Timeless Christmas Romance

by Laurel O'Donnell et al.

“Thank you, Mr. Lewisham,” Mark answered, not bothering to correct the vicar and say he had actually been in the neighborhood for seven years.

  “And, of course, any friend of Miss Duvall’s,” added Mrs. Lewisham, a sly undercurrent of speculation in her voice. The vicar’s wife fancied herself the village matchmaker, and she had not had a “victim” in quite a long while.

  “Perhaps we will have the honor of seeing you at St. Anne’s tomorrow, for Christmas services,” said the vicar.

  “Thank you,” Mark answered slowly. The music changed from a reel to a slow, old-fashioned minuet. “Ah—a dance I believe I can manage. Miss Duvall, may I have the honor?”

  “Of course, Captain Payne. Please do excuse us, Mr. Lewisham, Mrs. Lewisham.” Antoinette gave them a smile, and followed Mark to take their places in the set. She could feel the interested gaze of the vicar and his good wife all the way across the room. As she and Mark took their places in the dance, conversation hushed around them. Ladies whispered behind their fans.

  She ignored them as she smiled across at Mark. No gossip could bother her at all this evening—not with the lively tune making her toes tap and Mark’s silvery blue gaze on hers.

  “The Lewishams seem quite congenial,” he said, as their hands met and they made a turn and a leap.

  “Indeed they are. They have been quite kind to me ever since my arrival in Cornwall.”

  “Unlike certain others?”

  “Perhaps. Some people have never met anyone like me before. They don't know what to think of me, what to say, how to behave.”

  They were separated by the patterns of the dance. When they came back together, to promenade the length of the set, Mark leaned closer to her and whispered, “They were surely only jealous.”

  Startled, Antoinette stared up at him, almost missing the step. “Jealous? Of what?”

  “Of your beauty, of course. Of how very—special you are.” His voice was deep, touched with a sweetly surprised ardor.

  Antoinette wanted to kiss him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She wanted to lean over and place her lips on his, to hold on to him and never, ever let him go.

  If he meant what he said—what could it mean for her? For them?

  She felt the very foundations of her life shift and re-form beneath her feet.

  Mark didn't know where his words came from. He meant them. By Jove, but he did mean them! She was beautiful, beyond beautiful, and so special. He had realized that the moment he saw her on the cliff. And now, seeing how radiant and glorious she was, laughing in the dance, her deep blue gown flowing around her like the night, he knew she was a veritable goddess. A goddess of the sea and the wind. She made him see the beauty of life again.

  No other woman could help but be jealous of her. She was more magnificent than any mortal woman could hope to be. But he hated it—hated it with a rage that she had been hurt by any ignorance or lack of understanding. And she had been hurt; he could see it in the hidden depths of her eyes.

  He wanted her only to have joy in her life from now on. Yet he was the last man to bring joy to any lady. He didn't regret his words, though, even as he was not a man given to poetic sentiment. He meant them—and more. So much more.

  The dance ended, and Mark led Antoinette to the edge of the room, his arms already aching to hold her again. “Would you care for another dance, Miss Duvall?”

  “Later, perhaps,” she answered, with a gentle smile. “Right now, I’m in need of some refreshment. The claret cup looks inviting.”

  “Of course. Allow me to fetch you a glass.”

  They found two chairs in a quiet comer where they sipped in silence at the watery punch. Mark listened to the laughter, the movement around them, and urged himself to speak to her. Speak now.

  “Miss Duvall—Antoinette,” he began. “There are things I must tell you...”

  She turned to him, her eyes wide with expectation, her body leaning slightly toward him. But anything he might have said was drowned out by a burst of music, a rush of voices raised in familiar song.

  “The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown.”

  Several of the villagers had joined the musicians on their dais, and sang out the old carol with great enthusiasm and holiday cheer. Antoinette looked to them, her eyes shining with enjoyment of the song.

  And Mark knew that whatever he wanted to say could wait, should wait until a quiet moment. A moment when he could clearly decipher his own emotions toward this most unique lady. He sat back in his chair, carefully situated in the shadows, to watch her as she listened. Just—watch. And greedily drink in her beauty.

  More voices joined in as the song came to its close. “The rising of the sun, and the running of the deer, the playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.”

  A half-smile touched Antoinette’s rose-pink lips, and she swayed slightly in her chair, whispering the lyrics. She obviously loved music; it seemed to infuse her entire body, lifting her from the dim surroundings into a realm no one else could invade.

  As the carol ended, Mrs. Greeley leaned toward Antoinette and said, “Miss Duvall, why do you not favor us with a song? Lady Royce has told us you have a beautiful voice indeed.”

  The smile faded from Antoinette’s lips, and her shoulders stiffened. “Oh, no, Mrs. Greeley,” she protested. “I have a mediocre talent at best. And I am sure no one would be interested...”

  “Nonsense!” Mrs. Greeley interrupted. “Mr. Greeley and I would so enjoy hearing you, as, I am sure, would Captain Payne. Is that not so, Captain?”

  Mark would more than “enjoy” hearing Antoinette sing—he would pay his last farthing to do so. To hear her voice moving around him, showing him what music, what Christmas, could truly mean. He was only just becoming aware of the truth of so many things.

  “Yes, please, Miss Duvall,” he said. “Do favor us with a song. Something from your homeland, perhaps?”

  She stared into his eyes long and hard, her own dark pools unreadable. Finally, she nodded. “Very well, Captain Payne. To please you. But please do not ask me to go up on the dais!”

  “You may sing right here, Miss Duvall,” Mrs. Greeley answered her. “We will be near.”

  Antoinette slowly rose from her chair, her head held high, hands folded at her waist. The candlelight glittered on the gold embroidery of her gown, and her gaze swept over the swiftly quieting crowd. She looked like a princess, Mark thought. No—a queen. A grand, magnificent queen. Only the slight trembling of her gloved fingers betrayed any nervousness.

  She closed her eyes and parted her lips, and the most astonishing sounds, lively and bright, emerged.

  “The Virgin Mary had a baby boy and they say that his name was Jesus. He come from the glory, He come from the glorious kingdom, oh, yes, believer! The angels sang when the baby born and proclaim him the Savior Jesus.”

  As she sang words and melodies that were strange, exotic, yet achingly familiar, Mark could not turn his stare away from her face. She sang of love, redemption, transcendence, her eyes closed, a rosy glow on her cheeks. Her hands fluttered, raised in the joy of the song, the season. Her body swayed. She did not look at him, yet the words seemed only for him. They called to him—they told him that he was not alone, that someone else understood the agony of having one’s world torn to bits with nothing to replace it, nothing beautiful to cling to.

  Before him stood something beautiful beyond anything he could have imagined.

  And he knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was falling in love with Antoinette Duvall. She was an angel, a goddess, a woman of infinite understanding. She was beyond him—perfection did not mate with a monster, he knew that. But he also knew that he was compelled to tell her what she had brought him. What she meant. He had to try to bring her some surcease from her own loneliness, no matter how meager.

  “He come from the glory, He come from the glorious kingdom!”

&n
bsp; The last jubilant notes died away, echoing into the profound silence of the room. The revelers stared at Antoinette, dumbstruck. Many jaws gaped most inelegantly, and more than a few ladies wiped at damp cheeks. Something had shifted in the crowd, just as something had shifted in Mark’s own soul.

  Yet Antoinette clearly did not see that. Her shoulders were stiff, and slowly, painfully, her eyes fluttered open. Her hands twisted together. She appeared ready to flee, like a wounded gazelle.

  Then a clapping began, slow at first, growing as it swept across the room, a tidal wave of emotional sound. A tentative smile again touched her lips, and she made a small, elegant curtsy.

  Mark stepped up to her and took her gloved hand in his, bowing over it. “Miss Duvall—Antoinette,” he murmured, so no one else could hear. “I must talk to you—I must tell you something. May I come to your cottage tomorrow? To speak to you privately?”

  She stared at him for a moment, silent. Then something shifted behind her eyes, something that told him she understood his sudden desperation. She nodded, and her fingers tightened on his for a fleeting instant. “Come to my cottage later tonight,” she answered. The last word barely escaped before she was swept away by people demanding another song.

  Yes. Later tonight.

  Chapter Eight

  Antoinette moved one porcelain ornament from the left side of one of her pier tables to the right then back again. It was the fourth time she had done so since she returned to her cottage from the assembly more than an hour ago. Mark had left before she departed with the Greeleys, saying he preferred to walk home, and she began to think she imagined his words to her.

  Perhaps she had imagined the entire strange evening. The dancing, the music—the tentative conversation of people she always imagined disliked and suspected her. Above all, she must have imagined the way Mark looked at her as he bowed over her hand.

  He looked as if he admired her. Yet how could that be? He was the son of an earl, a naval captain who had bravely served his king and country, even though he seemed determined to forget all that, to bury himself forever here in Cornwall. She was a nobody. Less than a nobody.

  Yet that could not erase the indisputable fact that she also greatly admired him. Admire was an inadequate word for what she felt. There could be no words. She felt she knew him in a way she could never have imagined. The lonely ache of her soul filled up when she met him, and every encounter added to that warmth.

  For the first time, she felt at home in England, felt there could be no place else for her.

  Soon, Mark would surely go back to his family, his true place, and she would stay here with her work and her friends. But it wouldn't be the same as before. Her memories of this brief time with this very special man would sustain her, and she intended to seize every moment she could with him.

  If he would just appear, as he had promised he would!

  Even as she thought this, a low knock sounded at the door. She spun away from the table and dashed to open it, her heart rising in a wild flutter of giddiness. Mark stood on her doorstep, wrapped in his greatcoat, hat in hand. He smiled at her, yet he seemed rather unsure, as if now that he was here he was not certain what to say to her. Antoinette would have none of that. If their time was to be short, she would, by heaven, make the most of it!

  She reached out, took his hand, and pulled him into her sitting room. As the door clicked shut behind him, he took her into his arms and held her close, so close they could not possibly be parted. Not yet. Antoinette looped her arms about his neck and closed her eyes, inhaling his scent of sandalwood soap, leather, and night air. They were much of a height, and she could tum her head to kiss his rough, scarred cheek, his strong jaw. Her lips trailed over the faded bums, healing them with all the love she had in her heart.

  “I missed you,” she whispered.

  Mark gave a hoarse moan, and his lips claimed hers. Their kiss was not gentle—it was full of desperation, of passion, of all the love and need they possessed.

  “Antoinette,” Mark muttered, his kisses trailing along her throat. “Antoinette, I must...”

  “Shh,” she whispered. “You do not need to talk. I know.”

  “I do need to talk,” he protested. He stepped back from her a fraction, his strong hands sliding up to hold her face between them. “I have been a coward for far too long, but you—you extraordinary, perfect woman—make me brave again.”

  “You? A coward? No!” Antoinette protested. She grabbed at his hands, holding them tightly in hers. “Never, Mark. You fought in battle, you were horribly injured!”

  “I did fight, for many years, and I thought nothing of it. But I vow to you I am a coward. I have hidden from life—from myself—for all these years because I couldn't face myself, couldn't face that my life had changed so irrevocably.”

  “Yes,” she answered quietly. “Yes, I know how that feels.”

  “I know you do. And that is why I feel I can tell you about what happened to me. About how I came to be as I am.”

  Mark took her arm and led her to the settee. She went without a protest, though she was not certain she truly wanted to hear what he would say. She couldn't bear to think of the terrible pain he must have endured, both of the body and the heart, the soul. But she sensed his need to tell her this, and she would listen.

  They sat at opposite ends of the settee, only their hands touching in the middle. “I was the captain of the Royal Augusta at Trafalgar, a forty-four-gun frigate with almost three hundred crewmen. Things were going well, or well enough for the heat of battle, anyway. We had lost very few men, and we had already destroyed two French ships. Victory was in our grasp, and then...” His voice faded.

  Antoinette folded her hand about his. His clasp tightened, but he did not look at her.

  “One of our guns exploded, and I don’t know how it could have happened. But there was a fire, an explosion, and many—most of my men were killed.”

  “It was not your fault,” Antoinette said softly, hearing the bitter tone in his voice, the self-recrimination he carried after all these years. “Terrible things happen in war, but you are a good man. I know you were a good officer.”

  “I did my best,” he answered. “And that day—it was simply not enough. I know I did not cause that explosion. But I will carry the knowledge of that failure with me always. As well as the knowledge that I am not fit for proper society.”

  “What happened when you returned home? Was your family not—welcoming?” Antoinette could not imagine how a family could not welcome back such a son. Yet she knew all too well-the immense capacity for cruelty some human beings could possess. She had seen it in her own mother's eyes when she remembered the past.

  “Oh, no. They were quite welcoming, quite solicitous. Quite—pitying.” He gave a wry little smile. “It was my fiancée, Lady Elizabeth Morton-Haddon, who found that her feelings for me had changed quite utterly. She took one glance at my new face and cried off. One could hardly blame her.”

  Hardly blame her? Antoinette jolly well could. A fire of anger at the unknown Lady Elizabeth burned in her throat. “She was a fool.” Antoinette leaned forward to kiss Mark, the softest, gentlest touch of her lips on his. “A great fool to lose a wonderful man such as you.”

  His arms came about her waist, holding her close. “Most would have called her a fool if she stayed.”

  “Not I.”

  “No. Not you, Antoinette. You are quite unlike anyone I have ever met. But I have not told you this story to gain your pity, or even to get another kiss from you.”

  Antoinette grinned up at him, twining a long strand of his hair about her finger. “Oh, no?”

  He laughed, his head thrown back against cushions of the settee. “Well, perhaps just a bit. I do enjoy your kisses. But I told this to you because I wanted you to know I understand what it's like to be lonely. I saw how people treated you when we first arrived at the assembly, whispering behind their fans and staring. Did their parents never teach them proper manners?”


  Her grin faded. She did not want to be reminded of the cold winter world outside her door. She only wanted this moment, this perfect time. “It is of no matter,” she said, striving for a light, careless tope. “I have my own friends, my own life. The gossip of people so wholly unconnected to me means little. And people here are usually quiet enough. Some of them are even kind.”

  His arms tightened. “Your life here cannot have been an easy one.”

  “Who does truly have an easy life? Everyone has trials and tribulations, and mine have not been so great.” She cuddled closer to him, resting her cheek on his strong shoulder. “No one has thrown rotten vegetables at me as I walk along the street or anything of the sort. They respect the family at the castle far too much. But most of them do keep their distance, I admit. They do not understand me—they don’t know where I came from, my customs. I cannot blame them. I don't understand myself most of the time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rather than answering, she disentangled herself from his arms and stood up from the settee. She went to the small, locked cabine.t in the corner and carefully withdrew her precious book, clutching the silk wrapped bundle protectively in her arms. Slowly, she turned back to face him.

  “I have told you about my family,” she said. “Yet there is one thing about my mother I never speak about, something very precious and secret.”

  He slid to the edge of the settee, his folded hands clasped before him and dangling between his knees. His expression was still and solemn, as if he sensed the true seriousness of her words. “Of course, Antoinette. You may tell me anything you wish. All your secrets are safe with me.”

  “You’ll remember this book, I think,” she said, “since I sent you back to rescue it from the snow on the night we met.” She placed the bundle carefully on a low table and folded back the silk.

  He watched her closely, his expression unreadable in the firelight. “Yes. I remember it.”

  “This book belonged to my mother, and to my grandmother before her. I don't know where it came from originally. Africa, my mother said, but I don’t know if that is true.” She opened the book to the pages in the middle, and caressed her hand over the soft, smooth vellum. She could feel the slight indentations of the ancient words written there, the stiffness of the painted images. The pages seemed to warm under her touch, leaping to life. “But many women in my family have risked much to keep it safe.”