A Countess for Christmas (Regency Short Story)

by Lawson, Anthea

  Vanity. Liam shook his head, but still spent an extra moment in front of the mirror, tidying his sleep-rumpled hair. He leaned forward, trying to see his face as a stranger might.

  His eyes were unremarkable. His jaw too wide, his cheeks too hollowed. His hair might hold a certain appeal—years ago a young lady had told him it was like black silk—but other than that, he had very little to recommend him.

  With a sigh, he straightened and tugged his cravat back into place. Truly, he would be better off finding some excuse to leave. This moping about in front of mirrors was inexcusable.

  The Fairfaxes kept country hours, for which he was thankful, being an early riser. The smell of eggs and bacon wafted down the hall, and he increased his strides. A true English breakfast would be a pleasurable change from his usual bowl of oatmeal. Of course, his servants would cook him bacon and eggs if he asked, but it was simpler to have a bowl of porridge each morning. Less trouble for everyone.

  A strange noise reached his ears, and he paused. He did not think the household boasted any pets, yet a quiet mewling issued from a nearby passageway.

  For a scant second, his skin prickled. Was it the fabled ghost of Wilton House?

  Certainly not. It was the sound of a living creature in distress. Liam turned the corner and paused outside a small paneled door—a closet of some kind. By the sound of it, the creature had been prisoned within.

  He turned the knob and gently opened the door a few inches. Light slanted into the small room, revealing shelves stacked high with linens.

  “Here, now,” he said softly. “Come out, kitten.”

  No sign of the creature. Liam pulled the door wide, then jumped back in surprise as the ghost—no, no, it was only Miss Fairfax—whirled to face him. He caught a glimpse of tear-wet cheeks and disheveled blonde hair before she turned her face from the light.

  “Go away.” Her voice wavered unsteadily.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said.

  Gentlemanly courtesy demanded he shut the door and depart, never to mention the fact that he had found Cecilia Fairfax weeping inconsolably in the upstairs linen closet.

  She sniffed, her hands balled in a pillowcase that had no doubt been muffling her sobs, and something within Liam gave way.

  Instead of withdrawing, he stepped into the closet and shut the door behind him. The air smelled of lavender, and he heard Cecilia’s skirts rustle in the dimness.

  “Whatever are you—”

  “Come here.” He opened his arms.

  She could not see him, he was certain of it, yet she stepped forward, just enough that he could touch her shoulders. She let out a shivering sob, and he folded her against him, murmuring hushing syllables from some long-forgotten time.

  Her hands fastened on his coat and she clung there, crying, while he held her. In the close darkness they were not mere acquaintances, not earl and miss. No, they were elements of the world, meeting as inexorably as shadow and light. Greif and comfort. Loss, and love.

  A strange, perfect contentment settled over Liam. He would stand there for centuries letting Cecilia Fairfax drench his shoulder with her tears, if that was what she required of him.

  At last, the storm of weeping abated. Cecilia’s sobs turned to sniffles.

  “Oh dear,” she said, stepping back. “I must beg your pardon, Lord Tarrick. This is most—irregular.”

  Liam reluctantly let her go, the cloth of her sleeve wisping against his fingers. He supposed she was correct. Proper young ladies did not inhabit linen closets, weeping into the arms of unexpected guests. Still, he could not be sorry for the circumstance.

  “Are you sufficiently recovered, Miss Fairfax?”

  She drew in a breath, yet did not speak. Liam felt the gossamer touch of her fingertips across his cheek, so light he might have imagined it. But he had not. He held very still, the scent of linens and lavender suffusing his senses.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “Thank you.”

  He wished there was light enough for him to see her, so that he might take her hand and press a warm kiss across the back of it.

  There was no good way to bid her farewell. He reached behind him, the knob cool beneath his fingers, and opened the door just wide enough to slip out into the hallway. She did not follow, and Liam gently closed the door behind him, wishing for something he could not name.

  ***

  Cecilia scrubbed her face with the pillowcase, then inhaled, trying to catch a last hint of the earl’s spicy scent. She’d been beyond shocked when he’d come into her hiding place, and for a panicked moment had thought he was going to press his advances upon her.

  But no—he had offered his warm, broad shoulder for her to weep upon, without hesitation. Without questions.

  And then he had left, and a treacherously large part of her wished he had not.

  She cracked open the closet door. The hallway was empty—everyone no doubt gone down to breakfast. She could not face the earl across the table. Nor her brother, who though he might not see her red-rimmed eyes and tearstained face, would be able to hear the remnants of weeping in her voice.

  Besides, there was too much to do, and her stomach tangled in knots again just thinking of it.

  Clutching the crumpled pillowcase, Cecilia stole back to her room and the towering list of tasks awaiting her. She would have Martha bring her up some tea and toast, and spend the morning planning Christmas dinner, including provisions for the staff. And then Boxing Day, with father’s usual gifts to the servants...

  Three hours later, the butler interrupted her.

  “Miss Fairfax, the Widow Pomfrey has come to call,” he said.

  Cecilia loosened her grip on her teacup. For a stark moment she thought Edward and his family had arrived, too early. But she welcomed the stout widow’s company, enough to take a respite from her work.

  “My dear girl,” Widow Pomfrey said when Cecilia entered the parlor. “You look a bit pale. Come, tell me—how fares your family?”

  She held out her hands. Cecilia took them and let the widow draw her over by the fire. Widow Pomfrey was the physical opposite of the late Lady Fairfax—small and plump, with merry dark eyes and a hardy constitution. Yet the two women had shared a warmth of spirit that had made them fast friends.

  “Marcus is home now for Christmas,” Cecilia said. “He is… well. Edward is expected later today.”

  “And your father?”

  The widow’s tone revealed nothing but kind interest, but Cecilia suspected the woman nurtured a fondness for Lord Fairfax. After Mother’s death, Widow Pomfrey had been a frequent visitor, providing help and advice to Cecilia, and bringing the family her famous pies. Indeed, the widow’s pies were one of the few things that could tempt Father into eating, those first dreadful months.

  “Father is regaining his strength, and his cheer.” It was only a small lie.

  “I am most pleased to hear it.” The widow smiled, her eyes crinkling almost closed in the roundness of her face.

  On impulse, Cecilia squeezed her hands. “Come spend Christmas Eve with us.”

  “Oh, well, I…”

  Was that a blush on Widow Pomfrey’s cheeks? She had no children to spend the holiday with, no family nearby. Indeed, the more Cecilia contemplated the idea, the more it satisfied her. Marcus was not the only one who could invite guests, after all.

  “Please, do come,” Cecilia said. “It will save me from having to explain to Father why we must have inferior pies. We need you.”

  “In that case, I shall come. And bring mince, and apple. It will be lovely to see your entire family again.”

  “We also have another guest.” Cecilia withdrew her hands from the widow’s soft grasp. “The Earl of Tarrick is visiting. He’s a friend of Marcus.”

  “Do tell.” The widow’s eyebrows rose, nearly to the edge of her lace cap. “Is he handsome?”

  Now Cecilia feared it was her turn to blush—though perhaps the widow would attribute the flush on her cheeks to the warmth of th
e fire, instead of the thought of the earl’s arms around her.

  “I suppose he is,” Cecilia said. “Though I haven’t given the matter much thought.”

  My, she was becoming an accomplished liar. The instant Liam Barrett had stepped into the front entry, she had been struck by his appearance. And a bit intimidated—though his gray eyes and lack of smiles seemed less remote to her, now that she had sobbed upon his shoulder.

  Perhaps he was not aloof, so much as shy? She blinked at the thought. Not everyone was as outgoing as Marcus. The earl’s reserve was understandable. And beneath that cool exterior was a surprisingly kindhearted man.

  “Have you any brighter gowns?” Widow Pomfrey asked, glancing at the dark blue wool Cecilia wore. It was clear the widow had inclinations toward matchmaking.

  “I’ve only just met the earl,” Cecilia said.

  It was true—although it was also true she’d been corresponding with him for well over a month. Not that the widow needed more fuel for her fire.

  “Something to bring out the color in your cheeks.” Widow Pomfrey tilted her head.

  Cecilia had a red gown—a beautiful satin one, edged in white. It had been made up, along with dozens of others, for the Season she was supposed to have had in London. Before Mother fell ill, and their plans for Cecilia’s grand coming-out fell into ruin.

  Swallowing past the sudden tears crowding her throat, she nodded. “I do have a red gown.”

  “Then you must wear it. You are a lovely young lady, Cecilia, and if the earl does not see as much, he must be a blind man.”

  Not as blind as Marcus, she hoped. Was her brother’s eyesight ever going to fully recover? What would Father do, once he knew?

  The widow must have seen the worry in her eyes, for she gave Cecilia another smile, and rose to her feet.

  “I’ve kept you long enough, my dear. Do tender my regards to your father. And your brothers, of course.”

  Cecilia showed her to the door, then stood on the step as the Widow Pomfrey departed. The winter chill seeped into her bones. The sky was low, clouds promising snow. She only hoped it would bide another few days—until Edward and his family arrived, until the greenery had been collected from the woods. Tomorrow she must send Marcus out to gather boughs and holly.

  As the afternoon wore on, Cecilia found it difficult to concentrate. Every noise had her jumping up to scan the drive for Edward’s coach. She had checked and double-checked that his rooms were ready, that the fires were lit, the water for washing brought up—although none of it would be to Honoria’s satisfaction.

  Evening descended early, and still they had not arrived.

  At dinner—another quiet affair—the butler approached the head of the table.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said to Cecilia’s father, “but this message was just delivered by one of the village boys.”

  Fear darted through Cecilia. She had not wanted Edward to come, but she hoped no ill had befallen him or his family. Across the table, Marcus tensed. He set his fork down, the tines clinking against his plate.

  “Read it, Father,” he urged.

  Their father unfolded the paper and read the note aloud.

  Dearest Father,

  I regret to inform you that my family will be unable to spend Christmas at Wilton House. The boys have fallen ill—nothing too dire, the doctor assures us, just an upset of the digestion that seems to be striking many in the neighborhood. Still we thought it best we not travel during this time.

  “Thank goodness,” Marcus said under his breath. “Can you imagine having the urchins here, spewing their dinner about?”

  “Marcus!” Cecilia sent him a quelling glance.

  In addition, we wanted to share the joyous news that Honoria is in a delicate condition—which, however, adds to the inadvisability of travel.

  Our thoughts are with you and my siblings, and know that my family will be celebrating Christmas with you in spirit, if not in person.

  Your respectful son,

  Edward

  Cecilia swayed back against her chair, relief deflating the tension that had filled her almost to bursting all day.

  Edward and his family were not coming! She would not have to bear Honoria’s sharp words when nothing met her impossibly high expectations, or run about after two wild and rambunctious boys, since Honoria refused to bring the nanny along yet pled a headache whenever her offspring needed tending. Best of all, Cecilia would not have to watch Edward silently endure his wife’s scathing remarks, a trapped look tightening his features that she could do nothing to ease.

  She closed her eyes in a silent prayer of thanks.

  When she opened them again, she found the earl watching her from across the table. There was a sympathetic spark in his gray eyes, as if he could read her thoughts. She smiled at him, and for a moment thought he would smile in return.

  Then Marcus knocked over his wineglass while groping for it, and the moment was broken, lost amidst the commotion of tidying up.

  ***

  Liam laid an armful of holly into the back of the wagon, ignoring the sharp pricks of the leaves. Despite his hat, his ears were tingling with cold. The sun remained hidden behind swirls of cloud, only occasionally peeping out to send a shaft of light through the bare winter woods.

  “Well done,” Marcus said, unloading his own burden of boughs. “That’s more than enough to decorate all of Wiltshire in greenery. And look what I found.”

  He pointed to a balled mass of foliage growing on one of the branches.

  “Your eyesight must be improving, to discover such a treasure,” Liam said. “Er, what is it?”

  Marcus clapped him on the back. “It’s mistletoe, my good man! Full of berries to steal a kiss with.”

  “Ah.” Liam knew of the tradition, of course, but to his recollection had never seen the plant, let alone put it to use.

  “Is that your only response?” Marcus grinned. “My vision is clear enough to see how you and my sister nearly smile at one another, before you both recall yourselves.”

  Liam coughed—not an entirely feigned response. “I do beg your pardon.”

  “I won’t forgive you.”

  “You won’t?” Liam looked closely at Marcus. “Please understand, I have no designs upon your sister.”

  It was a small lie, but really, he couldn’t confess to the man the growing warmth of feeling he had for Cecilia. No, it was not the done thing for a houseguest to suddenly fall in love with his host’s sister.

  His fingers closed hard around a sprig of holly, the thorned bite of it recalling him to his senses. In love? What an impossible notion.

  Marcus had stopped smiling. “I see. That’s a pity. Come, then—one more pile of boughs and we can return to the house.”

  They completed their task in silence, Liam turning over their conversation in his head like a handful of polished stones. Had Marcus been encouraging him, or simply trying to determine the lay of Liam’s affections? Or had Marcus been warning him off in some oblique manner that he was too thick-skulled to fathom? How did the gentry go about these things?

  Lord, he was thrice a fool. If he had any sense at all, he’d order his coach made ready and ride back to Tarrick Hall that very evening.

  But somehow he could not bear the notion of jostling away in his empty, cold vehicle; away from the warmth of Wilton House, away from the holiday he had, curiously, come to anticipate. Away from a particular set of stormy blue eyes that hid a vulnerability he understood all too well.

  Their return to the house was greeted with merry cries and the bustle of the servants bearing the greenery away. They would deck the hall later with swags of sweet-smelling boughs, and no doubt hang the kissing-ball of mistletoe someplace amusingly prominent. Perhaps at the center of the wide opening leading to the parlor.

  “Come in,” Cecilia said, her smile seeming to warm further as she turned it on him. “There’s mulled cider. You must be chilled.”

  He was, but it was nothin
g a simple cup of cider could cure. No, it was the bleakness of the rest of his life, a windswept plain spread out before him, that chilled him to the bone. He should never have come to Wiltshire. A man dying of frostbite does not want any excruciating thawing. Far better to freeze solid without interruptions along the way.

  Still, he let her lead him to the cozy parlor, took the cider and lifted it to his lips. Cecilia Fairfax should not suffer for this grim mood that had fallen upon him.

  As soon as he had drained his cup, he made her a stiff bow. “I must attend to some estate business in my rooms. I beg that you will excuse me until dinner.”

  “Oh.” The sparkle in her eyes dimmed, and he was sorry to be the cause. “Don’t let us keep you.”

  Marcus made a disagreeable noise from his slouched position on the settee, but said nothing. Feeling unaccountably weary, Liam headed for the shelter of a door he could close behind him.

  Four hours later, he emerged, a bit warmer in body, if not spirit, to find the hallway sifted in gray evening shadows. The maids had not yet lit the sconces on the wall.

  As he closed his door, movement caught the corner of his eye. A slight figure in skirts stood at the end of the hall. He turned, prepared to give the errant maid a congenial nod, but no one was there.

  Odd.

  Liam blinked. He might have mistaken a hanging drapery for a maid, in the dim light—except that there were no draperies in the vicinity. Ignoring the chill at the back of his neck, he strode down the hall.

  At the head of the stairs, he met a flushed maid carrying a candle. She bobbed him a quick curtsey and proceeded past him to light the sconces.

  “Lord Tarrick?” It was Cecilia’s voice. “Is that you? I was just coming to fetch you for supper.”

  “It is,” Liam said, descending to where his hostess waited at the foot of the stairs, her slender hand resting on the carved newel-post. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”