“It’s not—” Christine broke off, obviously searching for words. “I am sure Lady Daphne has told you that I have ridden unattended on Ashford land since I was old enough not to fall off my horse at the first obstacle. Which, I realize, makes my position quite untenable. But…oh dear, this is awkward!”
Accustomed as he was to a Lady Christine sculpted in ice, Harlan found this flustered young woman far more appealing. Perhaps, after all, there was a woman with feelings beneath that cool façade.
“I fear I am inclined to be more sensible than Daphne,” Christine murmured. “There! I have said it. She has long had a tendre for our neighbor, Ralph Sinclair. To the extent that she was quite green with envy when he seemed more interested in me.” Christine flashed a glance in his direction before continuing doggedly on. “I beg your pardon for regaling you with matters which must seem frivolous but Daphne met Rafe while riding this morning and is once again aux anges. And Rafe is not the only neighbor using our rides. In truth…I am not certain I can depend on Daphne’s good judgment.”
Admitting that an Ashford might suffer an imperfection must have cost her, Harlan realized. Then again, he was an Ashford. Did his bride ever remember that? Harlan almost smiled.
“In that case,” he said, “I will tell Lady Daphne she must have a groom with her at all times.”
“Oh, thank you!” Christine cried, eyes wide, as if astonished. Had she truly thought he would not confirm her orders to her sister? “There is something else,” she said, her gaze dropping to her lap. “I have given my sisters permission to put off their blacks. I will go into half-mourning. I trust that we will not be so dour and drab as to dampen the approaching holidays.”
Ah! A far greater concession than admitting her sister might have a fault. Intrigued, Harlan considered his wife with greater care than usual. Patient diplomat that he was, he had tucked her away in his mind as a piece of unfinished business. A possession to be reexamined and dealt with when her period of mourning had passed. When they had moved from being strangers to acquaintances of several months duration. Or so he told himself, though at times he suspected he was merely creating a disguise for cowardice.
But tonight, in spite of her severe black gown and her customary cool façade, his wife was revealing an unexpected flexibility. A most welcome change…if it were a signal of more to come.
He donned his own façade—Harlan Ashford, silver-tongued government agent. “It may be easier to reconcile your view of the holidays, Lady Christine, if you recall that Christmas and New Years are celebrations of hope, promises for new beginnings and eternal life.”
She was staring at him, a rather odd expression on her face. “You really were a diplomat, were you not?”
Harlan shifted in his chair, gave a little shrug. “I tried. On occasion I was successful.”
“Would you care to inspect the West Ride tomorrow? Perhaps we might meet Rafe and you could…ah, give him a hint?”
“An excellent notion. Do we take Lady Daphne with us?”
Lady Christine made a face. Amazing, he had not thought the ice maiden had it in her. “I suppose we must.” They agreed on a time, she executed a neat little curtsey and left him sitting there, staring into the fire.
Devil a bit, but she might be human, after all.
Chapter Eight
“Oh my lady, you look ever so fine,” Sally declared as Christine twisted and turned before her gilt-framed pier glass. “If you don’t mind my saying, my lady, black didn’t suit you.”
Christine stood quite still, frowning at her reflection. The silver gray silk, trimmed in black lace, was done up in a modest version of the latest style, with only a hint of puff at the top of the long sleeves and a slight widening of the skirt that fell from an inch below her bosom to an ankle-length hem. And yes, she had to admit, the elegant dinner gown was a considerable relief from a daily dose of black. But something more was needed, the vision of how she wished to look was not quite—
“You’ll still look like an old crow if you keep your hair like that. Really, Chrissie, you look like a skinned rabbit!”
Why she had allowed her sisters and Miss Applegate to attend the fitting of her new gowns Christine could not imagine. Yet here they were, Daphne as sharp-tongued as ever. And yet…there had been such a fluttering over their wearing colors again. A lessening of Daphne’s fits of the sullens. Less anxiety in Linny’s big brown eyes. Denying them the pleasure of seeing her new wardrobe, gray though it was, would have been cruel. But if Daphne did not keep a civil tongue in her head…
Christine’s gaze moved up the mirror from her gown to her head. As much as she disliked acknowledging the truth of her sister’s jibe, Daphne had pinpointed the problem. After Papa’s death Christine had ceased to have any interest in her appearance, but Sally would never have let her wear such a severe hairstyle if it had not been for Alymer. And making herself look as unappealing as possible had become a habit. One, in the numbness of her grief, she had not thought to change. She had, in fact, insisted on keeping the style, even on her wedding day.
Armor—like a knight’s helm.
But she wasn’t supposed to wear armor against a husband. And yet, in a moment of what might well be called panic, she had done exactly that. One more barrier that must come down if she hoped to establish harmony in the household. Truthfully, over the last two weeks of the hustle and bustle of dressmaker, fabrics, style and fittings, Christine had felt bits of her brittle armor dropping away as she plunged back into a familiar part of her past. But not enough, not nearly enough. She and Bainbridge seldom exchanged words that did not have to do with the running of the estate.
Bainbridge! A swift glance at the clock on the mantel. “I need the new riding habit. Immediately, Sally. The one with the black piping. I am riding out with Bainbridge.”
“Are you going to be nice to him, Chrissie?” Linny asked from her perch on a window seat, her favorite doll tucked up beside her.
“Lady Belinda!” Miss Applegate gasped over Daphne’s unrestrained laughter.
Christine stepped out of the gray silk gown, glaring at her sisters. “I assure you my manners are always correct, particularly with the earl.”
“That’s what she means,” Daphne declared. “You are so freezingly polite ice forms on your every word. How the poor man endures it, I’m sure I don’t know. It’s a wonder he doesn’t beat you.”
“That is quite enough, Lady Daphne,” Miss Applegate pronounced. “Your sister and his lordship can manage their lives without any help from a chit still in the schoolroom.”
“Thank you,” Christine murmured.
“But Daphne’s right,” Linny wailed. “You treat him like Cousin Alymer!”
“I do not!” Horrified, Christine could only stare at her youngest sister.
“Ladies!” Miss Applegate snapped as all three sisters began to talk at once, accusations and defense descending into cacophony. “You have all suffered from the severe changes of the last six months,” she said as noise turned to silence. “And now your sister is making a sincere effort to bring us out of the gloom that has trapped us all. Daphne, Linny, look at yourselves in the mirror. Bright as flowers in a garden, are you not? And it is time for you to stand back and allow your sister to emerge in her own way in her own time. Think what she has done for you. Believe me, her situation is not an easy one. It is the two of you who need to be kind.”
Shamefaced, Daphne hugged her older sister, who was beginning to shiver in nothing but her chemise and stays.
Linny slid off the window seat, offering Christine little more than a pout as she stared up at her. “Promise me you’ll be nicer to him,” she insisted. Miss Applegate hustled her from the room before Christine could think of a suitable reply.
Was she truly so cold to Bainbridge? She hadn’t meant to be…but he was so large…and at least ten years older. He made her feel…insignificant. And she suspected that, to him, she was just another possession, another of the old earl’s burdens he
must accept. Did he see her as a woman at all? A wife?
Probably not. She had certainly done everything she could to give the impression of a cold, unfeeling, unreachable female. An impression that might be difficult to erase. With a sigh, Christine allowed Sally to drop the voluminous skirt of her new riding habit over her head.
Ashford Park was coming back to life. Although ostensibly only the color of the Ashford sisters’ gowns had changed, Harlan could feel could sense a monumental shift in atmosphere. More smiles, a giggle overheard from little Linny, an occasional drift of laughter down the corridors. Lady Daphne tended toward moonstruck, floating rather than walking, which was perhaps not a good sign. He had assumed success when he hinted young Sinclair away…but perhaps not. He would have to speak to Christine.
Christine. His wife. Whose new gowns became her, and her hair… He didn’t know what she had changed exactly but she was not as off-putting as the ice maiden he had married. No, it wasn’t just the hair. She was more…reachable, as if she had at least begun to dismantle the armor she had wrapped so tightly about herself. She was, in fact, attractive. He would not go so far as to say he could picture her in a ball gown, eyes sparkling with excitement as she danced a waltz, smiling up at her partner. But it now occurred him she had once done exactly that.
And there was hope she might do so again. When her partner would be the Earl of Bainbridge.
Lost in the picture of a more pleasant future, Harlan almost didn’t hear the soft scratch on the bookroom door. “Come,” he called, and his wife peeked ‘round the door, offering a tentative smile, almost as if his thoughts had conjured her.
“May I speak with you a moment, my lord?”
My lord. Two months married and she was still addressing him as “my lord”. “You may, if you can remember to call me ‘Harlan’ or ‘husband’, or ‘Bainbridge’, if you must.” Devil a bit, he hadn’t intended to sound so sharp.
Her smile vanished, her blue eyes widened before going perfectly blank. Nothing about her person changed, from her light brown hair to the tips of her slippers, but he could almost see the cloak of ice settling back around her. He’d made a mull of it, and just when he’d begun to hope… Harlan had risen to his feet and now gestured for her to be seated in their customary wingchairs before the fireplace, which was blazing merrily on this cold December night.
“I am concerned about Daphne,” Lady Christine declared with no roundaboutation, as soon as they both were seated. “She is displaying all the signs of young love. I have spoken with Jenks, the groom who accompanies her, and he swears they have not encountered Rafe on their rides. But, to speak plainly, my sister is not of the most amiable disposition and yet she floats through each day with her head in the clouds, displaying all the signs of an impressionable girl on Midsummer Eve. I fear—” Christine hesitated, and he could see her words did not come easy. “I have known Jenks all my life but I fear he is not being truthful.”
Harlan nodded. “We gentlemen tend to be obtuse about such things but even I had noticed. Is there any way Lady Daphne could ride out without anyone in the stables knowing about it?”
“Daphne saddle her own horse? She might as easily run through the park in her chemise— Ah, I beg your pardon!” His wife ducked her head, scarlet staining her cheeks. Quite prettily, in fact.
Though sorely tempted to fall into another topic altogether, Harlan kept himself in hand. “She has known the stableboys all her life, has she not? Would it not be possible for her to find at least one willing to indulge her?”
Christine sighed. “That is why I have come to you…Bainbridge. It is not easy for me to admit that I have lost control but I fear it may be so.”
“Christine…that is what husbands are for.” Among other things. “I will find out what is going on in the stables and then I will speak not only to Rafe but to his father. I promise you, I will put an end to this nonsense.” Harlan held up a hand, staying her gratitude. “Pray do not thank me. I fear Lady Daphne is going to make your life miserable.”
Christine steepled her hands in front of her face. “You are so correct, my—H-Harlan,” she murmured. “And with the holidays fast approaching, it could be…uncomfortable.”
“There is another matter,” Harlan said. “I have not thanked you properly for all the help you have given me since our marriage. I still have a great deal to learn about the land but my-our tenants greet me with warmth, as well as respect. I can find my way around the estate without getting lost, and I remember at least half the names of the villagers.” He proffered a rueful smile. “As for understanding the estate accounts, I have a ways to go but your ability to deal with household matters has lifted that burden from my—”
Christine dropped her hands to her lap. “But that is exactly why I am mortified to come to you about Daphne—”
He reached out, laying his hand over hers. For a moment he thought she was going to jerk away. She did not but her whole body stiffened. “Christine, think for moment. You have aided me in my work. It is only fair I help you when you need it.”
Daringly, he raised her hand to his lips and brushed it with a kiss. “We are, after all, husband and wife.”
Later that night, tucked up in her bed, Christine would swear she felt that kiss all the way to her soul. So light, so fleeting but…
Had she felt that way when Jeremy kissed her? A lifetime ago but surely she would remember if she had. And the night Jeremy had attempted more than a kiss? She had felt…uncomfortable. So much so, a few doubts had penetrated her euphoria over what she had supposed was his imminent offer for her hand.
But Jeremy had been so charming, so full of cheer, always finding amusement in the world around him. He thought her attractive, witty, well-dressed. He adored her.
Or so he said.
And she had believed him. More the fool, she.
Bainbridge had married her out of duty. From what she could tell he found her wanting in every area but her knowledge of the estate. Yet he had married her. Taken on the burden of an unwanted wife and her two younger sisters. Become Bainbridge, when she suspected he would rather still be roaming the wilds of Rupert’s Land as Harlan Ashford. He could have left the estate in the hands of Mr. Barnswell, abandoned the Ashford sisters to life in Yorkshire…
But he had not. He had accepted his responsibilities, all of them.
No wonder he never smiled.
Nor had she helped, Christine readily admitted. “Lady Doom and Gloom”, that’s what Daphne called her. And with cause. Was it any surprise that Daphne broke the rules to go in search of a smiling face, a bit of admiration and light dalliance? What sixteen-year-old of spirit would not?
Had she herself not learned to flirt in those very same woods, with the very same companion? For shame that she could not allow her sister the freedom she herself had once enjoyed.
She should not have brought the matter to Bainbridge’s attention. But if she had not there would have been no kiss…
She would do better, Christine vowed. Now that her fear for their future was gone and her miasma of sorrow was beginning to lift she could see she had been so busy doing her “duty” that she had failed as a sister, as chatelaine of Ashford Park…and as a wife. She must do more than allow her sisters to wear colors. She must find a way to bring back joy—smiles, laughter, the warmth of good conversation. Companionship, trust.
And the holidays would help. Yes, that was it. They would decorate for the holidays as they had in the past. Fresh greens, scarlet velvet bows, garlands, wreaths, perhaps even a bit of mistletoe. Mistletoe. Christine smiled in the dark. With mistletoe, perhaps another kiss?
Christine almost gasped out loud when she saw the reckoning from the dressmaker. Merciful heavens, if this is what a few plain gowns for her sisters and herself cost, what must Papa have paid for her gowns for two London Seasons? Hopefully Bainbridge, who was clearly mellowing as the atmosphere around him improved, would not count the cost. Christine added the paper in her hand to the stac
k of bills which must be paid and returned to examining the daily post.
Ah, a letter from Margaret! During those dark days in Yorkshire, Margaret’s faithful correspondence, offering sympathy and recounting tales of the ton, had been one of the few bright spots in Christine’s life. Eagerly she unfolded her friend’s letter and began to read, skimming the customary pleasantries, until the second paragraph brought her to a complete halt. Slowly, she read it once again. Oh no…surely not. There must be some mistake.
My dear Chrissie, Mama says I should not mention the latest on dit, but I know you would not wish to left in the dark. It is said Lady Sarah Hutton had a fit of the vapors when she heard of your marriage to Bainbridge. It seems she had every expectation of being the next countess. Her mama swears they were pledged but my mama says it’s all a hum, that Bainbridge, a mere Mr. Ashford at the time, has been out of the country for years and could not possibly have an understanding with Lady Sarah, who must have been in the schoolroom when he last resided here. So pay no heed to the rumors, though the ubiquitous “they” claim she has gone into a decline and retired to the country. No matter, my dearest Chrissie, he is yours, and I am certain Lady Sarah, antidote that she is, is all about in her head.
Lady Sarah Hutton. Christine closed her eyes, attempting to form a portrait in her mind. Tall, thin, rather regal-looking. Excellent lineage. So much so she tended to look down on the other young ladies in the ton, even the daughters of earls. Christine had not actively disliked her but they had never been friends. Yet…had she hinted at a secret engagement? At an understanding with a gentleman in foreign service?
Christine very much feared she had. And she had always assumed Lady Sarah created the mysterious gentleman as an excuse for her lack of dance partners.
The Last Surprise Page 5