by Olivia Drake
Abruptly his lips left hers. Clasping her shoulders, he thrust her to arm’s length. Bereft and bewildered, she opened her eyes to see his chest heaving and his expression turn grim with longing.
“I want to make love to you, Chelsea.”
“Then do... please do.”
He shook his head, his eyes dark and moody. “I’ll not risk planting m’ seed until you vow to live with me as m’ wife.”
The chill wind of reality blew away the fever of desire. Struggling to collect her scattered wits, she bit her lip. “I... how can I, Sean?”
His fingers clenched her shoulders. “Do you love me?”
The hoarse question hovered between them. Searching herself, Chelsea found an agonizing joy and an icy fear. She bowed her head, unable to speak the words that might seal her fate. “Don’t ask me that,” she whispered.
“I must. Look at me. Look at me and say you’ll be m’ true wife now and forever.”
She slowly raised her eyes to meet his. “I can’t, Sean. How would we live? Where would we live?”
“I’ll provide for you.”
“But I want my children warm and fed and safe from harm. Do you have the means to support a family?”
Sean stiffened, as if she’d slapped him. “You’ve so little trust in me. We cannot make our marriage real until you learn to have more faith.” He paused, searching her face. “If I said I meant to return to America, would you go with me?”
Confusion cut into her. Could she trail after him on his quest for adventure, could she cart a baby on her hip through a foreign land, could she raise their children without a permanent home? Could she endure the uncertainty that another quarrel might trigger him to storm out on her again?
She’d been abandoned so many times... by unknown parents, by Lady Quincy, by Sean himself. Could she throw away her safe niche here at the academy only to risk the pain of being deserted again?
“I... don’t know,” she murmured.
The intensity left his eyes. His hands dropped. “ ‘Tis best you think on it, then. Time is one of the quantities I’m rich enough in.”
Pivoting, he grabbed his coat and strode out. The door clicked shut, then came the quiet rhythm of his footsteps descending the stairs.
Hands shaking, she gripped the sill. His tall figure emerged into view. Instead of heading across the quadrangle and back to the refectory, he walked slowly toward the shadowy woods beyond the school. His hands were plunged into his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold.
With a pang, Chelsea recalled his swaggering step as a young footman, his cocky grin, his bold kisses. Now she saw him as a man, a man who possessed hidden depths, a man who’d been hardened by experience. For too many years she’d envisioned him as a happy-go-lucky rogue who’d blithely forgotten his wife. But his character had been defined by their painful separation every bit as much as hers had been.
Would they ever reach accord?
The gloom of the forest swallowed him. She ached to call him back, but knew it was too soon. She ached to ease his bitterness, but knew she couldn’t yet give him the trust he needed.
Most of all, she ached to become a girl again, to let dreams sustain their love, to believe in that candle in the snow.
Humbug, thought Sean, hauling on the ropes to open the crimson draperies. He paused in the gloom backstage as Laura, a pinch-faced Scrooge, strode out in nightcap and gown to begin Stave Four of the pantomime.
The eerie glow of lamps illuminated the background scenery of painted shop fronts. In the shadowy rows of chairs beyond the footlights, the villagers sat transfixed by the melodrama. Determined to give Chelsea her miracle, Sean had spent the past fortnight transforming the refectory into a makeshift theater, constructing the sturdy wooden platform, painting canvas backdrops, and stringing curtains on ropes worked by pulleys.
Yet sometimes he felt as jaded as Scrooge.
He stared at the opposite end of the stage, where Chelsea stood half-hidden by the curtains. The sapphire gown hugged her slender form to perfection. She looked fragile; he fancied he could smell her faint violet scent. He wanted her weak with need and begging for his love. But with the pencil stuck behind her ear and her blonde hair scraped into a bun, she was unmistakably in charge here. Where was the passionate girl he’d deflowered so tenderly?
He smiled in spite of his black mood. If he’d known as a lad that teachers could look so primly provocative, he might have learned to read earlier.
She bent her head to consult a notebook, then motioned Prudence and Alice offstage, where as laundress and charwoman, the two girls had been haggling over Scrooge’s last effects.
Half-sick with longing, he studied his wife. For all his newfound book-learning, he was a bletherin idiot. He knew Chelsea had a dread of abandonment. By pandering to his own foolish pride six years ago, he’d deepened that fear.
So why, after that steamy kiss, had he demanded absolute trust from her? Why hadn’t he been content to accept what she offered? Why hadn’t he assuaged the plaguing pain in his loins by taking her to bed? He might have gotten her with child, bound her to him in the most elemental way possible, and then worked at winning her faith later.
But Saint Brenden help him, he couldn’t. That wee devil of doubt still rode his shoulders. He needed to know she loved him for himself, not for education or riches or background. He needed to assure himself that his wife wasn’t ashamed of him.
“No, Spirit!” cried a voice from on stage. “Oh, no, no!”
With a theatrical flourish, Laura fell to her knees before the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come. Georgina, her willowy form and red hair shrouded by a black hooded cloak, pointed a spectral hand at a gravestone bearing the name Ebeneezer Scrooge.
“Spirit!” cried Laura, clutching at the cloak. “Hear me! I am not the man I was. Assure me I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life!” Sobbing, she collapsed to the floor.
Sean heaved a sigh. Would that he could change the shadows around him, prove to Chelsea that he, too, could lead an altered life. After what had happened in California, maybe he’d be more acceptable to her now. He might be wrong to deceive her again, but if worse came to worst, maybe his Christmas gift would finally convince her that he was steadier now, more dependable. That he would never again leave her.
Someone tugged at his sleeve. He looked down at Martha’s dainty, glowing features. She wore a boy’s pants and shirts, and clutched a crude wooden crutch.
“Is it time for me yet, sir?” she whispered.
Aware of a fierce longing for a child belonging to him and Chelsea, he tenderly patted the cap crowning
her auburn hair. “Patience, wee colleen.”
At Chelsea’s signal, he pulled on the ropes; the pulleys squealed as the curtains swung closed. Amid giggles and whispering and much bumping about in the gloom, the girls rushed to prepare for the final act.
He opened the curtains again. Laura cavorted on-stage as the transformed Scrooge, carrying a prize turkey from the poulterer’s shop to Bob Cratchit’s house. Dora, a plump Mrs. Cratchit, rolled in a tea tray laden with mince pie and roast goose, plum pudding and pork sausages. Jane followed, staggering beneath the weight of a great bowl of oranges and pears.
The Cratchit children oohed and aahed. Leaning on the cane, Martha limped to the footlights and said in her sweet voice, “God Bless Us, Every One!”
The audience burst into hearty cheers and deafening applause. The curtains closed, then opened again to the entire cast crowding onto the stage. A grin tickled Sean’s lips as he leaned against the ropes. How proud Chelsea must be of her colleens! As proud as he was of her.
He spied her still standing in the wings, her face wreathed in a smile. She looked happy, content, the way he remembered her from the early days of their marriage. A pang struck his heart. Would she ever smile at him that way again?
He ducked behind the stage, where the back curtain muffled the applause. Dodging props and costume
s, he made his way to her side. This time, the delicate aroma of violets was real. He couldn’t resist touching her shoulder. Her warmth radiated through the fine silk of her gown.
She turned, smiling. Her cheeks were flushed with pleasure and her gray eyes glowed. “Wasn’t our pantomime splendid? The villagers loved it!”
Pleased that she’d included him, he said, “Your colleens brought down the house.”
“Don’t be modest. You’ve worked as hard as the girls.” Her face sobered. “I haven’t yet thanked you for suggesting we abandon Saint George. A Christmas Carol gave the perfect aura of sentiment to the season.”
He shrugged. “ ‘Twas your fine directing that wrought the miracle. Go on out there now and take a bow.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Now who’s being modest?” Pressing a hand to the small of her back, he gave her a slight push. “Go on with you, wood sprite.”
She laced her fingers with his. “Only if you’ll come with me.”
Her hand felt like a small warm bird nesting in his palm. Any protest he might have uttered drowned in a wave of longing. He wanted to say he’d go to the ends of the world for her.
She drew him onto the stage and into the throng of girls. After a renewed bout of clapping, the applause began to diminish. At the edge of the audience, Miss Maxwell directed several teachers to light the oil lamps.
“Isn’t this great fun, sir?” said Martha, bouncing up and down, Tiny Tim’s crutch thumping.
“ ‘Twas a grand entrance I made as Marley’s ghost,” said Jane. “But I confess those clanking chains almost toppled me off the stage.”
“I very nearly sneezed from this white face powder,” Georgina added, still clad in spectral robes. “Now that would have been a disaster.”
“You were all grand,” said Chelsea, “and Scrooge in particular.”
Nightcap askew, Eliza dipped into a much-practiced bow. “Perhaps I shall pursue a career on the stage.”
“But for the moment,” Dora said, “we can all pursue our Christmas feast.” She gazed hungrily toward the tempting array of meats and pastries contributed by the villagers.
“Not yet.” Alice pulled Chelsea and Sean to center stage, where she pointed demurely to the ceiling. “You should know, Mr. and Mrs. Devlin, that you’re standing beneath the mistletoe.”
Sean looked up. Some imp had indeed hung a sprig from the rafter. A smattering of giggles erupted from the culprits.
He couldn’t help but grin. “Faith, we mustn’t ignore an old English Christmas custom, must we, Mrs. Devlin?”
“Sean...” Chelsea warned, casting a glance at the girls.
She looked charmingly flustered, her cheeks pink as peonies, her eyes soft as smoke. It seemed the most natural move in the world to slide an arm around her slim waist. “You fret too much about shoulds and shouldn’ts,” he murmured, echoing the words he’d uttered before their very first kiss.
The memory left him aching. For one breathless moment he wished they weren’t standing in a sea of avid observers. He wished he could kiss his wife with all the passion burning inside him, passion that had survived the years of loneliness, passion that blossomed brighter with each season. But determined to act the gentleman and prove himself worthy of her trust, he merely brushed a chaste peck across her smooth brow.
When he drew back, she was staring solemnly at him. Did she resent him for taking even such a small liberty?
Hiding his uncertainty behind a jovial smile, he winked at the girls. “ ‘Tis a custom I’ll carry along wherever m’ path leads. If you grande dames of the theatre will excuse me now, a man can’t let grass grow under his feet.”
Chelsea watched him stride away to help the village men move the chairs. The phantom touch of his lips lingered, as did the ache haunting her loins. How could she feel such a turmoil of yearning for the man who’d deserted her?
Still, he had worked hard on the pantomime, and she owed him a debt of gratitude for that. But now, with the show over, she couldn’t help wondering how much longer he’d stay before wanderlust seized him again.
A lump lodged in her throat. Had that been a kiss of farewell?
Someone tugged on her hand. “Come join the party, Mrs. Devlin,” said Martha.
Chelsea made an effort to fill her heart with the bright joy of the festivities. Talk and laughter echoed off the stone walls of the refectory. On a platform in the corner perched a Christmas tree, the tradition Prince Albert had brought from Germany. The branches wore red ribbons and gingerbread and the fairy-tale glow of a hundred flickering candles. The fir scent mingled with the heavenly aromas emanating from tables piled high with ham and beef, roast chestnuts and French plums. A great steaming bowl of wassail sat in a place of honor, presided over by Miss Maxwell.
The headmistress’s cheeks bore a faint flush. Sir Basil hovered nearby, looking stiffly proper in a checked suit and high boiled collar.
Out of obligation, Chelsea walked to him. “I’m pleased you were able to attend tonight.”
“A jolly good show,” he said. “Seems you’re as skilled at directing plays as you are at cataloguing specimens.”
“How is the bird collection?”
His ruddy face took on the fever of animation. “You’ll be interested to hear, Mrs. Devlin, that I’ve finally acquired that rare great auk egg. My foreign agent delivered it last week, all the way from Iceland.”
As he rambled on about his new treasure, she found herself stifling a yawn. How could she have ever thought to spend the rest of her life listening to a middle-aged man’s dull prattle? Great auk egg, indeed!
Yet Miss Maxwell looked fascinated, and posed an occasional scholarly question which sparked a youthful smile on Sir Basil’s lips.
Chelsea’s restless gaze halted on the broad-shouldered form of her husband. The tedium whirled away before a gale of yearning. Sitting with his back to the wall, his hands casually bracing one knee, Sean spoke to a duster of girls. By their starry-eyed faces she knew he must be spinning more yarns of gold miners and dam jumpers, bold pioneers and wild Indians. Chelsea ached to join the girls and listen to his vivid tales. How different would her life have been had she gone with him? Would they have a bevy of darling children? Regret sliced through her. She felt a sudden yearning to see this untamed land for herself, with Sean to guide her.
Pride and self-preservation held her back. She mustn’t open her heart until she was certain his stated desire to resume their marriage was more than mere blarney, that his roaming days were over.
Sir Basil and Miss Maxwell were discussing the mating habits of the woodcock. Unnoticed by them, Chelsea slipped away and threaded through the crowd. Forcing herself to nibble on a slice of ginger cake, she paused to speak to some of the townfolk, complimenting Mr. Honeycutte, the grocer, on his contribution of figs and raisins, then asking after old Mrs. Dickerson’s health.
“Bless you, girl.” Eyes like black currants in a wrinkled face, the tiny woman peered up at Chelsea. “We’ll miss you, child, when you leave for America with your handsome husband.”
“I... shall be staying out the school year at the very least.”
“A joy to hear so. You must come visit again soon. Your youthful cheer always brings me a ray of sunshine.”
As Mrs. Dickerson hobbled away, Chelsea wondered why she hadn’t denied that she would be moving to the States. It was an awkward topic, she decided. Best to let people think what they would for now.
The evening dragged on. Across the crowded room, Sean spoke to the solicitor and acted as much at ease with that proper gentleman as he’d been with the girls. He seemed to be avoiding her as much as she avoided him. Doubts weighed on her spirits. If he truly wished to make amends, why didn’t he speak to her? Had she turned him away at last? Was that why he hadn’t seized the chance to kiss her properly under the mistletoe?
Her fingers tightened on her plate. By his own admission, restlessness made him rove the countryside. Perhaps he already chafed wi
thin the confines of a quiet village life. Perhaps he longed for the excitement of a newly settled land. Perhaps his love for America exceeded his love for her.
Then why had he come all the way here? Because he needed financial support? Not for the first time, she cast a jaundiced glance at his fine clothing, the white cravat that set off his tanned features, the navy frock coat and trousers that fit him to perfection. Had he squandered what little coin he’d earned on expensive trappings?
No, Sean had always been fiercely independent, a hard worker below the veneer of a carefree manner. He hadn’t changed in that. He’d balk at living off his wife.
I want you to love me as much as I love you, he whispered inside her heart.
She set down her plate and stared at the crumbs. God help her, she did love him. But she was afraid to trust him, afraid that his promises to love her forever might be no more substantial than a candle in the snow, its flame snuffed by a breath of wind.
“Are you ill, Mrs. Devlin?”
She whirled to see Miss Maxwell’s plain features. “No... I’m fine. Perhaps a bit tired, that’s all.”
“I see.” The headmistress’s gaze strayed to Sean, who was now charming the blacksmith’s stout wife. “Pardon me for prying, but you and your husband don’t seem to have much to say to one another. People are wondering...”
Chelsea’s throat went dry. “What do you mean?”
“Over the past weeks, I’ve noticed signs of trouble between you two. It disturbs me to see one of my teachers so unhappy.”
“Un... unhappy?”
“Come, sit down, Mrs. Devlin. It’s a schoolmistress’s duty to counsel her staff.”
She marched to a pair of empty chairs in a secluded corner. Uneasy, yet loath to disobey her employer, Chelsea followed, gingerly perching on the edge of the hard seat.