Candle in the Snow

by Olivia Drake

  Chelsea. “Now that we’ve been reunited, ‘twould be a pleasure indeed to take tutoring from m’ own beloved wife.”

  She stiffened. Spend more time with Sean? The very thought shot hot and cold flashes through her. “I have a full schedule of classwork. I wouldn’t wish to shirk my duties.”

  “Nonsense,” said Miss Maxwell. “You’ve unrestricted time in the evenings. And the Christmas holiday will soon be upon us.” She peered closely at Chelsea. “Unless you’ve an objection to helping your own husband.”

  Beneath Miss Maxwell’s gruff exterior lay a heart unselfishly devoted to charity. Her generosity of spirit had drawn Chelsea to the academy years ago, when she’d been a grieving, abandoned wife searching for a secure home.

  Pinned by that glare, she had no choice but to murmur, “Of course not.”

  “Excellent. It is our sworn duty as teachers to open the world of the printed word to people everywhere.”

  “ ‘Tis an admirable goal, to be sure.” Sean cleared his throat. “Might I impose further on your benevolence, ma’am?”

  A faint, encouraging smile touched the headmistress’s lips. “What is it?”

  “M’ own foolish search for treasure has cost Chelsea and me many years of happiness.” He feathered his fingers over the sensitive skin of her neck. “ ‘Tis m’ fondest hope that we might live together and rekindle the love that lighted our youth. Yet I mislike the notion of stealing her away from you...”

  Chelsea’s jaw dropped. The nerve of him, acting so affectionate, assuming she’d go off with him! “Don’t give a thought to my leaving, Miss Maxwell,” she said. “If you’ll have me, I’d like to remain right here.”

  “Indeed. I shouldn’t wish to see you depart in the midst of the school year. Perhaps I shall make an exception to my rule about married teachers.” A strange wistfulness lit the headmistress’s brown eyes. “And you’ve a point, young man. A married couple belongs together. For the time being, you may reside in the gardener’s old quarters over the stables, until I can arrange permanent quarters for the both of you.”

  “What?” Chelsea gasped.

  “May Saint Brenden bless you.” Stepping forward, Sean kissed Miss Maxwell’s hand. “A more kind-hearted lady I’ve never before had the honor of meeting.”

  Her cheeks pinkened. She drew her hand back and lifted her sharp chin to a dignified level. “I must request, Mr. Devlin, that you never venture into the dormitory at night. Our young ladies must be sheltered from the... ahem... practice of man and wife.”

  Sean graced her with his devastating smile. “ ‘Tis grateful I am just to be near m’ wife. I’ll be the very soul of discretion.”

  She gave him a quelling look. “I trust you will. Now, Mrs. Devlin, I came to see what was keeping you. Given the circumstances, I’ll overlook your being late for rehearsal, so long as you go straight to the refectory.”

  The pantomime. Head spinning, heart aching, Chelsea struggled to clear the panic fogging her senses. Sean couldn’t stay so close by! Yet how could she object without revealing the hurtful details of their estrangement? “But... but Miss Maxwell—”

  “We were just on our way there, ma’am,” he said, clasping Chelsea’s icy hand. “I couldn’t bear to let m’ darling wife out of m’ sight. Given me up for dead, she had. ‘Tis Our Lord’s own miracle that I returned before she remarried.”

  “Dear me!” Miss Maxwell frowned. “Sir Basil! Someone must inform him...”

  “Bless you for considering the kind gent,” Sean said. “May the Lord forgive me for breaking another human being’s heart, but at least he took the news with a stiff upper lip.”

  “Oh, the poor man! Alone at a time like this. Perhaps I should take him a jar of Cook’s orange marmalade, and help him with his specimens. Yes, yes, I must do so straightaway.” Turning in uncustomary agitation, she hastened down the stairs.

  “Faith, the woman’s in a crashing rush. Might I behold a hidden fondness in her starched heart for the bird-loving gent?”

  At any other time, Chelsea would have been startled by the headmistress’s behavior. But fury had a stranglehold on her emotions.

  Gripping the edges of her shawl, she rounded on Sean. “How dare you invite yourself to stay here! What do you want from me? A warm body in your bed each night? Let me make this clear, Sean Devlin, it shan’t be mine!”

  His eyes darkened. “I want only a chance—”

  “There’ll be no more chances. How many times must I say that? Yet you persist in using your brash Irish charm, as if by winning over every person in my life, you fancy you can win me as well.”

  “Time was, you liked m’ Irish charm.”

  “That time ended forever when you deserted me. You cared more for your reckless adventuring than for your own wife—”

  Tears closed her throat. Whirling away, she headed toward the stairs. He caught her arm and spun her back around, his lean body pressing her to the carved oak paneling. Her senses swam with the outdoors fragrance of him, with the heat and tension emanating from him. Raw emotion made his features stark.

  “I tried to forget you, Chelsea, because I knew you wouldn’t have me back. As the saints can stand witness, I tried. A man can’t hold his head high knowing he arouses naught but shame in his own wife.” Bitterness chased across his features, and he moved back a fraction, his arms still bracketing her.

  “I never said I was ashamed of you!”

  “Oh? All you could talk of was educating me.” In a blend of American brashness and Irish lilt, he went on, “When I heard of that agent nosing around, ‘twas impossible to bury m’ feelings any longer. I hoped at first you’d changed your mind and wanted me back. But a wee devil whispered the unhappy tale that you’d found someone else, that you wished to remarry. So you see, ‘twas the blackest jealousy that sent me rushing back here. I had to know the truth.”

  “You never cared enough to be jealous,” Chelsea countered.

  “I did care. I cared so much I was willing to give you what you wanted most—me, out of your life.” He paused, his eyes probing hers. “You asked what I want. I want you back in m’ life and in m’ bed, wood sprite. Most of all, I want you to love me as much I still love you.”

  Flabbergasted, she gazed numbly at him, from the strand of black hair lying rakishly across his forehead to the candid blue of his eyes, from the firm set of his mouth to the bold cleft in his chin. The sudden certainty of his love robbed her of anger and left a shaky confusion. Heaven help her, she wanted to touch her lips to his, to reawaken the fairy-tale happiness of girlish dreams. But she couldn’t bear the heartache again.

  “I’m not ashamed of you,” she asserted again, in a softer voice. “I never have been. If I didn’t want anyone to find out about you today, it was only because I feared losing my teaching post.”

  His face gentled. “‘Tis pleased I am to hear you say so. A few weeks is all I’m asking you. A few weeks to see if we can find the gold that pride made us toss away.”

  She moved her head from side to side. “We’ve already tried living together for a few weeks, and you left me.”

  “ ‘Twas youthful pride that drove me away.” He stroked her cheek. “You needn’t fear I’ll be forcing m’self into your bed, Chelsea. I’ll play fair. You have m’ word on that.”

  His nearness made her tremble. Was it Sean she mistrusted... or herself? She thrust her chin up. “If you expect me to toss away my life here and move to America, you’re wasting your time.”

  “I expect...” His face hardened; he slammed a fist against the wall with such force the paneling rattled against her spine. “All I expect, Chelsea, is a wife who’ll meet me halfway.”

  His vehemence disconcerted her. How much of what he said could she believe, and how much was the eloquence of a smooth-talking Irishman? She lowered her eyes. “I must go to rehearsal.”

  This time, when she moved toward the stairs, he let her go. The tread of his feet behind her lent a com-forting sense of companions
hip. His determination to fit into her life, at least for the time being, aroused a swirl of bewildering emotions inside her—dismay and delight, pain and pleasure. Could the seeds of love still lie buried deep inside her?

  They walked across the chilly quadrangle and toward the refectory. Swallowing hard, she stole a glance at him. He stared at the ground, his brow creased in thought. The flawless male beauty of his profile wrenched her heart. Had she driven him away by expecting him to fulfill her dream of becoming a fine lady? Had she stolen his pride by not loving him for the man he was, by refusing to open herself to his dream?

  The troubling questions chilled her more than the icy wind.

  Inside the refectory, the last rays of sunlight streamed through the windows and illuminated the far end, where the long dining tables had been pushed against the walls to clear an open space. A cheery blaze crackled in the hearth. On chairs nearby sat the girls, clad in white pinafores over gray frocks, their ringlets neatly held back with white bows. Giggles and chatter brightened the air. The sight of her precious charges brought a measure of contentment to Chelsea’s soul.

  She clapped her hands. “Young ladies! May I have your attention?”

  The noise dropped to a murmur. Eyes agog, a sea of girlish faces swung toward her. The sudden hiss of whispers betrayed a keen interest in Sean.

  With an inexplicable lightness of heart, she gestured at him. “We have a visitor today. I should like all of you to meet my husband, Mr. Devlin.”

  A willowy girl with reddish hair leapt to her feet. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” blurted Georgina Ives.

  “Only in a bumbling agent’s casebook,” he said, grinning. “I’ve been away in America.”

  “America, sir?” piped little Martha Griggson from the back of the group. “Oh, do tell us about the blood-thirsty Indians.”

  “Did they shoot arrows at you?” asked Jane Yardley, bouncing up and down in her chair, blue eyes big in her china-doll face. “Did they try to scalp you?”

  Laughing, Sean ruffled a hand through his hair and perched on the edge of a table. “Nay, I survived unscathed, though I could tell more than one grisly tale of men who crossed the Great Plains.”

  “Oh, do entertain us with some stories, sir,” begged Martha.

  “Yes, please,” chorused several others.

  His eyes twinkled. “Faith, I’d hoped you’d be more inclined to hearing about m’ own adventures. I’ve been mining gold in California.” He looked at Chelsea. “To make m’ wife’s dreams come true.”

  “Gold!”

  “Are you rich as Croesus?”

  “Did you bring lots of fancy gifts for Mrs. Devlin?”

  “One special present,” he said. “But she cannot find out what it is ‘til Christmastide.”

  He gave Chelsea a mysterious half-smile that started her wondering in spite of herself. What could he have brought her? It didn’t matter, she thought, lacing her fingers in the shawl fringe. Undoubtedly he’d be off again before the holiday.

  “How very romantic,” murmured Alice Archer, hands clasped to her flat bosom. “You’re ever so much more dashing than...” She glanced at Chelsea and fell silent, blushing.

  “Aye,” Sean said under his breath, “at least m’ wife won’t waste her life dusting dead birds.”

  Chelsea shot him a warning glare, which he met with a grin.

  “Oh, dear!” exclaimed Jane in dismay. “You aren’t going to leave us straightaway, are you, Mrs. Devlin? You promised to stay through the end of spring.”

  Distraught exclamations swept the gathering. Tenderness glowed inside Chelsea, for these girls had long eased the aching emptiness inside her. “I shan’t be going anywhere,” she said. “Now, take your places, everyone. I thought to find all of you practicing al-ready.”

  Groans and grumbles filled the chamber, along with the scrapings of chair legs and the swish of starched petticoats.

  Mincing to the front of the group, one of the older girls, Eliza Phipps, turned up her elegant nose. “1 don’t see why this is necessary. We needn’t rehearse that old story.”

  “Eliza’s right,” said Laura Hargreave, a typical dis-gruntled look on her elfin face. “We’ve done Saint George and the dragon for each of the three years I’ve been here.”

  “Saint George?” said Sean, casting an inquiring look at Chelsea. “ ‘Tis a curious choice for a Christmas play.”

  “It’s a school tradition,” she explained. “We perform it for the villagers each December.”

  “ ‘Tis a queer tradition, to be sure. Were the choice mine, I’d put on a show more in the spirit of the holidays.”

  “What might that be, sir?” ventured Martha.

  “Perhaps A Christmas Carol by Mr. Dickens.”

  Excited chatter burst from the girls.

  “A jolly idea,” said Jane, blue eyes gleaming. “I could be one of the ghosts. Imagine, all those clanking chains and such.”

  “I must play Belle,” said Alice, twirling in romantic grace. “Mr. Scrooge’s tragic lost love.”

  “Oh, what great fun!” exclaimed Dora Lang, clasping her chubby hands. “Cook might even give us real food to use for the Christmas feast.”

  Smiling indulgently, Sean said, “Bless Saint Brenden, ‘tis a grand notion. We might even share the feast with the villagers afterwards.” He aimed a devilish look at Chelsea. “Providing the plan meets the approval of Mrs. Devlin, of course.”

  “Oh, yes!” cried the girls, their eyes shining. “Please, Mrs. Devlin.” Everyone started talking at once, the din echoing in the cavernous room.

  Annoyance burned inside Chelsea. She might have known Sean Devlin would manage to turn a simple rehearsal into an uproar.

  She clapped her hands again. “Enough, girls! We’re performing Saint George. We haven’t the time to put together a new production.”

  “We’ve several weeks yet,” said Laura, pouting. “Oh, don’t make us do that dull old fairy tale again.”

  “If you please, Mrs. Devlin,” spoke a plain girl from the back. As everyone turned to stare, Prudence Henning adjusted her horn-rimmed spectacles and shrank against the stone chimneypiece. “I... I own a copy of the work in question, and ... and should like to volunteer to transcribe the speaking parts.”

  Though gratified to see the shy girl offer to participate, Chelsea said gently, “Thank you, but I’m afraid it’s out of the question. A Christmas Carol is far too long a piece. It would take weeks to write out enough copies for everyone.”

  “Not if we all pitch in,” said Jane, jumping from one foot to the other in an effort to see past the taller girls.

  “Prudence is so awfully quick. I’ll wager we could have the pantomime script finished within a few days.”

  “Yes, yes,” came several eager voices. “We’ll all help.”

  “Why do you need a script?” asked Sean, frowning. “Isn’t a pantomime where you caper about without speaking?”

  Georgina’s willowy frame convulsed in a giggle. “Oh, heavens, no. It’s the English rendition, with lots of singing and dancing and tale-telling.”

  “That’s why Mr. Dickens’s story is perfect for Christmas,” said Dora. “Don’t forget the feasting on cakes and pies and puddings, too.”

  Chelsea shook her head in exasperation. She ached to see her girls happy, but they weren’t viewing the situation sensibly. “I’m afraid I must disagree. There are rehearsals to consider, and props—”

  “Leave the props to me,” said Sean. “ ‘Tis many a hurdy-gurdy show I’ve seen in America.”

  “Hurdy-gurdy?”

  Under her cool stare, he grinned sheepishly. “Musicians, in a manner of speaking. Traveling troupes who perform for the miners.”

  “Saint George is the patron saint of England. His is a time-honored story, a classic. Hardly mere popular fiction.”

  He cocked a black eyebrow. “Aye, but even a classic must have had a start somewhere. Who knows, in fifty years perhaps you’ll be teaching the Dickens tal
e, right along with Shakespeare.”

  Teasing tilted the corners of his mouth. He enjoyed stirring this hornet’s nest! Despite her irritation, she had to squelch this most absurd urge to return his smile.

  “Miss Maxwell will never agree to a change at so late a date,” she pointed out.

  “You leave her to me.”

  His confidence irked Chelsea. “It would take a miracle to be ready on time.”

  “Have faith, woman,” Sean murmured, blue eyes intense in the fading rays of sunlight. “Have you so quickly forgotten about the candle in the snow?”

  Her heart went liquid. For a long moment the fire crackled into the silence. She could only stare at him, for she knew he was remembering when he’d first told her the tale, to buoy her flagging spirits on the wearisome ride to Gretna Green.

  The girls crowded closer. “What candle in the snow?” asked Jane, eyes round with curiosity.

  “Please do tell us, sir,” begged Martha.

  “With Mrs. Devlin’s permission.”

  He looked at Chelsea and she nodded numbly.

  Relaxing against the stone wall, he said, “ ‘Tis an ancient Irish legend, about a gentleman who lived alone for many years. Though lord of a grand castle, he would not marry, for he’d never met a girl he liked enough. Well, one day a great thunderstorm blew up while he was out hunting, and he took shelter in a deserted hut alongside a lake. The rain ceased as night fell, and the sad sound of singing drew him outside.

  “There, to his surprise, sat a woman on a rock, a colleen as pretty as a wood sprite.” Sean cast a meaningful look at Chelsea. “She said she’d lived in the hut as a girl, but her parents had sold her to evil fairies in exchange for worldly riches. Until she could win the true love of a human, she was doomed to remain a prisoner of the dark netherworld.”

  A collective “Oooh” issued from the girls.

  “To be sure, the gentleman vowed to love her. He would have kissed her then, but she warned him against touching her, for fear the wee folk might claim him as well. And so they sat and talked until dawn lit the sky. To set her free, she said, he must first prove his faith, and she lit a candle. He must keep it burning in the window of the hut, else she would die. Then she vanished into the morning mist.”