Crystal Heart

by Kruger, Mary

  He opened his mouth as if to answer, and then shook his head. Not before, however, Alana had seen the gleam in his eye. Now what was he thinking? “No. Lady Pamela has sent me to help you with the costumes. She says,” his tone became dry, “it may inspire me in writing my play.”

  Alana laughed in spite of herself. “Poor John. Is she giving you a very hard time?”

  “Lud, if I’d known, when I took this position...” He ran a hand over his hair. “Never mind. Have you found anything?”

  “Not yet. I suspect the older clothes are in the trunks back there. I’m glad you’re here.”

  John, engaged in looking about the attic, stopped and turned to her. “Are you?” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face.

  “Yes. I need someone to shift the trunks. Now, if you’ll just move this one out of the way-”

  “Lady, you wound me. Is that all you see in me, a strong back?”

  “None of your nonsense,” Alana said, but she was smiling. “Come, we haven’t all day. Shall we get to work?”

  “You are a difficult woman,” he grumbled, but he set to, shifting the trunks in front to give them access to the others. “Lud, what’s in these things? Bricks?”

  “Let me help you-”

  “No. I can do it.” He let the trunk drop with a resounding thud. “I hope the rest aren’t so heavy.”

  “Just like a man to refuse help.”

  “Just like a woman, to save everything.”

  “Ha.” She opened the trunk, biting back her smile. He was flirting with her, and she was flirting back. She shouldn’t be enjoying it. She was. “This is hardly a woman’s, sir,” she said, lifting a coat from the trunk. It was the match to the gown she had earlier taken out.

  John grimaced. “Thank God styles have changed. Can you imagine wearing that?”

  “Or this.”

  Alana took something round and furry from the trunk and tossed it at him. He recoiled as it hit his chest and then dropped. “Good God! What is it?”

  “Your language, sir. ‘Tis a wig.” She began to laugh. “Did you think it was alive?”

  “Yes, I—no, of course not.” He retrieved the wig from the floor. A man’s white wig, with two rolls of hair on either side, and a queue in back. “I remember my father wearing something like this. I think he still regrets that powder went out of use.”

  “You speak as if your father is alive.”

  “He is.”

  “Then why do you work, sir?”

  “I should think that would be obvious.” He set the wig on his head. “How do I look?”

  “Dashing,” she said after a moment, looking away. He had shed his coat because of the dust, and the sight of him clad in waistcoat and loose shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, affected her in a way she had never expected, or experienced. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, a strange giddiness in her veins.

  “Dashed hot.” He took the coat from her and held it up. “Do you think Sir Ronald—no. I can’t quite see him in pink.”

  “Wrong time period. We’ll need to move more trunks.”

  “Spare me,” he groaned, but set to work, moving trunks as she commanded and never once losing his temper. It was a revelation. By now she and Grandfather would have been engaged in a shouting match. Instead John, his face smudged with dirt, seemed cheerful and at ease. There was something to be said for a frivolous man. “How many more trunks are there?”

  “Too many.” She glanced about the attic again, and brushed her hair off her forehead with the back of her arm. It had been cool earlier, but the exertion had made her warm. She felt dusty, dirty, and decidedly unkempt, with her hair coming loose from the mobcap, and nothing she could do about it. “They must have saved everything over the years. Just think, if these clothes could talk, the tales they’d tell.”

  “Most of them boring.” John grimaced as he shifted a trunk they had already explored. “The Valentines seem to have been a dull bunch, in spite of their name. Camilla’s the only one who appears to have had any life. Can’t think why she married Roger Valentine.”

  Alana held up a tiny baby’s gown, not hearing him for a moment. “She was probably tired of being alone.”

  John glanced up. “Why have you not married?”

  “I haven’t found anyone I’d want to spend the rest of my life with,” she answered, tucking away the baby’s gown, and with it, her dreams.

  He snorted. “Don’t tell me you believe in love.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re either touched in your upper works, or this house has affected you.”

  “Neither. I saw what my parents had. I don’t think I could settle for anything less. What are you doing?”

  “It fits.” John grinned at the green riding hat he had placed upon her head. “Quite becoming. Matches your eyes.”

  Alana pulled the hat off, looked at it, and then dropped it onto her head again. “Come, this is getting us nowhere-”

  “And what of this?” He leaned over and, before she could elude him, placed a lace ruff, yellowed with age, around her neck.”

  “John,” she protested, laughing in spite of herself. “Stop it-”

  “If I have to wear a wig, then you should do likewise.” Atop the hat went a lady’s wig, looped high, and with traces of powder still clinging to it. “By Jove, the very thing.”

  “Oh, no, it’s slipping off.” She rearranged the wig, placing the battered riding hat atop it. “Oh, dear, yours is crooked.” Without thinking, she reached out to straighten his wig, and her fingers brushed his cheek in the process. His hand instantly came up, gripping hers, holding her there. Her laughter died. “John-”

  “You have pretty eyes, Alana. Did I tell you that?”

  “N-no, you didn’t.” His eyes held hers in as strong a grip as his fingers held her hand, just as they had that morning in the library. She could free herself from neither; nor did she want to. “John, I think-”

  “Hello,” a voice called from the stairs. “Miss Sterling? Mr. Winston? Are you here?”

  “It’s Miss Valentine. Let me go,” Alana said in a furious whisper.

  “If we don’t answer her, she’ll go away,” he whispered back.

  “Hello?” the voice called again.

  Alana pulled back. She was not going to be caught in a compromising situation. “We’re here, behind the trunks, miss,” she called.

  “Coward,” John said in a low voice, releasing her hand.

  “Where—oh!” Susan Valentine, the daughter of the house, who would be making her come-out in the spring, came around the corner formed by the trunks and stopped. “Oh! How silly you look. What is that on your heads?”

  “Wigs.” Alana rose to her feet, removing the wig. “We were wondering how they would do for costumes.”

  “Oh. How would one wear something like that, without getting a headache?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, miss. Is there something we can do for you?”

  Susan held back. She was a sweetly pretty girl, with pale blond hair teased into ringlets, and wide blue eyes. Alana thought she showed promise of one day resembling her mother. “I thought—well, it is a rainy day, and I thought I could help with the costumes.”

  “Of course. There are enough trunks to go through.”

  “I remember coming up here when I was little, to find things to play with.” She looked around the attic with wide-eyed wonder. “Where do we start?”

  John snatched the wig from his head and dropped it onto Susan’s. “Well, first, Miss Valentine, you must get into the spirit of things.”

  “Oh, Mr. Winston!” She giggled. “I must look a sight.”

  “No, no, I assure you. It is most becoming.”

  Alana abruptly turned away, the joy of the afternoon gone. What had been a special moment to her apparently meant little to him. His teasing, his flirtatiousness hadn’t been directed at her specifically. Any female would have served. “If you will excu
se me, I must see if Lady Honoria is awake.”

  “Alana,” John protested, coming towards her. “We need your help.”

  Alana looked from him to Susan, standing with her hands clasped behind her back and one toe turning inward, a sweet, uncertain smile trembling on her lips. “You’ve Miss Valentine to help you. I’m needed elsewhere.”

  “Alana,” he said again, but she was gone, speeding down the attic stairs and heading for sanctuary, though she had never before thought of Lady Honoria’s tart, demanding presence in such a way. “Alana, wait.”

  Alana hastened her steps as she heard John pounding down the stairs behind her. “I’ve things to do-”

  “Alana, dash it, listen to me!” John grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. His grip was surprisingly strong for a scholar, but then, she’d seen for herself how muscular his arms were. “I need your help.”

  “Do you?” She looked up at him, cool and calm now, as she usually was in the face of someone else’s anger. “But you have Miss Valentine to help you.”

  “Miss Valentine is going on and on about her own costume,” he said, biting his words off. “And I must say, this is damned—dashed—rude of you, to run off in such a way.”

  “Rude? How dare you accuse me of such a thing when you—you—let me go!” She twisted her arm free, uncaring of any bruises his grip might leave, and spun away.

  “Dash it, Alana, what’s got into you?” He followed close behind her, and she was glad that this floor contained mostly servants’ quarters and thus was deserted this time of day. “You’re usually so sensible-”

  “Sensible. Yes, that’s me.” She whirled around to face him, no longer caring that he was less than a footstep away. “Plain, sensible Miss Sterling, companion to elderly ladies, someone to flirt with until someone prettier comes along-”

  “Ah.” His eyes lit up. “I see. You’re jealous.”

  “I most certainly am not! If you prefer a woman’s fortune over who she really is, why should that matter to me?”

  “Dash it, I’m not a fortune hunter.”

  “Of course you are. A penniless scholar, who could blame you if you’re interested in Miss Valentine?”

  “I’m not.”

  That stopped her. “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. I see.” She took a deep breath. “I should have realized. I’ve met men like you before. Heartless men who flirt and flirt and mean nothing by it. They don’t care how one feels, who one really is. All they care about is one’s position, one’s fortune-”

  “Damn it, Alana, I don’t know who you’re angry at, but it’s not me!” he exclaimed, and, hauling her into his arms, kissed her soundly.

  Chapter Seven

  “Mmph!” Alana struggled as John’s arms came around her, stunned by this sudden assault upon her senses. But, oh, it felt so good to be held this way, so right. Her arms, held captive at her sides by his embrace, nevertheless rose to clutch him about the waist, and her head angled just a little bit. Alana had been kissed before, but never like this. She had never felt a man’s lips possess her so masterfully, never felt the urge to succumb, to lose herself. Enthusiastically she returned the kiss, giving herself up to it. Who she was no longer mattered, nor the fact that she didn’t quite trust this man. All that did matter was the strength of his arms and the passion of his kiss, evoking a similar, unfamiliar passion within her.

  “Mr. Winston? Miss Sterling?” an uncertain voice called. It broke into Alana’s daze, but for a moment she didn’t wish to heed it. For a moment, all she desired was to stay as she was, lost to the world. “Mr. Winston? Are you down there?”

  John lifted his lips the merest whisper from hers. “Oh, bother,” he muttered.

  “Mr. Winston.” This time, footsteps accompanied the voice. It was enough to jolt Alana at last from her reverie. She jerked her head back and stared at John. His gaze met hers, and in his eyes she saw the same surprised confusion that she felt. She could spare no time to think about that, however. She had to escape. “Miss Sterling?”

  John turned his head. Before he could react, Alana pulled away, taking advantage of his momentary distraction, and ran down the hallway. “Alana!”

  “Mr. Winston! You are there,” Alana heard Susan’s breathless, little girl voice say just as she reached the stairs. “But where is Miss Sterling?”

  John’s answer was lost to her, lost to distance and her own rising panic. She had escaped him, and yet she was not free. In those few moments, something had happened to change her. She would never be the same again.

  Valentine’s Day drew nearer. John shut himself up in the library, sometimes working on the play, sometimes on the family’s history, and assiduously avoiding any research on the Folletts, or a certain crystal heart. He wasn’t quite sure what had happened in the attic the other day with Alana, and he didn’t like that at all. Nor did he like the fact that she had run from him. He liked being in control, dash it! When he was with her, however, that control fled. When he was with her, he found himself doing silly things, such as wearing an old, moth-eaten wig, or suddenly kissing her. Where that impulse had come from, he couldn’t say, except that the urge to kiss her had been overwhelming, unlike anything he had ever felt. Strange. He didn’t think he even liked her that much. She certainly wasn’t in his usual style. Miss Valentine was the type of young woman he usually preferred, sweet, young, pretty. There was no depth to her eyes, though, no surprises in her conversation. Alana, with her smudged face and untidy hair, had drawn him; she drew him still. It was Alana he still very much wanted to kiss.

  John emerged from his self-imposed exile only on Lady Pamela’s orders. Miss Sterling was still searching the attic, and there wasn’t a footman to be spared to help her. John was to stop whatever he was doing and concentrate on finding appropriate costumes. Time was fleeting, and she needed to have her costume soon, to make any necessary adjustments. Of course, with her figure that shouldn’t be difficult. John, ever the gentleman, swallowed the retort that came to mind as he considered Lady Pamela’s abundant shape, and acquiesced. Feeling rather put upon and very much like a servant, he trudged up the stairs to the attic.

  Alana rose abruptly when he reached there, her eyes wide and startled. “Mr. Winston! I didn’t expect to see you.”

  So they were back to formalities. “Lady Pamela’s doing. You do need help moving the trunks, do you not?”

  “Yes.” She turned away, but not before he saw a hint of uncertainty, of nervousness in her eyes. So she hadn’t forgotten their last encounter, either. He found that strangely encouraging.

  For the most part they worked in silence, expressing only disappointment when the trunks continued to yield clothing from the wrong time period, or opinions that this or that article might serve. Neither appeared the least bit tempted to try any of the clothing themselves; hats and wigs and other items lay discarded in piles, and ignored. John was beginning to think their search would be fruitless, when Alana opened a trunk and lifted out a man’s hat. “Ah,” she said, holding it up. Broad-brimmed, with a relatively flat crown, it was trimmed with a feather broken near the base, so that it hung crookedly. “This is more like it. Much like the hat Sir Gabriel wears.”

  John shot her a look. “You really believe in him, don’t you?”

  “Indeed, I do. This may do for Sir Ronald.” She placed the hat to one side, relieved to have found something at last. It was difficult, being here with John, remembering the last time they had been together. Remembering that kiss. Alana’s fingers flew to her lips, tingling at the memory, before she snatched them away. A hasty, guilty glance at John showed that he was paying her no mind, but instead was delving into the trunk. It was a relief. Wasn’t it? “What else is in there?”

  Together they rummaged through the contents of the trunk, declaring some items suitable and others unusable. At the bottom of the trunk was a man’s coat, long and full-skirted, trimmed with tattered gold braid. “What do you think of this for Sir R
onald? I think it would fit him,” John said, holding it up.

  “I cannot quite picture him in mulberry velvet—what is that?” Alana pounced on a small, tissue-wrapped object which had fallen from the folds of the coat, landing with a thunk on the floor. “It must be a piece of jewelry,” she said, unwrapping it. “I wonder—good heavens!”

  John turned. “What is it?”

  “Look what I found.” Alana held the object up. From a long, tarnished silver chain hung a crystal heart.

  For a moment they stared at each other, and then John reached out to touch it. “By God, then it was real.”

  “Yes.” Alana stared, mesmerized, at the heart dangling from her fingers. It was real. And yet, it wasn’t quite what she had expected. Smaller, for one thing. Nor did the crystal sparkle the way she had imagined. It could just be from disuse, she thought, polishing it on her apron, and held it up again. No, the crystal was decidedly cloudy, and its facets seemed clumsily cut. “He said it was trumpery,” she murmured. “I didn’t think it really was.”

  “Hardly a symbol of true love,” John drawled, and her eyes met his. Did he believe in love? Or had that mad moment in his arms been nothing more than simple lust?

  Quickly, she glanced away. “Not what I expected, no. But this must be it, don’t you think?”

  “I imagine so. So it was in the house all this time. I’m surprised the ghost didn’t know.” His lips pursed. “Unless...”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless there is no ghost. Unless this is something you wanted to find for your own reasons.”

  “Why on earth would I want to do that?”

  “Perhaps it is valuable.”

  Alana reared back in shock. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m a thief?”

  “No, no, of course not. But, a woman in your position, having to earn her living—it must be a temptation.”

  “You take it, then!” She threw the heart at him, catching him square on the chest. “You’re as penniless as I!”

  “Dash it, Alana.” He retrieved the pendant from the floor, where it had fallen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”