Kelly drew himself up regally. ‘‘There isn’t more, ma’am.’’
Gregoria stared him down fishily, but Kelly stood firm. ‘‘Hmph.’’ She slapped her napkin onto the table. ‘‘Thieves and liars, Lizzie. You are a stupid, stupid girl.’’
And with that, the meal was over.
Now, with her relatives long gone and her guests abed, Lizzie quietly let herself out the back of the house and onto the terrace. She donned yet another of her father’s worn coats over her dress and pulled it closely around her as she stepped into the cold Wexford night. In the dark, the maze didn’t look quite as overgrown, and it was almost possible to believe that the fountain statue still possessed its head. Almost.
Lizzie crossed the terrace to sit on a cracked step. ‘‘Oh, Papa,’’ she whispered, rubbing her cheek against the soft wool of the coat’s collar. ‘‘I am afraid this is all going very, very badly.’’ Then, unable to stave off the tears any longer, she rested her head on her arms and wept.
She did not see the male figure looking down from the empty window frame above.
Chapter Four
Rhys rose from his slanting and lumpy bed the following morning to find first a cold hearth and thin film of ice on the wash water and later, evidence that some rodent had temporarily nested in one of his stockings. There, too, was a vivid and itchy path of red bumps across his torso where he’d been bitten by some small insect. He added several more red marks to his own face shaving with the icy water.
By the time he descended the creaking staircase, he was in a grim mood, and it was not yet eight o’clock. He assumed his nephew and hostess would still be abed. With any luck, he would be able to order something palatable to eat. After that, he intended to do a quick tour of the house on his own. If Elizabeth insisted on accompanying him around the grounds, so be it. But he didn’t need her pointing out each notable nook and cranny inside this decaying monstrosity. Hollymore’s days were numbered. Rhys was not going to let Elizabeth make him feel guilty for that. He made a point of never doing anything for which he might later feel guilty. And as he’d had nothing whatsoever to do with either the house’s decline or sale, he could do without its mistress’s sad little recriminations, silent though they might be.
He would find the entire task considerably more comfortable if he didn’t have to look into that lovely, heartbreaking Madonna’s face at every turn. Damned if he knew where his well-honed detachment had gone. Elizabeth Fitzhollis was hardly the first beautiful woman he had disappointed in one way or another. And this was just a house. It wasn’t as if he had engaged her heart. He didn’t owe her anything save some courtesy. There wasn’t a reason on earth for the strange, restive feeling in his gut.
He made his grim way to the dining room to find it empty. All the pieces of the broken chair had been cleared away, but Rhys could still hear the crunch and crack echoing around the gloomy space. His jaw tightened. No doubt Andrew would gleefully report the event to the family, who would get endless joy from making Rhys relive it. He would have to remember to sit down carefully for a while. He wouldn’t be surprised if his brother had a few chairs altered to collapse.
After an irritable glance at the empty sideboard, he decided he would have to go in search of one of the house’s bumbling servants if he wanted to eat. Recalling the meal of the previous evening, he decided he didn’t especially want to eat, but probably needed to. Hoping the cook couldn’t do anything too terrible to several eggs and some toasted bread, he returned to the hall.
The squat little butler with a face like a walnut and an impressive scowl was standing just outside the door. ‘‘Can I be of help to you, sir?’’ he fairly grunted.
‘‘I would like some breakfast, as a matter of fact.’’
The fellow darted a quick glance at a nearby standing clock. It read, Rhys noted, ten past eleven. Judging from the still pendulum and cracked case, it might well have ticked its last on the night of seventeen December, 1750. The message, however was clear. He was being chastised for rising so early.
‘‘This way.’’ Without waiting to see if Rhys followed, the man stomped off.
Rhys followed. After several halls and turns, the butler tugged several times at a small paneled door. It creaked outward. Rhys gave a sardonic glance at the little sprig of mistletoe suspended from the lintel. He ducked under it—and felt his jaw going slack in surprise.
The little room was a solarium of sorts. The entire rear wall and part of the ceiling were glass. Cracked glass, certainly, and a few panes seemed to be covered with oilskin, but everything was sparklingly clean and bright. There were vases of winter foliage dotted about, the walls were a sunny yellow with a pattern of plaster lilies, and the graceful marble fireplace was festooned with red ribbon and ivy. The sideboard was loaded with shiny silver serving dishes that were dented and mismatched. And in the midst of it all sat Elizabeth.
She was dressed in a forest-green wool dress, some years out of fashion and visibly mended in spots, but striking nonetheless. The light coming through the windows brought a glow to her fair skin, and picked out fiery lights in her neatly coiled golden hair through which she had whimsically threaded a red ribbon. Titania, Rhys thought, momentarily sorry that he knew the names of no winter holiday faeries, and something warm and wholly unfamiliar wreathed through his chest.
Dear God, she was lovely.
Her glorious smile dimmed somewhat at the sight of him, going cool and polite. ‘‘Good morning, Captain.’’
‘‘Uncle Lawrence!’’
Rhys glanced in disbelief at Andrew, very awake, fully dressed, and lounging in his seat across the table. Remnants of breakfast littered his plate.
‘‘Andrew,’’ Rhys said dryly. ‘‘You’re up a bit early.’’ A good three hours early, as a matter of fact.
‘‘What, sleep through a morning such as this?’’ His nephew quirked one brow until it nearly met his shock of earth-brown hair. ‘‘Perish the thought. Miss Fitzhollis and I were just about to go out for a stroll. Now you can join us.’’
‘‘Perhaps the captain would like to eat,’’ Elizabeth suggested. ‘‘Help yourself, sir. You will find what you need on the sideboard.’’
Minutes later, he was settled at the table with a surprisingly appetizing breakfast in front of him, and a cup of marvelously strong coffee in hand. ‘‘It appears I am the late riser.’’
Elizabeth shrugged. ‘‘I expect you are accustomed to Town hours.’’
He wasn’t, actually, not of late, but neither was he accustomed to farm hours. ‘‘You are not, I see.’’
‘‘I prefer the morning light,’’ she replied, then blinked as Andrew pushed himself away from the table.
‘‘Back in a tick,’’ the young man said cheerfully. ‘‘Then we will go at your convenience, Miss Fitzhollis. Do try the black pudding, Uncle.’’
He strode from the room, closing the door with a solid thunk behind him. Rhys suddenly found himself alone with Elizabeth in a room that, surprisingly charming as it was, suddenly seemed far too small.
She broke the long silence. ‘‘Do you care for black pudding, Captain?’’
He did not, but debated fetching some to be polite. He quickly decided against it. There were limits to courtesy. ‘‘Perhaps later,’’ he demurred.
Elizabeth delicately wiped her mouth, then set her napkin aside. She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm. Her eyes, Rhys noticed, were holly green this morning, and fixed intently on his slightly achy, certainly itchy person. He shifted in his seat.
‘‘Are you married, Captain Jones?’’
He blinked at the unexpected question. It was one he loathed as it was usually asked by mothers with marriageable daughters lurking nearby. But as far as he knew, no one lurked, and the question was being asked by a woman with her own nuptials looming.
‘‘No. I am not.’’
‘‘Why?’’
This startled him even more. Women never asked that bit. It just wasn’t . . .
proper? It was certainly personal. He gave the terse, stock answer. ‘‘I have been at sea for the better part of ten years.’’
‘‘Mmm.’’ She hummed thoughtfully. ‘‘That sounds rather lonely.’’
‘‘Hardly’’ was his dry retort. ‘‘It tended to be among several hundred other men in very cramped quarters.’’
‘‘Yes, I know that. I meant that being away from home, away from the people who care for you would be lonely.’’
It had been expected. Rhys shrugged. ‘‘Home was always where I left it. Whenever I was on land, it was waiting for me, the same brick and stone, filled with the same faces.’’
‘‘That,’’ Elizabeth murmured, ‘‘is what matters.’’ She shook her head with a small sigh, pulled a holly sprig from a small vase, and played with it absently. ‘‘I suppose I ought to apologize, Captain. You certainly did not see the best of Hollymore, or of me yesterday.’’
‘‘You were not expecting me,’’ he said graciously.
‘‘I was wishing you to Hades, actually.’’
So very blunt. And so very, very pretty. For some odd reason, Rhys smiled. ‘‘You would be far from the first.’’
‘‘Be that as it may, I was discourteous. You see, Captain Jones, this is my home—’’
‘‘Miss Fitzhollis, I . . .’’
She waved her free hand. ‘‘Yes, yes, Hollymore is Percy’s to sell. An unfortunate quirk in the entail. The property could only go to the male heir, but there was nothing to make him keep it.’’
‘‘Most inconvenient.’’ He hadn’t meant to sound glib.
‘‘Indeed.’’ Elizabeth lifted a bronze brow. ‘‘Most inconvenient. My father tried to have the matter altered to no avail.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘The first Baron Fitzhollis had eight sons, so he saw no need to make any provisions for female inheritance of property. But that is neither here nor there now. Percy had a right to sell Hollymore, and he exercised that right. What I need to say is that it broke my heart.’’
Curious behavior for a besotted fiancé. But then, Rhys mused, the man would not want to be second in his wife’s affections to a pile of stone. There was also the strong possibility that the new Baron Fitzhollis simply did not have the funds for the upkeep.
‘‘I am sorry for that, Miss Fitzhollis.’’ He hadn’t meant that to sound glib, either. Especially not when he had seen her crying on the terrace the night before. He hadn’t been able to hear, but he hadn’t needed to hear to know the sobs were wrenching ones. Heartbroken ones. ‘‘I am sorry.’’
‘‘You don’t need to be.’’ Elizabeth removed her face from her hand and sat up very straight. ‘‘But there is something I would like from you.’’
‘‘And that would be?’’
‘‘Give Hollymore a chance.’’
‘‘How?’’
‘‘Get to know it. Allow me to show you its great value. Then tell the duke that he mustn’t tear it down.’’
Rhys paused with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. ‘‘Miss Fitzhollis. I simply cannot—’’
‘‘Try.’’ Elizabeth faced him squarely, chin up. ‘‘The first stone was laid at Hollymore seven hundred and eighty-six years ago. That is a tremendous amount of history to eradicate for little more than sport.’’
They sat in silence for a long minute. Then Rhys set his cup down. ‘‘I don’t think I can help you, Miss Fitzhollis. But’’—he raised a hand when she started to speak—‘‘I will keep what you’ve said in mind.’’
She nodded. ‘‘I know that is all I can ask, Captain.’’
Then, rising to her feet, she announced, ‘‘I’ll see if Kelly can prepare the cart. We’ll be able to cover more ground that way.’’
Rhys hastily set his cup down and rose. There was no servant to open the door for her, so he reached smoothly around her to do so. As his hand closed around the doorknob, his arm brushed warmly against hers. He could feel the soft friction of wool against wool, could smell the clean, honey scent of her hair. ‘‘Elizabeth.’’
‘‘Yes?’’
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. And to be so forward as to speak her name . . . She didn’t seem to mind, didn’t even appear to have noticed. Rhys shook his head and tried to think of something more appropriate to say. She waited, a slender golden beam in the sunny room.
‘‘For what it’s worth,’’ he said gruffly, ‘‘this is a lovely room.’’
‘‘Yes’’ was her simple reply. ‘‘It is.’’
Rhys turned the knob to open the door. It didn’t budge. He pushed. The door still remained resolutely closed.
‘‘It sticks.’’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘‘Some of the doors have a tendency to stick . . . every once in a while.’’
Rhys raised a brow and tried again. When nothing happened, he stepped back and, putting his weight behind it, thumped his shoulder firmly against the paneling. The door groaned, but opened.
‘‘Thank you.’’ Elizabeth stepped past him into the hall. ‘‘I—’’
The plaster bouquet that decorated the space above the door frame missed Rhys’s head by an inch. It fell heavily past his nose and shattered against the floor. He lifted his eyes from his plaster-dusted ankles to Elizabeth. She was staring at him wide-eyed. For a long moment, neither said anything.
Then she sighed, a small, desolate sound. ‘‘Oh, dear.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Rhys said tersely, pulling the sprig of mistletoe from where it had landed on his shoulder. Mistletoe. Ridiculous, but . . . He jerked his gaze away from Elizabeth’s soft, mobile mouth, and tossed the sprig away. Then he stepped back into the room.
As he walked stiffly back to the table, he heard her footsteps receding down the hall. ‘‘Good God,’’ he muttered, and poured himself more coffee.
Andrew bounded back into the room several minutes later. ‘‘Well?’’ he demanded, dropping solidly into a chair. It, of course, stood firm.
‘‘Well, what?’’
‘‘Well, did you kiss her?’’
Rhys frowned and shifted in his seat. ‘‘That is a ridiculous question.’’
Andrew looked at the doorway, took in the sight of the fallen plaster ornament and discarded mistletoe. ‘‘Christmas, Uncle,’’ he sighed. ‘‘Carpe diem and all that. Oh, well. Did you and Elizabeth at least have a nice chat?’’
‘‘Miss Fitzhollis,’’ Rhys said pointedly, ‘‘and I . . .’’ He paused. ‘‘What is that noise?’’
Andrew listened. ‘‘Kelly,’’ he said, ‘‘singing outside the window. I believe Elizabeth called it the ‘Wexford Carol.’ Pretty. I’m certain Kelly would gladly teach it to us.’’
‘‘God forbid.’’
Andrew shrugged. ‘‘Christmas, Uncle. So, what did you and Elizabeth discuss?’’
‘‘Nosy brat,’’ Rhys muttered with more affection than rancor. ‘‘As it happens, our lovely hostess and I don’t have a great deal to say to each other.’’
‘‘Mmm. She wants to save her house and you want to reduce it to rubble.’’
Rhys glanced at the shattered flowers near the door. ‘‘I don’t want . . . Oh, for pity’s sake. It hardly needs any help in that quarter. And lest you forget, puppy, it is your dear father who wants to raze this behemoth. Even if I cared, it is not my decision.’’
Andrew appeared to ponder this for a moment. When he opened his mouth, Rhys expected an argument. Instead, his nephew demanded, ‘‘Do you know what time Elizabeth gets up in the morning?’’
‘‘That is hardly my concern.’’
‘‘Five o’clock. Do you know what she does at five o’clock in the morning?’’
‘‘Of course I don’t. Andrew—’’
‘‘She does a candlelight tour of the house to see what has broken, disintegrated, or fallen during the night. After that, she fixes what she can. It rained last night.’’
‘‘And?’’
‘‘And this morning when it was barely light she was on the roof, Uncle Rhys, trying to nail d
own loose shingles. After that, she cleaned out the gutters. And yesterday morning, before her solicitor arrived to tell her that her house had been sold, she was trying to dig out a blocked drainage ditch.’’
Rhys slowly digested this information and found himself growing angry. The image of Elizabeth shoveling out a drainage ditch sent his hackles up. He couldn’t even begin to contemplate her clambering around three stories above the hard earth. ‘‘What are they thinking,’’ he growled, ‘‘to let her do such things?’’
‘‘Not let her!’’ Andrew gave a short laugh. ‘‘From what I understand, she threatens to sack the lot of her staff—all four persons who are left, that is—every time one of them tries to stop her. And that is nearly every day.’’
‘‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that she doesn’t pay them quite enough to climb the roof themselves.’’
Andrew snorted. ‘‘She can’t pay them at all, hasn’t been able to in more than half a year. They love her,’’ he added quietly. ‘‘She loves them. And she loves this place. Desperately.’’
‘‘How did you learn all this?’’ Rhys demanded. ‘‘Did she pour it out along with the coffee this morning?’’
Andrew’s handsome face hardened uncustomarily. ‘‘You know, Uncle Rhys, sometimes you are hard as nails in a frozen pail.’’
‘‘I refuse to take that as an insult. And a bit of respect wouldn’t be amiss, puppy.’’
‘‘I respect you, Uncle. I simply do not always understand you.’’
‘‘You are your father’s son,’’ Rhys muttered.
‘‘So I am.’’ Andrew tapped long fingers against the tablecloth. ‘‘As it happens, Elizabeth talked about the building of Hollymore. She didn’t say a word about how she spends nearly twenty hours of every day trying to keep it from tumbling down. No, I heard the story from O’Reilly.’’
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘The butler—and cook and window fixer. Joseph O’Reilly. I’ve just cornered him in the hallway. Surly fellow until you get to know him; he’s really quite charming. Poor man suffers terribly from rheumatism. Ghastly this time of year. And Kelly says—’’
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