Candle in the Snow

by Olivia Drake

  Gasps rippled from the girls, and their rapt faces were tilted toward Sean. The web of enchantment

  snared Chelsea as well, and she sank onto a chair.

  Clasping his hands around his bent knee, Sean continued, “For nigh on six years the gentleman kept his lonely vigil, guarding the magic candle. Many a time he was cold and miserable, but he would not give up, for his life was nothing without her. Then one winter there came the most terrible blizzard Ireland has ever seen. Cows froze in the fields and many people died. A fever overtook the gentleman and he awakened much later to find the hut dark and the flame gone out.”

  Several girls sniffled; fabric rustled as they groped for handkerchiefs.

  “ ‘Twas with great sorrow in his heart that he struck a flint and relit the candle. Then he carried it out into the wild wind and driving snow, sheltering the flame within his coat, for he wanted to die in the place where he’d first seen his true love. He feared the lass would think he’d lost faith, though love still blazed in his heart. In a daze, he fell onto the rock and prayed, ‘Dear Lord, You must save her, for I can no longer go on.’

  “Suddenly the snow vanished and springtime blos-somed all ‘round him. He came to his senses with the beautiful colleen embracing him, for the evil spell was broken forever. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she said his faith had wrought a miracle.”

  Sighs swept like a wave through the audience. A few girls dabbed at their eyes, and even Chelsea had to blink to clear her misty vision, for he’d tailored the story to fit their own estrangement.

  “And did they live happily ever after?” asked Alice dreamily.

  “Why, bless Saint Brenden, of course they did. I heard they even had a dozen children.” Sean paused to aim a soft yet probing look at Chelsea. “You see, even though they’d been separated for many years, the gentleman never stopped loving his lady.”

  Her throat ached. If only reality could match such fantasy. If only magic could restore lost love and shattered faith...

  “We can make a miracle, too, with the pantomime,” Jane declared.

  “We’ll give up our free time to learn our lines,” said Laura, her usual sullenness banished by enthusiasm.

  “We’ll plan extra rehearsals,” promised Georgina.

  “Yes,” Dora added stoutly, “we’ll even work through teatime if we must.”

  Martha wriggled past the older girls and tugged on Chelsea’s skirt. “Even I could have a part, couldn’t I? I could play Tiny Tim Cratchit. Please, might 1?”

  An endearing glow lit her dainty, heart-shaped features. Gazing around at the other expectant faces, Chelsea felt the bleakness of practicality dissolve into the warmth of hope. Perhaps this was one miracle even she could believe in...

  “All right, then,” she said. “We’ll do A Christmas Carol. But you must begin your copying immediately.”

  Amid cheers and chatter and a mad scramble for the dormitory, she looked at Sean. The tenderness in his eyes made her heart tremble. Quickly she turned and walked out, before she succumbed to the dangerous softening inside her.

  Sean vanished after practice and stayed away from dinner, as well. Alone in her room later, Chelsea spied a faint glow in the window of the gardener’s old quarters. The knowledge that her husband was alive and near still shook her. Huddled beneath the counterpane that night, she couldn’t sleep. The floodtide of memories, the impossible yearnings she’d so carefully tucked away, kept her as wakeful as a candle that blazed without cease.

  Not that she intended to revive their marriage. Sean Devlin was still a devil-may-care rogue who might depart at any moment on another wild adventure. Yet she couldn’t stop wondering if she’d been too hard on him long ago, if their love might have endured had she been mature enough to bend. Heart pounding, she wondered if she could resist if he tried to kiss her again...

  But he didn’t.

  Over the next few days, to her wary surprise, he kept his distance. Yet he was ever-present, a tall and cheerful charmer who chatted with Miss Maxwell after Sunday church service and entertained the girls with tales of the wild West. He sat apart from Chelsea at meals, though his hearty laughter drifted down the long table. Even the snobbish Mademoiselle Daumier, the French teacher, and gloomy Miss Mainwaring, the history teacher, fell victim to his spell.

  Chelsea was guiltily aware that Miss Maxwell expected her to teach Sean to read. But he never broached the matter, and she found it easier to procrastinate. In her heart, she ached to help him. Yet she couldn’t bear to closet herself alone with him, to sit close to him, to risk awakening emotions best left forgotten...

  Instead, she kept busy with schoolwork. But it proved hard to forget Sean when the girls bubbled over with jests he’d told them and offered snippets of his conversation. Jane even began to mimic his Irish lilt.

  As the week progressed, Chelsea wondered how he occupied himself during the long hours of class time. Each morning, gazing out the window of her school-room, she saw him stride purposefully toward the village. Her throat went dry. Was he already so bored he couldn’t bear to stay in one place?

  At least his return had reaped one reward: excitement centered on the pantomime. She’d never seen the girls work with such inspiration on their copy work. Ink-stained fingers abounded, and many an eye looked bleary during her literature lectures. By Friday, the scripts were prepared, the roles assigned, and rehearsal began in earnest.

  At the appointed hour of four, Chelsea entered the refectory. Her steps faltered when she spied Sean hanging his overcoat on a hook near the door. He looked up, grinned, and sauntered over to help her remove her cloak.

  “Afternoon, love.” His admiring gaze swept the gown of sapphire silk with its modest lace flounces on the skirt. “ Tis fetching as a wood sprite you are to-day.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, secretly glad she’d given in to impulse and worn her best frock. Before she could stay her tongue, she said, “Where have you been today?”

  A momentary shadow came over his face. “Oh, wandering the countryside. ‘Tis restless I am without you.”

  In a fleeting caress, his cool hand stroked her flushed cheek. Disobeying the dictates of reason, her heart stumbled over a beat. She ached to rub against his fingers; it had been so long since he’d touched her.

  The overcast sky rendered his eyes an opaque blue and the wind had tousled his black hair into a rakish tumble. A snow-white cravat and gray morning coat gave him the jaunty air of a gentleman. She frowned. Now where had her ne’er-do-well Irishman gotten the funds to purchase such stylish clothing?

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask when a querulous voice called out, “Oh, Mrs. Devlin!” Script in hand, Laura waved from the gathering near the hearth. Her temper had improved since she’d been awarded the starring role of Scrooge, but now a frown soured her pretty face. “Do you know where Eliza is? We can’t begin without our narrator.”

  “I haven’t seen her since class,” said Chelsea, walking closer, Sean beside her.

  “I saw Eliza speaking to Miss Witherspoon about her costume,” offered Dora, naming the sewing instructress.

  “Bless Saint Brenden!” exclaimed Jane. “I’ll see what’s keeping her.” She bounded out the door.

  “We mustn’t waste a moment,” grumbled Laura. She turned to Sean and held out the script. “Mr. Devlin, perhaps you wouldn’t mind filling in for Eliza so we can get started?”

  Chelsea’s throat went dry. Dear heavens, the girls didn’t know of Sean’s illiteracy. She couldn’t stand by and let him suffer the humiliation of being found out.

  Her lips forming a hasty excuse, she started to step in front of him. But he shot her a cocky glance, then strode forward and seized the sheaf of papers.

  “I’d be honored,” he said, and began to read.

  “ ‘Marley was dead: to begin with,’” Sean recited in a clear, measured voice.

  Thunderstruck, Chelsea stared. Despite an occasional slight faltering, he read with a melodious lilt that sen
t prickles over her skin. Her throat constricted from an upsurge of pride. Why had he hidden his new skill until now?

  Concentration creased his brow. He inched a finger along the page to keep pace with the words. When he hesitated over a phrase, she ached to prompt him. She wanted to laugh and cry, to rebuke him and embrace him. Dear heavens, why hadn’t he told her?

  And what else had he concealed?

  The girls sat listening, engrossed. Chelsea snapped out of her own reverie in time to nod at Dora, who played Scrooge’s nephew.

  On cue, the pudgy girl stepped forward. “A merry Christmas to you, uncle! God save you!”

  “Bah! Humbug!” answered Laura, screwing her features into a parody of her usual peevish expression.

  The refectory door slammed. Everyone turned. Trailed by Jane, Eliza minced inside and draped her shawl over a chair. “So sorry I’m late, Mrs. Devlin. We can commence rehearsal now.”

  Chelsea arched an eyebrow. “We already have. Mr. Devlin has been reading your part.”

  The girl halted. Blushing crimson, she turned doe-brown eyes on Sean. “Oh!”

  He handed the script to her. “We left off right here,” he said, pointing.

  “Oh ... I do thank you, sir.” She dipped a flustered curtsy.

  He smiled, then perched on a table near the back wall. As practice resumed, Chelsea had a difficult time concentrating on her role as director. A blend of vexation and bafflement plagued her. She was no hero-worshipping girl, so why did she feel this new welling of tenderness? Why should she be so absurdly pleased to learn he’d deceived her?

  The play marched on. Impatient to confront Sean, for once she couldn’t share in the girls’ enthusiasm. At the end of Stave Two, she clapped her hands. “That’s enough for now. We’ll break for tea.”

  Shedding the sober countenance of the Spirit of Christmas Past, Jane bounced forward. “Faith, shouldn’t we press on? How shall we be ready by December twenty-third?”

  Sean frowned. “ ‘Tis rather late to be going home for the holidays, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, nay, sir,” said Martha, her tiny face cheerful. “Miss Maxwell’s Academy is our home. We’re orphans, each and every one of us.”

  He straightened. “A charity school?”

  Even from across the room, Chelsea felt the intensity of his gaze. She held herself upright and stared back.

  Eliza gave an elegant sniff. “Miss Maxwell’s Academy is for girls of genteel birth. She is renowned for educating superior governesses and companions.”

  “And wives.” Sighing dreamily, Alice clasped her hands over her flat bosom. “Some of our graduates go on to marry fine gentlemen.”

  “ ‘Tis lucky we all are to be here,” asserted Jane. She wrinkled her china-doll nose. “After I lost my parents to a cholera epidemic in India, I very nearly had to live with my nasty Great-aunt Augustine.”

  “Who supports your education?” Sean asked.

  “Friends of our departed parents, sir,” Martha said. “And Miss Maxwell goes to London twice a year to solicit subscriptions from other kind ladies and gentlemen.”

  “I see. ‘Tis a benevolent undertaking, to be sure.”

  He aimed another pensive look at Chelsea. She resisted the urge to squirm.

  “Might I go see if Cook has our tea ready?” asked Dora. An expression approaching ecstasy lit her plump face. “She promised currant buns today.”

  Chelsea nodded distractedly, and the girl waddled off. The other pupils gathered around the fireplace and began chatting amongst themselves. Sean threaded through the throng, his dark head and broad shoulders visible above the sea of white bows and neat ringlets.

  Chelsea’s heart thumped. She couldn’t get used to his presence here. Without fully understanding why, she turned and hastened toward the door. He caught up with her there, his fingers snaring her upper arm.

  “ ‘Twill be a chill walk without this.” He held forth her mantle.

  His mocking eyes belied the pleasant set of his features. She let him drape the cloak around her and tried to ignore the tingly sensations caused by his hand brushing her high-throated gown.

  “How thoughtful you’ve become,” she couldn’t resist taunting.

  “ ‘Tis a pleasure to help m’ lovely wife.”

  Slinging his coat over one shoulder, he grasped her hand and drew her into the dreary winter dusk. A glow on the horizon lit the sullen clouds. The wind swirled clumps of dead leaves across the path, and she huddled deeper into the gray merino mantle. Her entire being focused on the man who walked at her side, on the solid warmth of the hand clasping hers. Without speaking, they headed for the dormitory and up the dim flight of stairs.

  They entered her room. Her blood surged with a curious blend of excitement and alarm; she hadn’t been alone with him in nearly a week. With the impersonal finesse of a gentleman, he removed her wrap and hung it up.

  “Now,” he said, turning toward her, “ ‘tis time for you to explain why you haven’t been honest with me.”

  He stood with his feet planted apart, his hands on his hips. Sudden ire flushed her cheeks. “Me?” she said. “How can you accuse me of dishonesty when you lied—to both me and to Miss Maxwell?”

  “I spoke no untruth. Faith, you knew I couldn’t read or write when I left for America. You never troubled to ask whether I could now.”

  “When did you learn?”

  “A few years ago, from a clergyman’s wife. ‘Twas many a lonely night I spent practicing m’ letters.”

  “Letters you never wrote me.”

  “Letters I didn’t think you wanted.”

  Pain pierced her anger; she swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me right away that you could read, Sean?”

  “I wanted to.” Bitterness laced his voice. “But maybe I had to see if m’ wife could love me for more than mere book-learning.”

  Chelsea took a step toward him. “Sean, is that what you really thought?” Words seemed inadequate to express the pride and regret and confusion gnawing at her. “I wanted you to educate yourself only so that you could become the finest man possible. I’m pleased to know you have.”

  One dark eyebrow lifted. “Pleased enough to accept me again as your husband?”

  The challenge vibrated in the chilly air. He stood tall and imperious, waiting for her to close the gap between them.

  Beset by a swell of panic, she went to the hearth and used the poker to stir the glowing embers. A gust of wind down the chimney made the fire flare. She had driven Sean away once by expecting him to sacrifice his dreams to satisfy her own. Yet could she give up her beloved pupils, her friendships here, and move to America? Must she suffer the agony of losing him again?

  Propping the poker against the fireplace, she ventured a look at him. “Sean, don’t press me. I can’t just leap back into our marriage. We’ve both changed.”

  “Aye. You never let on that you taught in a charity school.”

  “Does it matter so much?”

  Impatience shadowed his face. “By Saint Brenden, you know it does. Six years ago, you led me to think you could be happy only as a lady living with the gentry. Now I learn you took a post teaching orphans. I want to know why.”

  How could she explain the yawning ache inside her when he’d left? The desire for a place to belong, for people who needed her? “I was a foundling myself. I ... wanted to give love to others who had no one else to love them.”

  He paced restlessly around the small bedroom, touching a book here, a china pitcher there. “And yet you were planning to abandon the colleens come summer. If you loved them so dearly, why were you set on remarrying?”

  “That’s just like you to leap to conclusions,” she flared. “I wasn’t going to abandon them. With Sir Basil’s approval, I’d intended to spend a few hours a week tutoring some of the girls.”

  “Why marry at all, then? Unless you couldn’t be content without being called ‘Lady Chelsea.’”

  His contempt left her stricken. Unable to den
y a familiar emptiness inside her, she walked to the window and gazed into the gray twilight. “It wasn’t that at all,” she murmured. “The girls never stay here longer than a few years, and I wanted children who would always belong to me. I wanted to feel my own babe kicking within me. I wanted to watch my own children thrive and grow.” Leaning her forehead against the icy glass, she went on in a whisper, “I wanted someone who would never leave me. Someone I could love forever.”

  Silence hung thick in the room. From without came the muffled rattling of chestnut branches and the lonely keening of the wind. Sean’s footsteps sounded on the floorboards; then she sensed his warm presence directly behind her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, but before she could master her turbulent emotions, he gently turned her toward him. Through blurry eyes, she gazed at the ivory buttons on his white shirt. Her hands rose to his chest in an instinctive effort to keep him at a safe distance.

  His thumb slipped along her cheek and caught a stray tear. “Have you never chanced to consider, little wood sprite, that I could give you children?”

  Her gaze leapt to his. The tender intensity of his expression made her sway. Sean’s child... Long-ago dreams rushed over her, dreams of a boy with his devilish grin and blue eyes, of a girl with his gentle humor and coal-black hair. And memories of how barren she’d felt when, after he’d gone, the onset of her monthly courses had left her with no part of him to treasure.

  Beneath her palm, his heart thumped in pace with the sudden wild tempo of her own blood. Without allowing herself to think, she lay her head in the hollow of his shoulder and pressed her lips to his throat. His scent reminded her of the outdoors, clean and earthy and achingly familiar.

  A groan rumbled from his chest. “Chelsea, love...”

  Tilting her chin up, he drenched her mouth in a deep and drowning kiss. She opened her lips and met the delirious stroking of his tongue. Reason burned away in a firestorm of yearning, a yearning too long denied. Hot and hungry, she melted against him and felt the hard strain of his arousal. His hand cupped her breast, the heat penetrating the stiff-boned corset and nourishing the ache between her thighs. She let her hands relearn the contours of hard chest and lean waist. Sean... this was her Sean, the only man who could make her feel such wonderful sensations. She wanted him... oh, sweet heavens, how she wanted him to fill the void of loneliness within her.