A Gift of Love

by A Gift of Love (lit)

  Caution eclipsed relief. "Name them."

  "I shall gladly take charge of Noelle and fulfill my part of the arrangement. I'll even comply with your less-than-appealing mandate that, once wed, I'll remain permanently at Farrington. However, I refuse to sever ties with my grandfather."

  Eric's jaw clenched. "And I refuse to have my privacy invaded. I also refuse to allow you and Noelle to go traipsing to the village to be ogled and grilled about the savage with whom you reside."

  Another profound flicker in those damned golden eyes, followed by—of all things—an impish smile. "Are visits by delivery men excluded from your definition of privacy invasion?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "Delivery men. They'll be arriving at Farrington in droves. Otherwise, how will I receive all the extensive purchases due a countess?"

  Taken aback by her obvious teasing, Eric cleared his throat. "I see your point." A pause. "Very well, Miss Curran," he conceded, frowning as he sought a solution he could live with. "Your grandfather may visit you—once a month, and alone. Further, as no one is permitted to enter my mausoleum"—he cast a derisive look at the vicar—"your visits must take place on the grounds, not in the manor. Unless of course you elect to emulate the delivery men. In which case, you have my consent to meet at the mansion's rear entrance."

  Her lips curved again. "Fair enough."

  "Also, I expect, during these visits, that you will not neglect your responsibility to Noelle. She is to be in your company—and in your sight—at all times." His mouth twisted into a mocking grin. "Think of it this way: You can see to Noelle's well-being, while the vicar is assuring himself of yours."

  Brigitte's smile vanished. "You have my word that I'll never neglect Noelle. Will that be sufficient?"

  "It will."

  "Thank you," she replied solemnly. "To continue: Before we wed and leave for Farrington, I shall require several hours in the village, both to visit the homes of my students—who deserve an explanation for my sudden departure—and to speak with a friend of mine who currently instructs in her home, but who would be elated to take over my job at the schoolhouse. Frankly, she is the only person I'd entrust with my students."

  "You care that much for them?"

  "I do."

  "Very well. Consider your first two stipulations granted."

  Brigitte gripped the folds of her gown, raising her chin a notch—and alerting Eric to the magnitude of her next condition. "You said I could spend your money freely, at my discretion. To be frank, I require nothing. But the parish does, more over the course of time than even your ten thousand pounds can supply. So, I'd like your word that I can provide for the church, the children, the village—any aspect of our parish I might deem worthy—not only now, but for all the years to come."

  "My word," he repeated woodenly.

  "Yes. Just as I gave you mine."

  "What makes you think my word can be trusted?"

  "Instinct."

  A heartbeat of silence.

  "My word, then. You may provide for the parish in any way and at any time you choose. Continue with your stipulations."

  "I have but two more. First, I want my grandfather's future ensured, his appointment to our church guaranteed for the rest of his life. Is that acceptable?"

  Eric nodded. "It is."

  "And last, I'd like Noelle's blessing on our arrangement."

  "Nothing more?"

  "Nothing more." Brigitte glanced down, tucking a strand of sable hair behind the child's ear. "Noelle?"

  "What?" Noelle muttered into Fuzzy's fur.

  "How do you feel about my coming to live with you and your uncle?"

  A shrug.

  "I could help keep Fuzzy out of trouble."

  Noelle unburied her face, assessing Brigitte with probing sapphire eyes. "I s'pose."

  "Then it's all right with you?"

  "I s'pose."

  "Excellent."

  Eric cleared his throat. "Does this mean your decision is final?"

  "It does."

  "Good." He veered toward the church, sidestepping both Brigitte and the disconcerted vicar. "I'll await your return. After which, your grandfather can perform the ceremony." He paused, his back to her. "Miss Curran?"

  "Yes?"

  "Thank you for saving Noelle's life."

  Three

  "NO. UNEQUIVOCALLY NO. YOU WILL NOT take this frightful step based on some misplaced sense of duty to me and your students. You'll be helping no one by committing yourself to a black-hearted beast like Farrington."

  The vicar leaned unsteadily against Brigitte's commode, watching as she arranged her meager wardrobe in the open traveling bag on her bed.

  Responding to the anguish in his tone, Brigitte abandoned her task and went to him. "Grandfather." She lay her palm alongside his jaw. "The earl is not a 'blackhearted beast.' We both know that. If not in fact, then in here." She pointed to her heart. "It's not duty alone that's prompting my decision. I truly want to wed Lord Farrington."

  "Why? Because of your romantic childhood notions? Brigitte, surely you can't still be clinging to those?"

  "Why not?" She inclined her head, searching her grandfather's face. "Don't you recall what he was like before … before…"

  "Yes—before," the vicar replied grimly. "And, yes, of course I remember. But that was years ago. Then came Liza's tragic death and the earl's self-imposed seclusion—events far more destructive than time. Lord Farrington is not the same man who filled your girlhood dreams."

  "I realize that. Which is all the more reason for my decision." Brigitte silenced her grandfather's protest with a gentle shake of her head, wondering how she could make him understand, when he lacked knowledge of a vital piece of the truth. But then, she'd never shared that conversation with him, for there were some memories too painful to discuss, even with this beloved man who'd raised her. "Grandfather, our parishioners come from miles around to seek your advice, easing their burdens simply by sharing them with you. Why? Because of your compassionate heart and open mind. Please, Grandfather, won't you offer those same gifts to me?"

  The vicar sighed. "I'll try, child. It's not as easy when you love someone as much as I love you."

  "I know. I feel the same way about you. And about our church. That love alone would propel me to accept the earl's offer. But I'd be lying if I professed that to be my only reason for doing so." Her gaze swept the ceiling, as if consulting the heavens, then lowered to meet the vicar's. "I understand your concerns, and I love you for them. But the earl is in pain. As is Noelle. They need me. It's my responsibility—no," she amended softly, "my privilege—to help them heal." With solemn reverence, Brigitte clasped her grandfather's hands. "How many times have we pondered the source of my restlessness? How often have we wondered why I feel so empty inside; as if I'm missing my calling—some unknown purpose that would give my life meaning?"

  A flash of pain crossed the vicar's face. "I thought you'd filled that void with your teaching."

  "Partially, perhaps. Fully? Never. Not that I haven't adored teaching the children," she hastened to add. "I have. And, yes, they've needed me. But Norah is equally qualified to fill that need. The two times she visited the schoolhouse, the children clustered around her like eager cubs. She's a fine instructor, and a caring one. My students will thrive beneath her guidance. Whereas Noelle…" Brigitte's voice quavered, emotion surging inside her like a great, untamed wave. "You've always said that when a person's life is at its bleakest is the time when God's hope shines through. Perhaps now is that time, for both the earl and Noelle. Perhaps God is offering me this opportunity to bring joy back into their lives, to help make them a family. And maybe, just maybe, to open Lord Farrington's heart to love. Noelle needs him so badly. You and I both realize that beneath her sassy, devilish facade she's no more than a forsaken child."

  "True. But is the earl capable of offering her that which she needs? Can a heart as cold as his learn to love?"

  "Lord Farrington's heart needs to be
reawakened, not taught. Think, Grandfather. Remember the stories you told me—about how the earl saw to Liza's upbringing?"

  Staring off, the vicar's thoughts traveled back more than two decades. "That was a lifetime ago, but yes," he murmured. "Liza was a babe, the earl scarcely in his teens, when their parents were lost at sea. Lord Farrington refused to give Liza up to the countless families who offered to raise her. With the help of his servants, he himself provided her with care, education…"

  "And love," Brigitte finished. "Even I recall that—not from the onset obviously, since Liza was two years my senior—but from the time she was about six or seven. She and Lord Farrington attended church weekly, arriving just before your service began. Oh, how eagerly I'd await their carriage. I'd watch them alight—a beautiful princess and her guardian, straight from the pages of a fairy tale. Lord Farrington was everything a princess could dream of: protective, devoted—and so handsome it was hard not to stare. His smile—I remember that most of all. It would begin at his eyes, then travel to his mouth. It was so dazzling it could melt the winter's snow." A reminiscent light dawned in Brigitte's eyes. "Every year during your Christmas service he would slip a gift into Liza's coat pocket, undetected. It wasn't until they were leaving the church that she'd find it. Then she'd squeal and hug him, and he'd break into that wonderful rumbling laughter…" Brigitte's voice faltered.

  The vicar cupped her chin, raising her face to meet his gaze. "Your preoccupation with the earl began earlier than I realized."

  "I suppose it did. But, preoccupied or not, what I beheld was fact, not sentiment. Lord Farrington was an exemplary brother. He doted on Liza. A man like that doesn't need to be taught to care."

  "Brigitte," the vicar said quietly, "all that altered near the end. The earl changed after he lost his fortune; he became angry, bitter. His transformation must have been dreadful—and I'm not only referring to his physical transformation, although that alone was intimidating enough. But his unkempt hair and unshaven face were eclipsed by the hollow darkness in his eyes, his soul. How many times did we hear of his torrents? The way he cast the manor in darkness, permeated with silence, but for his terrifying fits of rage? 'Tis no wonder that less than two months later Liza ran off."

  "If she was so afraid of her brother, why did she return?" Brigitte demanded.

  "She was alone and with child. She had nowhere else to turn. So she sought refuge at Farrington, where she gave birth to Noelle on Christmas Day. Again, according to the servants, the weeks that followed were torturous. Torturous and violent."

  "Liza died abroad, Grandfather, not at Farrington."

  "Yes, I know. But what caused her to flee again? What if it truly was fear? What if the earl does have a temper as dangerous as the servants claim? What if that temper did, in fact, provoke Liza's flight and, ultimately, her death?"

  "I don't believe that. Lord Farrington would never hurt Liza. Didn't you see the pain on his face just now when he looked at Noelle? That wasn't guilt, Grandfather, that was anguish—anguish that makes it unbearable for him to have her near. Why? Because she's the image of her mother. He's never gotten over losing Liza."

  "Even if that's so, Noelle is the one now being hurt."

  "I agree. Noelle sees only her uncle's rejection, not the pain beneath it. She's far too young to understand. But I do understand. I want to help. Please, Grandfather, let me do this. I know in my heart it's the right thing. And, at the same time, I'll be offering our parish the funds it needs to survive. Not only now, but always."

  The vicar smoothed Brigitte's hair from her brow. "Child, even if I disregard my qualms about Lord Farrington, I'm still not at ease. You have no idea what it means to be a wife. I've never prepared you…"

  "I know what's entailed," Brigitte interrupted softly. "However, your worry is most likely unfounded. Lord Farrington gave us no indication that he wants anything more than a governess—someone to share his name, not his bed."

  "Still, you're a beautiful young woman. And the earl is a man." Curran frowned. "I should have anticipated this day and better planned for it. But somehow the years dashed by without my notice. One moment you were a shy little girl. The next, you're a woman grown, eighteen and ready to begin your own life." He shook his head in wonder. "Did I fail to see the signs? Have there been gentlemen who've shown interest?"

  "No," Brigitte returned adamantly. "At least none whose interest I've returned."

  "Because of Lord Farrington?"

  Utter candor shone in her eyes. "Yes."

  The vicar fell silent, wondering why all his supposed wisdom wasn't sufficient to provide him with the insight he needed right now. Torn between reason and affection, he sought a higher voice, beseeching Him for advice.

  In the end, he wasn't sure which was more compelling, God's will or the appeal on Brigitte's face.

  "All right, child," he relented. "I'll marry you to Lord Farrington. I only pray I'm doing the right thing—for you and for Noelle."

  "You are." Brigitte gave him a fierce hug. "Thank you, Grandfather. I'll hurry and finish packing. I have only three students left to visit. Then I'll be ready."

  "I'll await your arrival in the church." A hint of a smile appeared. "That is, if it's still standing. The earl and Noelle have been there for hours. By now the entire structure may be reduced to a pile of debris."

  Brigitte grinned. "Then we'll rebuild it."

  "Structures are far easier to rebuild than lives."

  "True. But the results are not nearly as rewarding." Gently, Brigitte kissed her grandfather's cheek. "Don't worry," she whispered. "I shan't be going to Farrington alone. I'll take with me your most precious gifts: love, determination, and an abundance of faith. Armed with those tools, how can I fail?"

  Four

  TWO HOURS LATER, BRIGITTE'S CONFIDENCE WAS subjected to its first test.

  Before her loomed the tangible evidence of her onerous challenge: Farrington Manor.

  Slipping off her coat, she took a long look about her new home. The entry hall was barren, devoid of furnishings or objects, other than one upset chair that sprawled across the wooden floor and a small traveling bag—Noelle's, she assumed. The light was minimal, the ceiling high, the walls bare.

  Walls it would be up to her to fill.

  She drew a fortifying breath, reminding herself that no task was insurmountable. Farrington was hollow, not cold. Its heart was asleep, its soul encased in darkness.

  But how to awaken it?

  "You and Noelle may do as you choose," Eric pronounced, tossing his coat in a nearby cloakroom. "As you can see, the manor is quite large. The grounds surrounding it are extensive. Most of my time is spent in my quarters. Therefore, there's little worry that we'll cross paths." He bent, gripping the handle of Brigitte's one and only bag. "I'll place this in your room." With that, he headed toward the staircase.

  "Wait."

  Shoulders taut, he pivoted to face his bride. "What is it?"

  "Before you take your leave, I have several questions I need answered. For one thing, where is my room? And Noelle's, for that matter? Not to mention the kitchen and the schoolroom?" As she spoke, Brigitte lay a restraining palm on Noelle's shoulder, perceiving—and understanding—the child's restlessness. After all, she'd been confined for hours: first waiting in the church with Eric, next standing by while the vows were being exchanged, and last, sitting still for the carriage ride home. As a result, she was a coiled spring ready to explode. And if she did … well, Brigitte wasn't eager to see Eric's reaction.

  "I won't take much of your time, my lord," Brigitte continued, using her unoccupied hand to scoop up Noelle's bag. "But as you yourself just said, the manor is huge. So unless you have a map to provide me, I will need some instructions."

  Eric's gaze delved into her's, his expression unreadable. At last, he nodded. "Fine." He stalked back and relieved her of Noelle's traveling bag. "Follow me."

  "Fuzzy and I aren't staying in that pink room," Noelle announced as they rounded the
first-floor landing. "It's ugly and Fuzzy hates it. He doesn't much like the green room either. It's filled with dumb statues that don't do anything. Except break."

  Brigitte saw the corded muscles in Eric's neck go rigid—the only indication that he'd heard Noelle's outspoken stipulations. She herself had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

  They headed down a seemingly unending hallway.

  "The blue room is my favorite," Noelle continued. "It has a big window and long drapes. When I'm bored, I use them to climb down to the ground."

  "You destroyed those drapes during your last stay," Eric returned icily. "You cut them to shreds to make a winter coat for that tattered thing." He jerked his head in Fuzzy's direction, never stopping or breaking stride.

  "Fuzzy isn't a 'that.' He's a 'he.'"

  "Nevertheless, the drapes are gone. The remnants have since been carried off by real animals. Ask your governess to order new ones." Abruptly, he halted. "The blue room," he announced, flinging open the door and depositing Noelle's bag within.

  Brigitte peeked inside. "It's lovely," she murmured, appraising the canopied bed and wide—though blatantly curtainless—windows with a smile. "Very well, if this is to be Noelle's room"—turning, she glanced thoughtfully across the hall—"I'll take the chamber directly opposite it." In a flash, she sprinted over and reached for the door handle.

  "No!"

  Eric's command fired like a bullet. Jolted, Brigitte backed away, her eyes wide and questioning.

  "That room is not to be disturbed," he thundered, advancing on her. "Ever. It is locked. It will remain so. Is that clear?"

  Wordlessly, Brigitte nodded.

  "Good. If you wish to be near Noelle, take the room next to hers." Eric gripped Brigitte's elbow and ushered her down to the next room. "I'm sure you'll find these to your liking. If not, there are a dozen other bedchambers to choose from. One will doubtless suit you."

  Catching her breath, Brigitte inquired, "And which chambers are yours?"

  His brows arched, anger evidently eclipsed by surprise. "None of these. I reside in another wing. Why?"