Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Goose

by Stephanie Laurens

  The four weren’t bad, they were simply immature. Or they had been.

  Christian glanced at Henry’s face. He had aged years in the past hours.

  Once again, Dagenham raised his head and spoke for all four. “We are truly sorry and offer you”—he nodded to Henry—“and the village”—with his gaze, he swept the room—“our unqualified apologies.”

  Murmurs of various sorts greeted those words, but Christian was ready to accept them at face value. He steepled his fingers before his face, studied the four—all pale and somewhat trepidatious; he noted Lady Osbaldestone was studying them through narrowed eyes, much as he was, yet hers would be a distinctly more uncomfortable scrutiny, he felt sure. Finally, over the rumblings and grumblings, he raised his voice and said, “You are here as Henry’s guests, yet in this instance, he couldn’t be with you but instead was doing his duty by the village and his sister, as he should have been.”

  The room had fallen silent, everyone listening to see where he intended steering the exchange. Evenly, he continued, “You are all strangers to the locality and couldn’t have known that the northern end of the lake is the deepest spot, and because the stream feeds in at that point, the ice is always weakest there, so it could well crack, especially if the weight of the four of you was applied at one point. It’s clear today’s near-tragedy was an accident, albeit one initiated by you. However, regardless of how belatedly, you have by your admissions and apologies demonstrated an understanding of the responsibilities that accrue to the position in society you hold.”

  He paused. All four young gentlemen had listened closely; if the faint color rising in their cheeks was any guide, all four had understood his oblique reference to growing up and acting as adults and as befitted their stations in life. He met their eyes, one after another, then nodded. “I believe I can speak for the village in saying we accept your apology. I will add that I hope you will learn from the incident the lessons inherent within it.”

  Christian glanced around at all the others. “Has anyone anything to add?”

  Most of the villagers shook their heads. The major had listened with approval and indicated he had nothing to say. The reverend shook his head. Lady Osbaldestone had raised her brows and—to the four young men’s intense discomfort—had deployed her quizzing glass, but she said nothing to Christian’s prompt.

  Finally, Christian turned to their host. “Henry?”

  Henry had been staring at his friends. Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I have nothing to add.”

  For a second, an awkward silence held sway, then Dagenham came to everyone’s rescue. He bowed, and the other three followed suit. “Thank you. We’ll take ourselves off.” Dagenham looked up the room. “Henry—we’ll speak with you later.”

  After a second’s hesitation, Henry somewhat stiffly nodded.

  The four left the room.

  On a soft tide of murmurs and comments, the villagers came to bid Henry, and then Christian, farewell, and, with nods and bows to the other landowners, to take their leave.

  Henry, to Christian’s eyes, seemed to have shed a skin and become his father’s son. He spoke to each villager, acknowledging their help at the lake and thanking them for coming and showing their support.

  Christian had merely to add his tuppence-worth at the end.

  Finally, Henry went to see the villagers out.

  The Swindons and Colebatches trailed behind, hanging back no doubt to make their farewells and assure Henry of any support he or Eugenia might need. Christian waited while Lady Osbaldestone gathered her three grandchildren, then fell in beside her as they quit the library and followed the others into the front hall.

  They halted by the foot of the stairs. Lady Osbaldestone glanced up the long flight, then looked at Christian. “I’ve a mind to check on Eugenia.” She studied him for a moment, then turned to her grandchildren. “Orneby said she would walk home and send John with the carriage—no doubt it will be waiting in the forecourt. Jamie and George, please go with Lottie, get in, and wait for me—tell John I won’t be long.”

  “Yes, Grandmama,” the three chorused. The boys took Lottie’s hands, and the three turned and headed for the door.

  Christian hid a smile. “Are they always so obedient?”

  “I’m sure I can’t say, but I suspect they generally are even when they’re plotting insurrection.”

  He laughed, then sobered as he met her ladyship’s black eyes. “I’m coming, too. To check on Eugenia.”

  Lady Osbaldestone’s finely penciled eyebrows rose. “Are you now? Well, I suppose I can’t stop you. This isn’t my house, after all.”

  Christian grunted in disbelief. If she’d wanted to deny him… But of course, she wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure he could level an accusation of matchmaking against her, yet when it came to him and Eugenia, the sense of some éminence grise having pushed a little here, then there, lingered.

  He followed her ladyship up the stairs. In the gallery, he glanced over the balustrade. Henry was still at the front door, seeing the last of the villagers out, and the Swindons and Colebatches were waiting in line.

  Christian followed Lady Osbaldestone down the corridor. He reviewed the recent events and murmured, “If I hadn’t intended to stay away—and Jamie hadn’t come to winkle me out of the Grange—I wouldn’t have been on that path above the lake at that precise moment in time. I wouldn’t have seen the cracking start and wouldn’t have known to alert everyone to the danger.”

  “Hmm.” After a moment, Lady Osbaldestone said, “I have often observed that Fate moves in mysterious ways.”

  “One question.” It had been nagging at him. “Jamie loves to skate, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Lady Osbaldestone glanced back at him. “Why? Did he tell you he didn’t?”

  “He told me he’d grown frightened of skating after a serious fall.”

  “Well, if he had, he’s outgrown it.” Her ladyship’s black eyes passed over his face.

  Christian was grateful when she said nothing of what she presumably could read there. He’d been frightened, too, but he’d outgrown the emotion. In truth, since Jamie had arrived at the Grange, he hadn’t thought of his damaged face at all. It wasn’t important, not anymore, not within the village, and that was all he cared about.

  Lady Osbaldestone paused outside a door. She lowered her voice. “I left Mrs. Woolsey lying down on her bed in her own room. She was quite overcome by the excitement and stress. Incoherent, although I’m not convinced that isn’t her customary state.”

  “Let us hope she’s still resting,” Christian murmured back.

  “Indeed.” Lady Osbaldestone opened the door and quietly walked into the room.

  Christian followed and silently shut the door behind him.

  The curtains had been closed. A small lamp with its wick turned low had been left on a table near the window; it shed a soft glow across the room, enough for him to see Eugenia lying fast asleep in the pretty tester bed.

  The honey-gold mass of her hair was spread across the white pillow. Her complexion was pale, but not unnaturally so, with the promise of roses blooming in her cheeks. Her features were relaxed, serene in sleep, her brown lashes, tipped with gold, forming gilded crescents above her cheekbones, and her lips, plump and rosy, gently curved and tempting.

  Christian realized he’d drawn closer to the bed. He halted, straightened, but couldn’t drag his gaze from salvation’s face.

  He’d found her, and he wasn’t going to let her go.

  He’d recognized that he was finished with fear, that he’d overcome the fears that had dogged him. Yet here was one fear with which he would have to live if he wanted what he desperately desired—a family, a hearth and home, a wife.

  This fear, the one that lay before him, was different from the rest. It was a fear one had to embrace—knowingly, willingly—if one wanted the greatest of joys life had to offer.

  In that moment, as he looked down at Eugenia’s delicate face, he felt as if he fi
nally understood—fear, and himself, and everything he needed to know about the future.

  It was there, lying in front of him, both physically and metaphorically.

  Silent and still, Therese watched the thoughts wash over Christian Longfellow’s face. She gave him as long as she dared, then she reached across and tweaked his sleeve. When he looked at her—and pulling away from his absorption took a moment—she tipped her head toward the door.

  His lips firmed, and reluctantly, he nodded.

  He followed her from the room.

  They made their way downstairs, where they found the Colebatches just departing. They joined Henry in waving the couple off, then made their farewells. Therese left Henry with the information that Eugenia was sleeping peacefully and a reminder that she shouldn’t be disturbed until morning.

  Christian walked with Therese to her carriage and opened the door. The running lamps had been lit, and inside, the children were lined up like robins perching on the seat, waiting as instructed, with John on the box, holding the reins.

  Therese smiled at her three helpers. She glanced to where Jiggs waited with the Grange carriage, then turned to Christian. “That was well done today—and I especially liked your lecture to those four young men.” She trapped Christian’s hazel eyes. “I do hope you’ll take your own words to heart. Little Moseley needs you not just in emergencies, although you are well qualified to take charge of such events, as you proved today. And we don’t need you only to provide a sound baritone in the church choir, to lead a recalcitrant donkey, or even to pull a young lady from a frozen lake—although we’re all very glad you did those things.” Relentlessly, she held his gaze. “The village needs you as a fully functioning part of our community. Without you, we would be less. You have contributions to make—that you should make and need to make—to life in Little Moseley.”

  In the flickering light cast by the carriage lamps, he studied her face, then he humphed. “You do realize you said ‘we.’”

  She blinked, replayed her words, then slowly nodded. “I did, didn’t I?”

  “Several times.” He gave her his hand and, when she grasped it, helped her into the carriage.

  The children made space for her between them, and she sat and released Christian’s hand.

  He stepped back, closed the door, and saluted her.

  John shook the reins, and Therese settled back as the horses plodded across the forecourt and on down the drive.

  As the shadows of the avenue closed around them and the children snuggled against her sides, she smiled to herself.

  Christian Longfellow hadn’t argued. Her work was—almost—done.

  Chapter 12

  “Excuse me, Miss Eugenia.”

  Eugenia looked up from the embroidery hoop that lay neglected in her lap; she’d been sitting staring at it for the past half hour. After saying she would sit quietly and embroider, she’d taken refuge in the morning room to escape the smothering attentions of Henry, his suddenly exceedingly polite and attentive friends, and every member of the household who could find a reason to be in her vicinity.

  She was no wilting flower; a night of untrammeled sleep had restored her to her customary rude health. Clearly, her being carried inside unconscious the previous afternoon had shaken everyone, but their continued solicitousness was getting on her nerves.

  And now here was Mountjoy, standing at the door and looking at her questioningly.

  She inwardly sighed. “Yes, Mountjoy?”

  “Lord Longfellow has called, miss. He asked how you were and inquired if you were well enough to speak with him.”

  Would he fuss over her, too?

  On the other hand, he was the one person whose concern over her well-being was warranted. Justified, even. He’d rescued her from certain death—that gave him a freedom she would extend to no other.

  And the notion of him being worried enough to come and inquire didn’t irritate her at all.

  “Thank you, Mountjoy.” She set aside the embroidery hoop, stood, and shook out her new teal kerseymere gown. “Did you put him in the drawing room?”

  “Yes, miss.” Mountjoy hesitated. As she walked toward him and the door, he cleared his throat and asked, “Would you like me to summon Mrs. Woolsey, miss?”

  Eugenia met Mountjoy’s eyes. “No, thank you.” Cousin Ermintrude had remained abed, insisting her nerves were too overset to permit her to venture downstairs. “I’m sure I’ll do better dealing with his lordship without unnecessary distraction.”

  Mountjoy’s lips twitched, but he stilled them. “As you say, miss.”

  He bowed her out of the room, then led her to the drawing room and opened the door.

  She walked in to see Christian Longfellow dressed more formally than she’d previously seen him in a coat of Bath superfine that fitted his broad shoulders to perfection, worn over buff breeches and highly polished Hessians.

  He was standing at the wide bay window, looking out at the side garden. He heard the click of the latch as Mountjoy shut the door, glanced over his shoulder, then turned to face her.

  His cravat was elegant, in keeping with the rest of his attire. His gaze remained steady on her face as she slowly crossed the room to him. With a little skip of her heart, she noticed he no longer ducked his head to the side to hide his scars.

  Halting before him, she smiled warmly, dipped a curtsy, and held out her hand. “Good morning, Lord Longfellow.”

  He took her fingers in his and bowed. “Miss Fitzgibbon.” With a hint of reluctance, he released her hand.

  Still smiling, she captured his gaze. “Put simply, my lord, I cannot thank you enough for your rescue yesterday. Quite literally, you saved my life.” She spread her hands to either side. “I am forever in your debt.”

  He studied her, her eyes, her face, for several seconds, then quietly said, “I would take it very kindly if you would call me Christian…and if you would promise me that you will set aside all notions of gratitude, of being in my debt or repaying me in any way whatever, for the duration of this visit.”

  She frowned. “Why? You were the epitome of heroic—”

  “Yes, well…” He paused, then with his eyes still on hers, he drew in a breath and declared, “I don’t want what happened yesterday to influence you.”

  “Influence me in what?”

  “In how you respond to what I wish to say to you.” Frustration sharpened his tone. His chin set, his lips fleetingly compressed to a thin line, then they eased. “Please—can you just listen to what I have to say and forget all the rest?”

  She searched his eyes. A frisson of hope, of anticipation and expectation fizzed along her veins, but did he truly mean to ask…

  With effort, she reined in her galloping imagination, refocused on his face, and considered his request—and his tone. He was used to commanding; every now and then, that shone through. Yet…he had said please. She nodded. “All right.” She folded her hands before her and looked at him steadily. “What do you wish to say to me?”

  Christian had rehearsed all he wanted to say, but as for how to lead into that… He held her gaze, let himself sink into the summer blue, and allowed the words to flow. “I know some would say that this is too soon—that especially given the events of yesterday, I should hold back in case you feel obliged to agree—but I’m relying on your good sense to know I would never want you to feel compelled over anything and especially not over this.” He paused for breath, then doggedly went on, “I acknowledge that although we’ve been aware of each other’s existence for most of our lives, we haven’t really known each other in the true sense—as people, as individuals—for very long at all. Yet if my years in the Peninsula taught me anything, it’s that life is fragile, and it can be fleeting, and that we should seize whatever chance of happiness comes our way and not hang back thinking our eagerness not quite nice.”

  She tipped her head, her eyes steady on his. “So far, I agree with everything you’ve said. Especially about seizing happiness when i
t offers. When I sank beneath the waters of the lake…that made a lot of things much clearer. What was important, truly important, and what was merely superficial and not really worthy of my time.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Exactly. That moment when I saw you sink under the water the first time was bad enough. The second time…” He stared at her, then looked to the side. Then his chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath, and he brought his eyes back to hers and simply said, “I’m a soldier. I’ve been largely absent from society for the past decade. I don’t know if my proposal is socially acceptable or not—if this is the right time or the right way. If this is what you want or would like.”

  To his surprise, she stepped forward, into him, grasped his lapels and tried—unsuccessfully—to shake him. “Just tell me.”

  His eyes locked with hers, he licked his lips. “I should go to one knee at least, but my injured leg makes that awkward…” He read her surging impatience in her glare and evenly, quietly, said, “I wanted to ask you if you would do me the inestimable honor of agreeing to be my wife.”

  Eugenia stared into his hazel eyes, read the depth of his sincerity, saw the straightforward, honest, good man he truly was. And that good man wanted her as his partner in life. His helpmate. His wife.

  Her gaze grew misty. Regardless, her voice low but clear, she replied, “I don’t care what anyone says now or later—that this is too quick, that I must have felt beholden—I don’t, and what do I care what people say or think? I know. I know to the bottom of my heart and my soul that you are the husband I never knew I wanted—never had time to think of or dream of. But you’re here now, and all I want to do is say yes. Yes, please—”

  She didn’t manage to say anything more because Christian had swept her into his arms and slanted his lips over hers.

  He kissed her as if she were precious, a gift from the gods. She wound her arms around his neck and returned the kiss with fervor, as if he was and always had been the man of her dreams.