Candle in the Snow

by Olivia Drake

  “Now,” said Miss Maxwell crisply, “to set your mind at ease, perhaps we may begin with my telling you a story.” She paused, then continued in a subdued tone, “There once lived a young girl, an orphan who lived with a distant cousin, a country vicar. She wanted for none of the essentials in life, food and clothing and a good home. Yet her cousin was too involved with church work to pay her much heed. And so she frittered away the hours reading tales of Ali Baba and genii, and dreaming of far-off lands.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Chelsea, “but I fail to...I see...”

  “Patience, my dear.” The headmistress stared down at her clasped hands. “One day, a group of missionaries came to visit the vicar, and she listened raptly to their tales of China. Afire with zeal, she declared her desire to join them in that foreign land. But she’d forgotten the young curate, with whom she’d spent many a contented hour discussing books. On hearing of her plan, he asked her to marry him instead. Although very fond of him, the girl was appalled. Squander her life in a dreary English village? Never! And so she struck off on her Chinese adventure, but instead of a rich exotic land, she found poverty and loneliness, and a people who stubbornly clung to their Buddhist gods. Disillusioned, she returned to England four years later, only to find her curate had married another.” Sadness haunted Miss Maxwell’s dark eyes. ‘Too late she realized she’d given up something precious. She’d given up her best friend... and she’d given up her chance at love.”

  Chelsea’s heart went liquid. She touched the head-mistress’s hand, the skin dry and fragile as parchment. Odd, she’d never before thought of Miss Maxwell as fragile. “That girl was you, wasn’t she?”

  Miss Maxwell nodded. “Perhaps, Mrs. Devlin, your troubles with Mr. Devlin bear no relation to my own bitter regrets. Yet I dislike imagining that you may be denying yourself happiness out of misbegotten pride. Or because you value the safety of the schoolroom more than taking a chance on the man you love.”

  Chelsea looked away. Near the stage, Martha yawned and several of the other girls slumped tiredly in chairs. Sean helped the blacksmith and the tailor restore the tables to their customary position. Half-ill with longing, she watched him work, remembering his easy laughter in their marriage bed, how he’d made her comfortable with her own nakedness...

  She glanced at the starched woman beside her. Would she end up as unfulfilled as Miss Maxwell? Was she clinging to the familiarity of England, the security of the academy, only because she feared being abandoned again? Could she risk committing her life to the man she loved?

  “What are you thinking?” prompted Miss Maxwell.

  “I hardly know what to think anymore,” Chelsea murmured. “But thank you for being honest, for caring about me. You’ve certainly given me much to ponder.”

  “It is my vocation to make people think. And it is never too late to learn from one’s errors.” Miss Maxwell glanced toward the door, where Sir Basil stood expounding to Mrs. Scarbrough, the parson’s meek wife.

  “No, I don’t suppose it is.” A sudden wild hope took root in Chelsea’s heart. Before rationality could wither the seedling, she said, “Might I beg leave to go to Bristol tomorrow?”

  Miss Maxwell’s brows arched. “Of course—you’ve more than earned a holiday. But tomorrow is Christmas Eve. The young ladies will be disappointed if you fail to return in time to celebrate Christmas Day with them.”

  “I’ll be back by late afternoon. I need only to purchase a gift.” Chelsea glanced back at Sean, and a smile trembled on her lips. “A very special Christmas gift.”

  The heavy oak door boomed shut behind Chelsea. By the uncertain light of the December dusk, the interior of the chapel loomed dim and chill, the pews empty, the pulpit deep in shadow near the altar. The smell of musty stone underlay the aroma of fresh greenery. Strings of holly looped the communion rail in preparation for tomorrow morning’s Christmas service.

  Her footsteps echoing, she walked down the side aisle to a stained-glass window near the front. There, she rummaged in her reticule and drew forth a beeswax candle, carefully setting it on the ledge.

  With cold-numbed fingers, she struck a match on a bit of sandpaper. The tiny flame flared as she carried it to the wick. The window glass took on the rich glow of rubies and emeralds. She blew out the match, then sank to her knees, bowed her head, and began to pray.

  That was how Sean found her.

  A few minutes earlier, he’d been taking tea in the refectory with the colleens when he’d spied Chelsea crossing the quadrangle, the brisk wind tugging at her gray mantle. She’d been out on an obscure errand since early that morning; he’d spent the day concluding the final details of his plan and then prowling in impatience for her return.

  Now, his hair tousled from his dash through the icy twilight, he paused in the shadows of the nave. An angelic vision, his wife knelt with her fingers laced, her eyes closed. A lone candle gleamed golden light over her profile and gilded the blonde hair peeking from her bonnet brim.

  His heart squeezed in painful longing. What prayer held her so absorbed? Did she beg the Lord to make her unwanted husband cease plaguing her?

  The old shame washed over him; he struggled to master his emotions. Quickly he composed his own fervent petition: Heavenly Father, please grant Chelsea and me a second chance. Please open her heart to me.

  He paused a moment to memorize the image of her, to guard it forever in case she spumed his gamble to win her trust. As the saints could stand witness, he’d tried his best these past weeks to prove himself a worthy husband. He’d charmed her friends. He’d treated her with loving respect. He’d curbed his hot urges when he wanted nothing more than to rediscover the joy that brash youthful pride had made him run from six years ago.

  His efforts thus far had earned him only a greater wrench of longing, for now that he knew the admirable woman she’d become, he loved her all the more.

  Fighting despair, he reminded himself that regaining Chelsea’s love was like panning for gold: a man could labor for weeks, uncovering only pebbles and sand. Then one day there it would lie, a treasure glinting in the sunshine.

  He exhaled a ragged breath. God, grant such a miracle tonight.

  She turned and squinted into the gloom. “Who’s there?”

  He hesitated, tom between sustaining fantasy and facing reality. Then he walked slowly down the aisle. Her expression changed, but he couldn’t read the emotion on her fine features. Surprise? Gladness? Uncertainty?

  When he reached her side, he said, “I’ve been waiting to speak to you. But don’t let me disturb your devotions.”

  Chelsea gazed up at the towering figure of her husband. Her heart thumped. Had he come to tell her he was leaving, that he would no longer bother with a wife who refused to trust him?

  If only he knew he was the answer to her prayers.

  “Don’t go,” she said quickly. “I’m finished.”

  She started to rise. He gently grasped her hand and helped her up, but made no move to release her. A shimmering circle of candlelight guarded them from the darkness of the chapel. Her legs felt suddenly frail. She thought he must surely hear her pulse throbbing in the quiet air.

  Yet his handsome face remained grave, as if he pondered a weighty problem. “For what were you praying so fervently?”

  Taking a moment to shore her courage, she moistened her lips. “I was following a custom.”

  “Custom?”

  The words sat on the tip of her tongue. Overcoming her fear, she forced out the confession. “Every Christmas Eve since you left, I’ve lit a candle here, before the image of Our Lord.”

  His fingers tensed around hers, and his gaze flicked to the window and back. “Why?”

  She held a breath, then murmured, “In the past, I’ve asked God to protect you in the coming year, wherever you might be. This time, I said a prayer of thanksgiving for your safe return.”

  He stared. Fever as bright as sapphires burned in his eyes. “You lit candles for me, even thou
gh I’d left you?”

  “Every blessed year, Sean. I drove you away by refusing to share your dreams. But I’ve never stopped loving you.”

  The strain sharpening his features dissolved into tenderness. Uttering her name in a hoarse cry, he gathered her dose and buried his face against her throat. His heart beat in quick strokes against her breasts. Brimming with love, she rubbed her cheek against his hair and breathed in the wonderful masculine scent of him. It was heaven to feel his arms enclosing her, cherishing her again, the answer to her prayers.

  He lifted his head and kissed her. “Chelsea, love, I need you. Saint Brenden help me, I need you so.”

  Joy bubbled inside her. The worries and fears of the past weeks melted like snowflakes in the sun. “I need you, too, Sean. I don’t want us to ever be apart again. I want you to know I’m willing to go anywhere with you—”

  “Hush.” He planted another warm, stirring kiss on her lips. “ ‘Tis Christmas Eve, and there’ll be no talk of anyone going away. Now, before you say another word, I’ve a surprise for you.”

  Grasping her hand, he pulled her down the aisle. She felt cold without his loving embrace, and his swift gait forced her to run, her skirts swishing, threatening to entangle her legs.

  “Sean, slow down,” she said, laughing as they emerged into the wintry dusk. She reached for the reticule that dangled from her wrist. “Can’t we stop a moment so I can give you my Christmas gift?”

  “No,” he said, his arm at her waist as he urged her across the quadrangle. “Weeks it’s been that I’ve wanted to give you m’ own gift. A little token of regard for m’ darling wife. We’ll be going to the stables first.”

  “The stables?”

  “Aye. To borrow a carriage.”

  “Why?”

  His grin gleamed through the deepening darkness. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  His mysteriousness kept her wondering. What trinket could her husband afford? She fretted briefly that the expense of her own present might wound his pride. No, she decided, he’d realize that her gift was enough for the both of them.

  The smell of hay and droppings pervaded the stable. By the light of a single lantern, he harnessed the horse to an ancient curricle. Watching his deft movements, she asked, “Does Miss Maxwell know you’re using her carriage?”

  He winked. “Show some faith, wood sprite. She said I could borrow it anytime I liked.”

  Chelsea smiled wryly. “I should have guessed. You could charm money out of Ebeneezer Scrooge.”

  A few minutes later, she sat beside him as the horse trotted down the pebbly drive. The twin lamps shed barely enough light to see the road and the leather top provided scant protection from the frigid wind. As the glowing windows of the academy vanished into the night, she huddled deeper into her cloak.

  One pinprick of ice, then another, struck her cheek. She peered at the black, moonless sky. “It’s beginning to snow,” she said, marveling. “Perhaps we’ll have a white Christmas.”

  He transferred the reins to one hand so he could hug her. “We’ll have a grand Christmas, no matter what the weather. Just you wait and see.”

  She wondered again why he was being so secretive about his gift, and ached to give him her own, the gift that would prove her commitment to their marriage. But for the moment she contented herself with cuddling against him for warmth.

  The carriage rolled up and down hills, and the wind rushed through the barren treetops. Sean guided the horse away from the village, to a part of the Wiltshire countryside unfamiliar to her. At last the curricle rumbled up a darkened drive and halted before the inky silhouette of a manor house. Stately rows of mullioned windows held the welcoming gleam of candlelight.

  “Why are we stopping here?” she asked.

  The horse blew robustly. The seat springs creaking, Sean turned and took her gloved hands in his. “Because, love, ‘tis my Christmas gift to you. The first of many.”

  “What is?”

  “Why, this grand manor, of course. Isn’t it what you’ve always dreamed of?”

  Her mouth dropped open. She stared at the imposing mansion. “I don’t understand.”

  “ ‘Tis simple enough.” He made a sweep of his arm. “All this is yours, from the polished brass doorknobs to the antique stones, from the rocking horse in the nursery to the crystal chandeliers in the ballroom. And a thousand acres of wooded parkland besides.”

  “But... the money...”

  In the pale lamp glow, he shifted uncomfortably. “Aye, the money. Now, there’s something I have yet to tell you, Chelsea. M:’ first year in California, I must have had the luck o’ the Irish, for I happened into a bit of gold.”

  “How much gold?” she said faintly.

  He eased a finger under his collar. “ ‘Twas what the forty-niners call a bonanza. Then I invested in a string of mercantiles and reaped another fortune selling supplies to the miners. I did it all for you, love. You see, you’re wed to a wealthy man.”

  Shock rushed over Chelsea. So that explained his expensive garb and his lack of concern over his ability to support her. Half of her heart swelled with pride; the other half squeezed tight from an acute sense of betrayal.

  Bitter hurt inundated all reason. “I’m wed to a man who couldn’t be honest if his life depended upon it.”

  Reeling from the pain, she scrambled down from the curricle.

  He leapt out after her. “Where are you going?”

  “Anywhere!” she shot over her shoulder. “Anywhere that’s away from you, Sean Devlin.”

  She stalked down the drive, her shoes scuffing through the thin layer of snow. His footsteps crunched from behind; he grabbed her arm and spun her around.

  “Faith, woman! Aren’t you pleased?” The night shrouded his features, but his anger rang clear. “You always wanted to many a rich man.”

  Did she anymore? He’d given her the house, but not her heart’s desire. “I was young and foolish when I wanted wealth. All I want now is a man whose love I can count on. A man who won’t try to buy my love. But you deceived me again, Sean. You deliberately made a fool of me...” The lump in her throat thickened. She turned her head away.

  “ ‘Tisn’t entirely true.”“ His cold fingers forced her chin back toward him. Snowflakes jeweled his mid-night hair. “I wanted you to choose me, not m’ bank account. And as the saints can stand witness, I’ve never made a fool of you, Chelsea. Never.”

  “But you did,” she whispered, and fumbled inside her reticule. “I have the proof of that right here.” She slapped two bits of paper at his chest.

  “What’s this?”

  “Read it.” Her anger surged. “You misled me about that, too.”

  Sean stood still, the paper pale against his dark coat. Then he took her arm and said in a more cautious tone, “Come inside. ‘Tis cold out here.”

  Furiously blinking back tears, she marched beside him, up the wide stone steps of the manor house. An elegant Georgian pediment crowned the entryway. With the ease of ownership, he opened the door and ushered her into the warmth and fight of a lofty foyer.

  Despite her battered emotions, Chelsea couldn’t help but admire the pastel-striped wallpaper and polished marble floor. The fresh scents of beeswax and Christmas greenery perfumed the air. Curving staircases swept upward from either side, joining in a majestic balcony at the second floor.

  Yet she felt like a stranger in a strange house. The shallow girl she’d been, craving baubles and ballrooms, had fled. In her place was a woman who finally understood that the essence of love had nothing to do with money, and everything to do with the agonizing doubts in her heart.

  A white-haired butler, as dignified as the house, emerged from the hall straight ahead. “Good evening, sir, madam. May I take your wraps?”

  Still clenching the papers, Sean helped her remove mantle and bonnet, then handed his own coat to the servant. “Thank you, Hamilton. I should like you to meet Mrs. Devlin.”

  Hamilton bowed. “A Merry Christ
mas to you, madam. May I say, I look forward to serving you for many years to come.”

  She forced a smile. “A Merry Christmas to you, too.”

  “See to our carriage, please,” Sean told the butler.

  “Of course, sir.” Hamilton paused. “I have prepared everything according to your directives.”

  “Thank you,” Sean said, lifting a hand in a dismissing wave. “That’ll be all for tonight.”

  He acted as if he’d been born to privilege and for-tune. Renewed dismay quivered through Chelsea. How well did she really know her husband? Was he gentleman or rogue? Saint or sinner?

  He led her into a sumptuous drawing room, where several candelabra lent a golden sheen to the rosewood furnishings. The quiet ticking of a tall case clock mixed with the crackling of a Yule log in the black marble hearth. Trapped in a bubble of unreality, she walked to a window and touched the tasseled gold cord securing the crimson drapery.

  “These are the curtains we used in the pantomime last night!”

  “Aye. I had the housemaids rehang them today.”

  “You must’ve bought this place weeks ago.”

  “Aye, ‘twas a lucky chance Lord Fitzwayne was keen on selling, furniture and all, to settle a gambling debt. Don’t you like the house?” Sean’s anxious voice came from behind her. “I thought you’d prefer to be close enough to teach at Miss Maxwell’s.”

  Arms folded across her breasts, she rounded on him.

  “When I’ve a liar for a husband, it might as well be a hovel.”

  His eyes narrowed. “If my humble choosings don’t suit your tastes, then change whatever you like. Faith, you can refurbish the whole bloody house if you so fancy.”

  Unreasoning pain choked her. Tonight should have been a dream come true. Instead it was a rude awakening. “You haven’t yet bothered to examine my gift to you.”

  “Your gift? Oh.” Looking down, he unfolded the papers in his hand. His handsome features sharpened with amazed disbelief. Two tickets. “You’ve bought passage to San Francisco.”