Lucilla met Marcus’s eyes. Soon.
Marcus nodded.
Lucilla swung back to the fireplace, picked up the mug with her tisane, blew lightly on it, then carried it to Lottie.
What would come would come. They would deal with it when it did.
* * *
I want you.
Of course, Claire hadn’t let the words past her lips; she’d grown so accustomed over the last years to suppressing that part of her that preventing her tongue from blurting out the telltale words had been instinctive, yet those words nevertheless, and the welling compulsion behind them, continued to resonate within her.
Filling her mind. Feeding her reckless, wanton soul.
Drawing that other self closer to her surface.
She’d almost forgotten what it felt like, that yearning and reaching fueled by passionate naivety, by unsullied belief in the goodness and rightness of all she felt.
Of all she yearned for.
Experience had taught her a bitter lesson, had opened her eyes and forced her to see, yet…when it came to Daniel Crosbie…
It wasn’t so much that he’d turned back her clock as that he’d somehow reached deep and opened the locks she’d set inside, and he’d freed, resurrected, brought back to life that younger her—the one who believed in the shining wonder of love.
She felt the change within her, recognized the re-emergence of that more youthful self…and still could not quite make her older-and-wiser self believe, accept, and stand aside.
She still didn’t know if setting aside the wisdom of her years and re-embracing the reckless wonder of youth was the course she should take.
Didn’t know whether she should encourage Daniel or, as gently as she could, refuse him.
Summoned by the dinner gong, she stopped by Annabelle’s room but found it empty; her four charges of the day had, it appeared, already gone downstairs. She continued down the turret stairs and walked on toward the Great Hall. Noise and gaiety spilled out through the archways and drew her on; the warmth from all the blazes, spiced with the curious tang of the smoke rising from the slowly burning effigies of Cailleach, wrapped around her, and the evocative scent of evergreens perfumed the air. Outwardly, she remained focused on her governessly duties, but inside her mind revolved—as it had since her reckless self had served up those three little words—on the conundrum of what she should do next.
Of what answer she should give Daniel when they finally talked.
Walking into the Great Hall, Claire saw that the riding party had still not returned. Regardless, the tutors and Melinda were once more sitting at their normal table. Refusing to back away from the challenge before her, Claire checked that her four charges were, indeed, in their accustomed places, then calmly walked to the empty place beside Daniel.
He, Raven, and Morris all rose as she neared. Daniel smiled and offered his hand to help her step over the bench.
Taking his hand, registering—reveling in—the sensations, yet refusing to let her reactions rattle her, she smiled at the others, stepped into the space, then, slipping her fingers free of Daniel’s warm clasp, she sat, and the gentlemen subsided again.
The group had been in the middle of a discussion; as they returned to contrasting the various depictions of Cailleach the boys had produced, Claire exchanged a smile with Melinda and settled to listen.
Following the procession—and those three little words—for her the rest of the afternoon had passed in a blur of festivity, excitement, and heightened nerves. The logs delivered to the front porch had been arranged around the entry hall for all to admire and, ultimately, to decide which “Cailleach” would burn in which fireplace. Each of the six major fireplaces was to have two depictions of the spirit of winter burning through the days until Hogmanay. Along with Daniel and the four girls, Claire had circled the room with the rest of the crowd, examining anew and exclaiming over the carvings, now displayed in warm lamplight.
In the end, pride of place in the main and largest fireplace in the Great Hall went to Carter—whose Norse-goddess Cailleach was unanimously declared the most outstanding—along with one of the carpenter’s apprentices, the runner-up in the competition. The other carved logs were divided between the remaining fireplaces, with one Cynster boy’s work and one manor household boy’s work set to burn in each hearth.
Then the lighting of the Cailleachs had begun. That had proved hilarious because the carved logs had been treated to slow their burning, which in turn made them difficult to set afire, but luckily there were enough old hands in the household who knew the knack of setting the carved logs atop logs already crackling; soon enough, Cailleachs were burning in all the appointed fireplaces, and mulled cider and the sunburst shortbread the younger girls had made was ceremonially passed around, much to those girls’ and everyone’s delight.
The fun-filled afternoon and the relaxed ambiance of the ceremonial gathering of the household and guests had made the sudden spiking of anxiety over the riding party’s continued absence all the more jarring.
By the time all the logs had been lit, the sky outside had darkened. Shortly after, the wind had whipped up, and the Cynster parents had started wondering where their older children were. The ladies had started glancing toward the side door, as if doing so might make it open sooner.
Now dinner was about to be served, and there was still no sign of the bevy of males who would normally never miss a meal.
Even though they’d been discussing something else, the male tutors were tense, as was Melinda; Claire, too, was conscious of welling concern. If something had happened…
Raven glanced at the high table. “The duke and the others went out to the rear yard earlier, but they couldn’t see anything through the snow.”
“It’s set in, by the looks of it,” Morris said. “I went up to the highest tower, but even from there the view is obscured.”
“They’re all old enough to keep their heads,” Melinda said. “Whatever’s happened, we’ll hear about it as soon as they can manage—they’re not irresponsible children anymore.”
Claire nodded. “That’s true.” Juliet’s older brother, Justin, was one of the riding party. Although he retained the exuberance to be expected of a sixteen-year-old youth, underneath, Justin had his mother’s steadiness and his father’s courage. “Justin wouldn’t unnecessarily cause anxiety for his parents and siblings. I doubt any of the others would knowingly worry their families, either.”
Raven pulled a face and was about to add something when the sound of a door banging open was followed by youthful male voices and the clatter of boots.
All talk ceased; everyone looked toward the archway from the front hall.
Christopher Cynster appeared first. With one sweep of his gaze, he took in the heightened tension, the concern… He looked at the high table. “Sorry—nothing bad’s happened. No accident or anything of that nature. All of us had to divert for Lucilla to tend a pregnant woman, a crofter’s wife, and then the storm came in hard—we’ve only just ridden in.”
Vane Cynster, Christopher’s father, and Devil Cynster had risen to their feet; their gazes touched each boy as Christopher walked further into the room and the younger members of the riding party crowded in behind him.
Rising, too, Richard waved the boys to the fireplaces. “Get warm first, then sit down—no need to change.”
Christopher led the way forward; the younger boys peeled off to the fireplaces to warm their hands, then hustled to fill the gap at their usual table. Christopher continued to the end of the table below the dais—the space he shared with the other older children, none of whom had appeared.
The duke leveled an interrogatory look at Christopher. “Where are the others?”
Halting at his usual place, Christopher said, “They stayed at the crofter’s cottage. Lucilla said she had to remain until the babe is born, and, of course, Marcus stayed with her, and Sebastian and Michael stayed, too, in case of need, and Lucilla asked Prudence to stay and help
, which, of course, she did.”
Claire noted the several “of courses,” stated and implied, in that brief report, but she suspected Christopher had included them deliberately. Familial support was a trademark Cynster trait, one Christopher’s elders adhered to without question.
Devil, Vane, and Richard, and all the others about the high table, nodded in reluctant acceptance. As the men sat again, Devil waved Christopher up to the dais. “Come and sit with us, and you can satisfy our curiosity.”
Christopher obeyed; staff hurried to set a place for him beside the dowager, who insisted that Christopher be accommodated next to her, the better for her old ears to hear.
Which was nonsense; the dowager’s hearing was excellent. But from the look Claire saw Christopher send the dowager’s way, he was grateful not to have to sit surrounded by the as-yet-to-be-fully-appeased parents.
The platters were ferried out, the meal commenced, and while the tension had eased significantly from its earlier high, there remained an undercurrent of watchfulness, of unsettled uncertainty.
From the table where the rest of the riding party sat rose eager questions and answers regarding the cottage and the storm. The deep rumble of the elder Cynster males’ voices, punctuated by the lighter tones of their ladies and pauses during which Christopher answered their many questions, drifted from the high table.
Unable to hear any of the comments clearly, Claire didn’t bother straining her ears; she would get the full story—embellished with fine detail—from Juliet later. For herself, Claire was thankful that Christopher had led the sixteen-year-olds home without incident; the banshee-like shriek of the wind and the gusting of the storm—the raging of an elemental force outside—could be heard even here in the Great Hall, in the center of the manor, surrounded by so many thick walls and with several floors above them.
Seated alongside Claire, Daniel discovered the true meaning of the word distraction. While his uncertainty over Claire—about where she stood vis-à-vis him and what the hurdle she perceived standing between them was—circled in his mind, he was also concerned over the older children’s fate. Although none of the five yet to return had ever been his personal charge, he nevertheless knew them—in particular he’d interacted with the three boys, now almost young men, over many years.
From the look in his eyes, Morris, too, shared Daniel’s worry, even though Morris’s charges, like Daniel’s, were now all safely home.
Somewhat strangely, Raven and Melinda, both of whom were most closely associated with Lucilla and Marcus—and to some extent Sebastian, Michael, and Prudence, too—were the most sanguine. Raven waved a general dismissal and fell to attacking his roast beef. “They’ll be back safe and sound—no need to worry about that lot.”
“No, indeed.” Melinda held a platter of roasted vegetables for Claire to serve herself. “No need to fear for them, not even in this storm.”
It was Claire who, puzzled, commented, “You seem very confident that no harm will befall them.”
Chewing, Raven nodded. He swallowed, then said, “They’re Lady-touched. Well, Lucilla and Marcus are, and you may be certain they won’t allow the others out of their sight, so Sebastian, Michael, and Prudence will be protected, too.”
“Protected?” Morris asked.
Looking at his plate, Raven nodded. “That’s one of the things you learn if you live here long enough.” He glanced up and gave them all a faintly sheepish, self-deprecatory smile. “The trick of it is that you don’t have to believe in the Lady, you just have to accept, and if you live here long enough…” He shrugged and went back to slicing his beef.
“If you live here long enough,” Melinda said, “you see too much not to accept that there’s…a mystery that operates hereabouts, one the locals believe in, and regardless of whether you believe in it or not, it works, and you can have faith in it doing so.”
Raven nodded. “Well put. We can be perfectly certain those five will return, hale and whole, although exactly when is the point still in doubt.”
Across the table, Daniel exchanged a look with Morris, then the older man shrugged and gave his attention to his meal.
Daniel looked down at his plate as Claire said, “That is reassuring…that all one needs to do is accept.”
He glanced at her, but she’d looked down, too; he couldn’t tell whether her last words had been intended to convey the more personal allusion he thought he’d heard in them.
Regardless, he was intent on engineering the moment they needed—that she’d requested—for them to talk. Later, by his estimation, meant at the end of the meal, after their charges had trooped off upstairs and they were, finally, free of all distractions. There had been so many demands on his attention through the day that he’d made no headway in getting a grip on what, exactly, was troubling Claire and preventing her from agreeing to marry him. Something about her previous marriage, possibly, although from what he could remember of her disjointed revelations, even that was conjecture at this point.
The meal ended. As the platters were being cleared, Catriona—lady of the house and Lady of the Vale—rose to her feet at the high table. Smiling serenely, she looked around the room; as her gaze touched those gathered, they fell silent. An expectant hush spread over the assembly; her voice even and perfectly modulated, Catriona spoke into it. “My family, my friends. There’s an old Christmas Eve tradition that we haven’t enacted for many years, although I recall it from my childhood. Oidche Choinnle—for tonight is the Night of Candles. The tradition calls for the setting of lighted candles in our windows, supposedly to guide strangers to the safety of our doors, the candles symbolizing goodwill and a promise of a fire to be warmed by, and a light to be guided by. But tonight, with five of our number far from home and a storm holding the land at its mercy, I propose that we place our lighted candles in our windows”—Catriona waved and maids and footmen emerged from the kitchen archway with boxes of plain white candles—“to guide our loved ones safely home.”
She paused as the candles were passed around, then went on, “There are hundreds of windows in the manor. If you would, I ask that each of you present here tonight take a candle, light it, and set it on the stone sill of one of those windows. One candle per window, to light our children home.”
Catriona paused to draw breath. Her gentle smile bathed the room in radiant assurance, then she raised her arms and directed, “Take your candle, light it, and place it in an empty window, and then please return here to share a sip of our Christmas wassail and enjoy one of Cook’s famous mince pies.”
The children were the first on their feet; they gathered at the fireplaces, each lighting their candle before rushing into the front hall, and from there throughout the house proper.
“At least they can’t run,” Daniel dryly remarked to Claire and Melinda, “not without risking blowing out their flame.”
The tutors and governesses, each with their own lighted candle in hand, spread out through the house in the wake of their collective charges, yet they weren’t called upon to rein anyone in; the atmosphere remained good-natured and joyous, and there were many other adults about, plus youths, maids, and younger children from the manor’s families, as well as the Cynster parents. Daniel even saw Algaria, Helena, and McArdle assisting each other from the dais; he looked back before he exited the hall and saw them making their slow way toward the library. There were plenty of windows on that side of the house, but most of those in the hall had made for the higher windows in the manor’s many turrets and towers.
With the others, Daniel circled the manor on the upper floors. He found an unadorned window and paused long enough to set his candle in it.
Claire was passing; she halted beside him and peered out into the swirling blackness of the night. “To anyone out there, this place will look utterly magical with candles twinkling in so many windows.”
“As our hostess said, shining with the promise of safety,” Daniel replied.
Claire glanced at him and smiled, t
hen the girls called from somewhere and she hurried on, her own candle still in her hand.
Daniel was tempted to follow her, but the voices of several of the boys echoing in a nearby stairwell drew him in the opposite direction. He investigated, but all was well; the boys were simply waiting for the last of their number to set his candle firmly in the melted wax he’d dribbled on a stone sill before returning to the Great Hall.
“Don’t want to miss the mince pies!” Calvin said. He led the group away, heading for the stairs to the front hall.
Daniel circled back more slowly, checking the various turrets and towers as he went.
When he reached the northwest tower, he heard the low murmur of voices and glanced up. Around the curve of the stairwell, he glimpsed the duke and duchess standing before one window. The duke had already set his candle somewhere and was empty handed; he stood beside the duchess as she melted wax onto the stone sill, then carefully set her candle upright and held it in place while the wax set. Then she raised her head and looked out of the window.
Neither she nor the duke spoke again, but the duke raised his hand and closed it comfortingly on his wife’s shoulder, and together they stood silently and looked out into the black night.
Both their sons were out there, in some tiny crofter cottage up in the forest at the mercy of what was, by anyone’s yardstick, a ferocious winter storm. No matter how much their intellects knew that their children were old enough, strong enough, sensible enough to keep themselves safe, Daniel understood that the heart still worried.
Parental anxiety wasn’t something even the most powerful in the land could avoid.
Slipping silently away and leaving the ducal couple to their vigil, Daniel continued on, only to come upon his host and hostess high in the neighboring northwest turret. Richard Cynster, like his brother the duke having already divested himself of his candle, lounged against the edge of an alcove in which Catriona, like her sister-in-law, was setting her own candle.
By Winter's Light: A Cynster Novel (Cynster Special Book 2) Page 11