A Season of Love

by Carla Kelly

  “Oh? What? Oh, yes, I’m certain you are right,” he said. She might as well not have been in the room at all. His mind was miles away, oceans distant. “Well, I think it is time for me to go strangle four or five chickens,” she said softly. “And then I will rob the mail coach in my shimmy.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, all affability. “Good night, Miss Ambrose.”

  She was a long time getting to sleep that night.

  The next day, Christmas Eve, was the same. She woke, feeling decidedly unrested, and sat up on her cot in the dressing room, where the girls had cajoled her to return. Certainly it was better than the book room, and the reasons for avoiding the dressing room seemed to have vanished. Quietly she went into the girls’ chamber and looked out the window. Although it was nearly eight o’clock, the sky was only beginning to lighten. The workers from York, who were staying at an inn in the village, were starting to arrive, their wagons and gigs lit with lanterns.

  I wonder how much work is left to do there, she thought. If the marquis and marchioness are to return tomorrow, then they must be in a pelter to finish. She stood at the window until her bare feet were cold, then turned toward the dressing room. She moved as quietly as she could, but Janet sat up. “Good morning, Miss Ambrose,” she said as she yawned. “Do you want to help Lucinda and me in the kitchen? Mrs. Grey has said we may make however many Christmas treats we want. Think what a welcome that will be for my parents.”

  Cecilia sat down on the bed beside her, and Janet obligingly shifted her legs. “You’ll be glad to see them, won’t you, my dear?” Cecilia asked.

  “Oh, yes!” Janet touched her arm. “I can only wish they had been here for all of the season, but Amelia needed them.” She sighed. “This is my last Christmas at Chase Hall, you know.”

  Cecilia smiled. “You’ll be returning with a husband this time next year.”

  Janet drew up her legs and rested her chin on her knees. When Lucinda moved, she smoothed the coverlet over her sister’s back. “Oh, I know that,” she whispered, “but it is never the same, is it?”

  “No, it is not,” Cecilia agreed. “When my parents return from India, I wonder how we all will have changed.”

  “Does it make you sad, even a little?”

  Cecilia was not certain she had ever considered the matter in that light. “I suppose it does, Lady Janet,” she replied after a moment’s thought. “Perhaps this is a lesson to us both: not to dwell in the past and wish for those times again, but to move on and change.”

  “It’s a sobering consideration,” Janet said. “Do you ever wish you could do something over?”

  “Not really. I like to look ahead.” She stood up. “My goodness, you have so much to look forward to!”

  “Yes, indeed,” Janet said, and Cecilia could hear the amusement in her voice. “Shortbread, drop cakes, and wafers below stairs!”

  They smiled at each other with perfect understanding. “Lady Janet, you are going to make Sir Lysander a happy man,” she said, keeping her voice low.

  “I intend to,” Janet replied, “even if he is not as brave as I would like. I love him.” She said it softly, with so much tenderness that Cecilia almost felt her breath leave her body. Unable to meet Janet’s eyes, because her own were filling with tears, she looked at Lucinda, sleeping so peacefully beside her sister. You are all so fine, she thought. Lord Trevor has no need of a prosy scold; nothing is broken here, not really. He was so wrong.

  “Lady Janet,” she began carefully, not even sure what she wanted to ask. “Do you … has Lord Trevor ever kept Christmas here with you?”

  Janet thought a moment, a frown on her face. “Not that I recall. No. Never. I wonder what it is that he does?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Breakfast was a quiet affair. Lord Trevor ate quickly and retreated to the book room, saying something about reviewing his cases. David had to ask him twice if he could join him and continue alphabetizing the files. They left the room together. Lucinda and Janet hurried below stairs, and Cecilia found herself staring out the window toward the manor. She had tried to ask Mrs. Grey casually how the work was going, but the housekeeper just looked away and changed the subject. She had tried again after breakfast, with the same response. She found herself growing more uneasy as the morning passed, and she didn’t really know why.

  “Miss Ambrose?”

  Startled out of her disquietude, she turned around to see Davy standing there. “Davy! Are you thinking it would be good to go below stairs and check on your sisters’ progress? It already smells wonderful, doesn’t it?”

  To her surprise, he shook his head. To her amazement, he came closer and rested his head against her waist. In a moment she was on her knees before him, her arms tight around him. “My dear, you’re missing your mother, aren’t you? She’ll be here tomorrow.”

  Davy burrowed as close to her as he could, and she tightened her grip. “Davy, what is it?”

  She pulled him away a little so she could see his face, took a deep breath, then pulled him close again. “What’s wrong?” she whispered in his ear, trying to sound firm without frightening him.

  “It’s my uncle,” he said finally, the words almost forced out between his tight lips. “I’m afraid.”

  Cecilia sank down to the floor and pulled him onto her lap. “Oh, Davy, tell me,” she ordered, fighting against her own rising tide of panic.

  Davy shivered. “Miss Ambrose, he just sits and stares at the case files! I … I tried to talk to him, but he doesn’t seem to hear me! It’s as though there is a wall …” His voice trailed away.

  Cecilia ran her hands over his arms, and rubbed his back as he clung to her. “Tell me, my dear,” she urged.

  He turned his face into her breast, and his words were muffled. “He told me not to look into the files, and I didn’t, until this morning.” He looked up at her, his eyes huge in his face. “Miss Ambrose, I have never read such things before!” He started to cry.

  She held him close, murmuring nonsensicals, humming to him, until his tears subsided. “My dear, you don’t know what he does, do you?”

  Davy shook his head. “No, but I think it really bothers him.”

  “I think you are right, Davy.” She put her hands on each side of his face and looked into his eyes. “Can you get your coat and mittens?”

  He nodded, a question in his eyes.

  “We’re going outside to get some fresh air.” She stood up, keeping Davy close. “Perhaps we can figure out what to do with all that holly you collected yesterday.”

  The coats were in a closet off the front entrance. She helped Davy with his muffler and made sure his shoes were well buckled, then got into her coat. Mrs. Grey and the cook were below stairs with the girls. She could hear laughter from the kitchen now and then. She tiptoed down the hall to the book room and pressed her ear against the door panel. Nothing.

  They left through a side door out of sight of the book-room windows. She did not have a long stride herself, but she had to remind herself to slow down anyway, so Davy could keep up.

  “We’re not supposed to go to the manor,” he reminded her as they hurried along. “Uncle Trevor is afraid we will be hurt while the repairs are going on.” He stopped on the path. “He might be angry, Miss Ambrose!”

  “I don’t know what he will be, Davy, but I want to see the renovations.” If a judge and jury had demanded to know why she was so determined, she could not have told them. Some alarm was clanging in her brain. She did not understand it, but she was not about to ignore it one more minute.

  On Davy’s advice, they approached the manor from the garden terrace. There was only a skiff of snow on the flower beds, which had been cleaned, raked, and prepared for a long Yorkshire winter. All was tidy and organized.

  Her parents had done extensive renovations once on their Egyptian villa. She remembered the disorder, the dust, the smell of paint, the sound of saw and hammer. When she opened the door off the terrace and stepped inside with Davy, there
was none of that confusion. Nothing. The house was completely silent. Nothing was out of place. She sniffed the air. Only the faintest smell of smoke remained; she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just the ordinary smell of a household heated with coal.

  Davy stared around him, and took her hand again. “There’s nothing wrong.”

  “No, there isn’t,” she said, keeping her voice calm, especially when she saw the question in his eyes. “Where are the workers?”

  They walked down the hall, holding tight to each other, until they came to the door that led belowstairs. Cecilia took a deep breath and opened it. As soon as she did, they heard voices, the soft slap of cards, and some laughter. She took a firmer grip on the boy’s hand, and they walked down the stairs together.

  The workers sitting around the table in the servants’ hall looked up when she came into the room. The oldest man—he must have been the foreman—smiled at her. “G’day, miss!” he called, the voice of good cheer. “Are you from that dower house?”

  She smiled back, even though she wanted to turn and run. “Yes, indeed. I am a teacher for one of the young ladies, and this is David Chase, Viscount Goodhue.”

  The men put down their cards and got to their feet.

  “Is my uncle Trevor playing a joke on us?” Davy asked her.

  “Let’s ask these men,” she said. “Sir, have you been repairing any damage at all?”

  The foreman shrugged. “After Lord Trevor sent all the servants off on holiday, we opened up the windows and aired out the place. Watts, over there—perk up, Watts!—cleaned out the pipe behind the Rumford and seated it again, but that’s all the place really needed.” He scratched his head. “His lordship’s a good man, he is. Said he just wanted us to stay here all week, and get paid regular wages.”

  “Did he … did he tell you why, precisely?” Cecilia asked.

  “I don’t usually ask questions like that of the gentry, miss, but he did say something about wanting to keep everyone close together.”

  He said as much to me, she thought, hoping that his young relatives would discover each other again, if they were in close quarters. “I can understand that,” she said.

  “Yes, mum, that’s what he said,” the foreman told her. “This is our last day on the job.” He laughed and poked the cardplayer sitting next to him. “Guess we’ll have to earn an honest wage next week again!”

  The men laughed. The man called Watts spoke up shyly. “’E’s made it a happy Christmas for all of us, miss. You, too, I hope.”

  “Oh, yes,” Cecilia said, wishing she were a better actress. “Lord Trevor is a regular eccentric who likes a good quiz! Good day to you all, and happy Christmas.”

  They were both quiet on the walk back to the dower house, until Davy finally stopped. “Why would he want us to keep close together?”

  “He told me that first night, after you were all in bed, that he was worried that you were all growing apart, and were ungrateful for what you had,” she explained. “He had a notion that if you were all together, he could give you what he called a ‘prosy lecture’ about gratitude.” She took his hand, and set him in motion again. “Davy, the people he works with—his clients—are young, and have so little. He helps them all he can, but …” But I don’t quite understand this, she thought to herself. He does so much good! Why is he so unhappy?

  The dower house was still silent when they came inside, but the odors from the kitchen were not to be ignored. Without waiting to stamp off the snow upstairs, she and Davy went down to the kitchen, where his sisters were rolling dough on the marble slab. She watched them a moment, their heads together, laughing. Nothing wrong here, she thought. She looked at Davy, who was reaching for a buttery shortbread.

  She noticed that Mrs. Grey was watching her, and she took the housekeeper aside. “Mrs. Grey, there’s nothing going on at the manor. Do you know why Lord Trevor is doing this?”

  “You weren’t to know,” the woman declared.

  The room was quiet, and she knew the children were listening. The frown was back on Davy’s face, and his sisters just looked mystified. “Uncle Trevor’s been fooling us,” Davy said. “There’s nothing wrong with our home.”

  It took a moment to sink in, then Lady Janet sat down suddenly. “We … we could have had the Christmas entertainment? And Lysander could have come?”

  “I think so, Lady Janet,” Cecilia said. “He said he wanted everyone here in close quarters so you could all appreciate each other again.” She reached out and touched Lucinda’s arm. “But I don’t think there ever really was a problem.”

  She smiled at Janet. “Well, maybe a word or two in the right ear was necessary, but that was a small thing.”

  “I know I’m glad to be here now,” Lucinda said. She put her arm around her sister, then tightened her grip as her face grew serious. “I told Uncle Trevor that very thing this morning, but I’m not sure he heard me.”

  “I did the same thing in the book room,” Davy said. “Told him I missed Mama, but it was all right. He didn’t seem to be paying attention.”

  Davy looked at Cecilia, his eyes filled with sudden knowledge. “Miss Ambrose, he was trying to fix us, wasn’t he? We’re fine, so why isn’t he happy?”

  It was as though his question were a match struck in a dark room. Cecilia sucked in her breath and sat down on the bench, because her legs felt suddenly like pudding. She pulled Davy close to her. “Oh, my dear, I think he is trying to fix himself.”

  She knew they would not understand. She also knew she would have to tell them. “Mrs. Grey, would you please leave us and shut the door?”

  The housekeeper put her hands on her hips. “I don’t take orders from houseguests,” she said.

  Janet leaped to her feet. “Then you’ll take them from me! Do as Miss Ambrose says, and … and not a word to my uncle!”

  Bravo, Janet, Cecilia thought, feeling warmer. When the door closed with a decisive click, she motioned the children closer. “Do you know what your uncle really does? No? I didn’t think so.” She touched Davy’s face. “You have some idea.”

  He shuddered. “Those files …”

  “Your uncle is an advocate for children facing sentencing, deportation, and death.”

  Janet nodded, and pulled Lucinda closer to her. “We do know a little of that, but not much.” She sighed. “I own it has embarrassed me, at times, but I am also proud of him.” She looked at her sister. “I think we all are.”

  “And rightly so, my dear,” Cecilia said. “It is hard, ugly work, among those who have no hope.” She took a deep breath. “Let me tell you about Jimmy Daw.”

  She tried to keep the emotion from her voice, but there were tears on her cheeks when she finished. Janet sobbed openly, and Lucinda had turned her face into her sister’s sleeve.

  Davy spoke first. “Uncle Trevor didn’t mean any harm to come to Jimmy Daw.”

  “Oh, no, no,” Cecilia murmured. “He thought he was doing something kind.”

  “Is Jimmy Daw why he works so hard now?” Lucinda asked, her voice muffled in her sister’s dress.

  “I am certain of it,” she said, with all the conviction of her heart.

  “Then why isn’t he happy?” Davy asked, through his tears. “He does so much good!”

  Cecilia stood up, because the question demanded action from her. “Davy, I fear he has never been able to forgive himself for Jimmy’s death, in spite of the enormous good he has done since.” She perched on the edge of the table and looked at the three upturned faces, each so serious and full of questions. “He probably works hard all year, works constantly, so he can fall asleep and never dream. He probably has no time for anything except his desperate children.”

  “Father does say that when he and Mama go to London, they can never find a minute of time with Uncle Trevor,” Janet said.

  “Does he come here for Christmas?”

  “Hardly ever,” Lucinda replied. She stopped; her eyes grew wider. “He might stay a day or two, but he is alway
s gone well before Christmas Eve. You said Jimmy died on Christmas Eve.”

  “He did.” Cecilia got up again, too restless to sit. “I don’t know what your uncle usually does on Christmas Eve, but somehow he must punish himself.” She started to stride about the room again, then stopped. “I doubt he was planning to stay, in spite about what he said of his ‘prosy lecture,’ that he could have delivered and left.”

  “He was forced to, wasn’t he?” Janet said slowly. “When Mama and Papa went to be with Amelia, he had no choice!”

  “No, he didn’t,” Cecilia replied. “I think he used the excuse of the fire to keep everyone close. My dears, I think he wants to change now—if not, he would have bolted as soon as I got here—but I think he is afraid to be alone. And that is really why we are crammed so close here.” She sat down again, dumbfounded at the burden that one good man could force upon himself.

  They were all silent for a long moment. Janet looked at her finally, and Cecilia saw all the pride in her eyes, as well as the fear. “I love my uncle,” she said, her voice low but intense. “There is not a better man anywhere, even if people of our rank make fun of him.” She smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Even Lysander thinks him a fool for—oh, how did he put it?—‘wallowing in scummy waters with the dregs.’ My uncle is no fool.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Miss Ambrose, how can we help him?”

  She mulled over the question, and then spoke carefully. “I think first that he would be furious if he knew I had told you all this.”

  “Why did he tell you?” Davy asked.

  It was a question she had been asking herself for several days now. She shook her head, and started to say something, when Janet interrupted.

  “Because he is in love with Miss Ambrose, you silly nod,” she told her brother, her voice as matter-of-fact as though she asked the time of day.

  Cecilia stared at her in amazement. “How on earth …” Janet shrugged, and then looked at Lucinda, as if seeking confirmation. “We both notice how his eyes follow you around the room, and the way he smiles when he looks at you.” She grew serious, but there was still that lurking smile that made her so attractive. “Trust me, Miss Ambrose, I am an expert on these matters.”