too-delicate lashes.

  Another whispered conversation was conducted by the three men at the front of the room, whereupon the mustachioed one again raised his hands and called for a volunteer. “We are missing an important player for our traditional Mummers Play. Who would like to be the hero? We need a strong gentleman to volunteer!”

  The crowd once again erupted into babbling, but it was clear there was not one gentleman willing to participate. In point of fact, all of the players were utter strangers. Needless to say, mumming was beneath the dignity of upper class Wymondham society.

  Without further ado, the birdman stalked into the crowd, his musty old cape swirling behind him, and the crow on his head glowering at all he passed, whereupon he came to a halt directly in front of Luisa. Taking her by the hand, he drew her, swift and sure, to the front of the room.

  Luisa, finding it necessary to walk at a spanking pace to keep up with his long strides, had little breath to object. Once she was ensconced in front of the fire and turned to face the crème de la crème of her village, most of them known to her all of her life, but none of whom she might currently deem her friend, she felt incapable of speech. The crowd murmured in feeble protest, and she felt a deep sense of doom as she contemplated the additional lowering of her standing in society as a result of this night’s work.

  Suddenly there was a heavy hand on her shoulder and a puff of air in her ear as the birdman whispered, “Ye are not to worry as ye need say nothing. Just take the sword and flail it about a bit.”

  On instinct, Luisa took the wooden sword from him just as realization dawned. “You mean to say that I am to be the hero?”

  “Yes. But that’s all right,” he said with what Luisa was coming to realize was an Irish accent. “Only you shall be the one kilt. Just be sure to watch your skirts when you go down,” he said as his face split into a wicked grin.

  There was no time to speak and little to think before the twin of her sword came crashing towards her. With an admirable parry she could credit only to indulging her little brother, William, in an occasional game of Knights and Soldiers, followed by a decent thrust whose quarry danced away from her with ease, she was in the thick of the Mummers Play. There was no turning back.

  Barely aware of the narration given by the jester, she concentrated on keeping her opponent’s wooden sword from making mice-feet of her new gown, a sheath of pale rose enveloped in a cloud of creamy gauze and adorned by the sweetest little puffed sleeves she had ever worked, until the killing thrust came, and she had no choice but to allow herself to crumple to the floor in what she prayed was a ladylike death.

  The silence of the audience as the birdman hovered over her was more than a little unnerving. As she lay on her back in an imaginary pool of blood, she wished she knew whether or not her skirts were adequately obscuring her limbs from view. She wished she dared risk a peek, but surmised doing so would not be wise, as the dead generally remained still with eyes closed. Fervently she wished she had chosen to stay home this night, but it was more than a little late for that. Restraining a sigh, she turned her attention to the narration of the jester.

  “And thence came upon this terrible sight a doctor of great renown. It was his gift to restore life to the lifeless, heart to the disheartened, strength to those lacking strength!”

  Luisa heard the rustling of the birdman’s cape as he moved over her in some way she could not fathom. The rustling went on for what seemed a needlessly long time until, of a sudden, she developed an itch to the side of her nose that would not be quieted through pure force of will. Hoping all eyes were on the birdman, she risked a twitch of her nose as a means to find relief and immediately the audience roared with laughter. It seemed unbearably unfair that everyone but she could enjoy the proceedings, so she very slowly opened the eye farthest from the crowd only to find herself once again staring into those most remarkable green eyes that danced with far more fun than the narration warranted.

  The audience again roared with laughter as she fully opened both eyes just as a feather descended upon her, and, finally, she understood exactly what had caused her discomfort.

  “The great doctor brought life once again to the brave knight,” cried the jester, “through the offices of a common feather as the continuous waving of his magical potion over his, er, her dead body had no demonstrable effect!”

  “Ye’re alive, now,” hissed the birdman as he took her by the elbow with one hand, by the opposite shoulder with the other, and brought her speedily to her feet. He refused to let go until she found her footing, a circumstance for which she was grateful, as she felt a bit dizzy after her sudden flight through the air. She scanned the crowd for their reaction to her performance but found that she was distracted by the warmth of his arm around her as the spicy scents of shaving soap and an odor she commonly thought of as l’eau de horse, mingled in a not unpleasant aroma.

  The crowd began a healthy round of applause; Luisa realized the play must be over. Intending to move out of the circle of the birdman’s arm, she pulled away, but he held her back, saying to the crowd, “Let’s have another round of applause for our compassionate heroine known to ye all as...” Then, bending his head to her lips, he asked, “What is it ye are known as, cailin?”

  Flustered by the strands of her hair caught in the stubble of his cheek, she pulled them free, stammering, “Oh, ah... Darlington. Miss Luisa Darlington.”

  “Luisa Darlington, ladies and gentlemen! Let’s show our appreciation for her bein’ just the ‘darling’ that she is!”

  Luisa would have supposed she’d imagined the audience’s lackluster response, but there was nothing imaginary about the way the birdman’s black brows pulled together in consternation in the face of their rudeness. It was a warming sight in contrast with the frowns adorning the faces in the crowd. Instinctively she drew back into the shelter of his arm, where she allowed herself to wallow in the warm and comforting smell of his recently starched cravat. His arm tightened around her shoulders in response, making her feel safe, truly safe, for the first time since her father had been killed in Bussaco under Wellington’s command over two years previous.

  Luisa wanted nothing more than to bury her face, along with her shame, into his collar and allow
the circle of his arm to enclose her in the shelter of his enormous cape for the rest of the night, but she knew that would never do. This man was a stranger, and, like it or not, those who were even now condemning her for events entirely out of her control were those amongst whom she must live, most probably, for the remainder of her life. With a murmur of thanks, she gently pushed his fingers from her shoulder and walked through the wide berth afforded her by the crowd.

  She shivered, suddenly as cold as one of the ices no one had thought to offer to her, especially where his large hand had been clasped round her shoulder. Somehow the fact that her heart seemed frozen to a numbness did not affect the functioning of her brain. She managed to make her way to her place at the back of the room without incident. However, once she arrived, she had no idea what to do with herself. Everyone seemed to be having a marvelous time, with the exception of Cassandra Gardner who appeared to be in a snit about something, and her betrothed, Donald, who gazed at her, his mouth agape, and his eyes large and round as two buttons.

  “You can’t mean that, Cassy!” he expostulated with great feeling.

  “It’s Cassandra or Miss Gardner to you, Mr. Adamson,” she replied in a tone so haughty that Luisa was taken aback. Cassy was a pinch irritable now and again, but nothing in her character would lead her to haughtiness.

  “She’s a fair bit o’trouble,” came a voice, this time from her left shoulder.

  Turning, she found herself looking once again into the birdman’s brilliant eyes. Quelling a desire to lean in and breathe more of his comforting aroma, she instead vented some spleen on the absent Percy. “She isn’t usually, but our errant hero awaits her, and she must give her betrothed a reason to wish her at Jericho for the present.”

  She thought she detected a shadow move across the birdman’s face as he turned his attention to a bowl of pistachio ice. “Here, I thought ye might like one,” he said, handing her the treat just as Cassy stalked off in the direction of the library, the doors of which led directly out to the stables.

  Luisa felt the tears start in her eyes, but whether they were for the betrayal of Percy or for the kindness of Mr. Birdman, she couldn’t say. “Thank you,” she said in what she hoped was a cheerful voice. “I most particularly love sweets.” She took a bite of the cold, green ice, so unlike the emerald fire of his eyes, and hastily looked away. Fixing her gaze in the direction of the floor, she noted that he shifted from one foot to the other as if he felt as uneasy as she.

  “So,” he finally ventured, “I had heard our Sir Percival had a cailin waiting for him at home, but I didn’t think he would fall for someone as heartless as that one. How long after his departure did she become entangled with another?”

  Luisa, choking a bit on a tiny spoonful of ice, allowed her eyes to open wide with surprise. “Percy told you he had a sweetheart? Did he ever mention her name?”

  “O’course. He spoke of her incessantly. I thought it was Teresa or Bautista or something Spanish-like. I suppose I had it wrong, though I would never ha’ guessed him to be inclined towards one with the charms of your Miss Gardner.”

  Luisa could have sworn the same but kept her own counsel on the subject. “Yet it would seem he finds ebony curls and fine gray eyes to be most particularly charming.” She burned to repeat Percy’s earlier remark with regards to Cassy’s plump lips but swallowed it down with another demure spoonful of ice.

  He shrugged his shoulder, causing one of his black curls, at the moment happily free of the evil hat, to fall across his brow. “He never mentioned the color of her hair and eyes, only that she… how shall I put it?” He pressed his lips together and glanced at the ceiling with a sweep of his sinfully long lashes, then back down at her with a smile. “That she was ‘a pretty girl and an honest one.’”

  Luisa hoped she looked far less flushed than she felt. “But Miss Gardner is more than pretty, is she not?”

  He looked to where Cassy’s fiancé stood staring after her. “I daresay Mr. Adamson finds her far less so than he did an hour since. As for honest…” He raised his brows and let them fall.

  Deciding the conversation had centered on Cassy long enough, Luisa tried a new tack. “You speak as if you have spent much time with Percy, yet I have lived in the village all my life and never met you before tonight.”

  “Aye, I hadn’t met him prior to his coming to Ireland, did I? He and his parents were doing a bit of a grand tour, and buying a horse was on the schedule.”

  “Oh, I see,” Luisa said. “So, you’re a dealer of horses, Mr...?”

  “Flynn,” he said with a bow of his head, “and, no, I don’t sell horses. I groom them.”

  Luisa opened her mouth to say something, anything at all, but was at a loss. How could a stable boy be standing with her, here, amongst the cream of village society? Were Sir Walter and Lady Brooksby aware that a servant was sipping from their best crystal, whilst commenting on the character of their guests? She thought of the ease with which he’d strode the hallway beyond the baize door, the same ease with which he’d strode to the front of this very room with Luisa’s hand in his and a nasty black crow on his head. Whatever his calling in life, she owned that he was a remarkably confident man.

  Mr. Flynn cocked his head and asked, “Am I not dressed properly for the occasion?”

  Luisa laughed outright. “I daresay that old cape is exactly what a mummer should wear. But you are not simply a mummer, or you would have left this house the moment the play was over,” she observed with a quick glance around the room which was conspicuously devoid of the three other players.

  “I own it to be the oddest thing,” Mr. Flynn admitted, slipping the ugly cape from his shoulders to reveal a perfectly cut evening suit paired with a burgundy waistcoat adorned with tiny pink rosebuds and a quantity of bright green leaves. “Some way or t’other, Percy and I have become friends. Being often in the sole company of his parents and their acquaintances whilst abroad, he had little to choose from.”

  It was Luisa’s turn to cock her head and regard him at length. She found no fault in his attire or appearance, and his attitude had the polish of a prince. “I would never have guessed, but I suppose I am as unlikely a guest as a groom, so who am I to say?”

  “Never say ye are the daughter of the butler!” he accused in mock horror.

  His eyes were so merry that she could not help but laugh again. “No, but close enough as to make no difference. I live in the gatehouse with my mother and brother, as did my father before me, and his father before him.”

  Mr. Flynn raised his brows again—fine ornaments to a face full of expression. “And ye all turned out fine as a new penny!”

  “My mother is clever with a needle and makes the most of Lady Brooksby’s cast-offs,” Luisa said, her eyes fixed on the melted remains of her pistachio ice. “Now that Father is gone, Willy must man the gate. You have doubtless met up with him a time or two on your way through.”

  “A fine lad, indeed! Your father no doubt smiles down on him from heaven.”

  Luisa looked up with a grateful smile and was stuck by the wistfulness in Mr. Flynn’s face. “Do you think so? Really? I miss Father so much, and Willy . . . he is a big boy now, but I still hear him weeping at night when he thinks I am asleep.”

  She thought Mr. Flynn would laugh at her and make fun, but he stared directly into her eyes, and, without so much as a smile, said, “Yes. Really. And may the road rise up to meet ye, Luisa Darlington.” And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away.

  Chapter Two

  Luisa watched Mr. Flynn disappear from view as the last of her pistachio ice melted into a sticky puddle at the bottom of her dish. With nothing left to do, she took in her current surroundings, which consisted of the faces of friends and neighbors, and felt profoundly alone. How was she to endure another fifty years in Darlington Cottage at the bottom of the drive of Percy’s home, the house in which he would live as baronet, with some other lady as his wife and the children she bore him? It did not be
ar thinking on. Nor did the thought of another winter like this one, and she was less than a fortnight into it.

  With a sigh, she bid adieu to the dreams of a glorious holiday party with Percy, as well as to her hopes for a return to her previous social standing, the one she had enjoyed prior to the elopement of Sally Constable. Suddenly she was struck with a thought so clear it stole the breath from her lungs: Percy had never meant to marry her! She was the gatekeeper’s daughter at the grand estate of the richest couple in the village. She had never been anything but Percy’s plaything. All of those moments she had spent dreaming of their life together at the abbey were the same ones he planned on something else altogether.

  How foolish she had been.

  For the second time that evening, she knew she would be undone by tears and wished for a private place to give vent to her emotions. Fixing her gaze to the door through which she had entered less than an hour previously, a voice in her head bade her stop. What would Mr. Flynn have to say about her if she ran—again? He was the one who put a sword in her hand, however flimsy, and called her back from the dead, however fictitiously. More importantly, he had spoken to her when no one else would, had comforted her when she was friendless, and had brought her an avidly desired treat when none other had thought of her at all. She had the absurd idea that he would be disappointed in her if she hid herself away, and for what? To weep over the feckless Percy?

  True, Percy’s friendship had been of long standing, and it had given her much comfort when her father died. He had made her so happy, and yet here she stood, her basket of summer bounty turned to ashes in the space of a single heartbeat. Trembling, she again contemplated the long winter ahead. However, unlike the girl who had been admitted through the front doors of Wymondham Abbey a few hours previously, she knew that this line of thinking would never do. Percy was not worth so much as a stray thought, let alone an entire winter of her life.