Halfway through the show, Thorne left his mother’s side and with some effort, managed to circle around the crowd and come alongside her. He took the sleeping baby from her and then held him effortlessly in his arms, high on his shoulder, as he watched the rest of the show with her from behind her seat. She knew he had orchestrated the footman to bring her a chair so he could assure her a seat without appearing impartial toward her. But she had been on her feet all day, and he was well aware of it. His thoughtful gesture meant so much to her.
Then later, he again stood behind her holding Jonathan in his arms while they watched the lanterns bobbing erratically down the hill. Few from the household ventured out to watch the parade of lights as it was now quite chilly, and almost all had seen it before, so it did not seem improper for him to huddle close to his son, and in so doing, share his body heat with her as well.
She could smell Christmas on him, the strong scent of pine overlaid with cloves, and the citrus from the lemon and orange slices that had floated in the spiced cider she had seen him drinking with the men. He had laughed robustly at the stories they told, and patted a few on their backs in unfashionable camaraderie. He was an uncommon earl, she thought. And it seemed everyone loved him.
“That was quite something,” she murmured over her shoulder when all but the last light had flickered out. “Everything was lovely, the whole day so enjoyable.”
“Yes, we enjoy this day very much and look forward to it all year. I thought this year it would not be so pleasant, but it has surprised me how well it all went.”
“It was a grand celebration.”
“Well,” he said, and she could feel his smile though she was still arching away from him, “it is not the Roman Saturnalia, but it is quite worthwhile.”
“I remember reading about that once. Wasn’t that usually held the second week in December?”
“Originally it was, then the festivities expanded until just before Christmas Eve. It began with a sacrifice in the Forum, a banquet for a very select gathering, gift-giving ceremonies, and then day and night partying for a week. There was revelry of all kinds: gambling, master and servant role reversals, challenges, games to determine bed partners, and wine unending.”
“So it was similar to tomorrow’s Boxing Day, with regard to the servants, the master serving the slave?”
“Yes. But the revelries were more of a carnival nature, everyone roamed the crowds and found a pastime they were suited to, if you get my meaning.”
She nodded. She had read about the sacrifice of suckling pigs and the continual celebrations that were Bacchus inspired. “It was the only time slaves and masters dined together. And often the roles were reversed. It must have been odd being a servant and having your master bow at your feet and serve your meal to you.”
“In that, it was very similar to being the Lord of Misrule during the medieval Feast of Fools. Did you know that it was also the only time of the year that a slave could speak freely without fear of punishment for his grievances?”
“I did not know that.”
“What would your grievance to me be if you could speak freely without fear or threat?”
“I have none. As masters go, you milord, are exemplary,” she said with a smile tossed over her shoulder.
He wanted to kiss her below her ear, where her skin was so pale and tender. He wanted to suckle her long, smooth neck. He wanted to clasp his arms around her tiny waist and pull her tight to his chest. He wanted her to hum with a raging desire as he now did.
“No, you don’t get away with that. As the King of Saturnalia, I demand you tell me the truth.”
She hesitated. “Well, you did turn down the boon of a kiss and instead told me to dispense with my mistletoe decorations so no one else would be entitled. And every time I stood under the mistletoe and tried to coerce you to do likewise, you pretended I was not even there.”
“And why do you think that was?”
“I think you did not want to kiss me.”
“I assure, that is not true.” His voice was gruff and so sincere she had no choice but to believe him. It thrilled her to hear him say it, and in such a deep, throaty way.
“Well, then why not now, there is no one about.”
“You may not see them, but they are about. Even now, I can feel my mother’s disdain boring through my shoulders from her bedroom window. And while the whole household is within, they are almost all looking out, studying our every move. Though I desire to kiss you, with every fiber in my being, I cannot. Our kisses must be private.”
“You can do as you like. The King of the Saturnalia rules all.”
“Yes, but after the Saturnalia, the King is no longer a King, but simply a lowly earl.”
She laughed. “Lowly? Milord, there is nothing lowborn about you.”
He laughed. “No, I suppose not.”
They watched the last lantern make the turn at the bottom of the hill and disappear behind the buildings where the corner met the stone gate.
“Come, let us get inside and get warmed by the fire.”
She turned to look up at his face and smiled. He took her gloved hand in his. “I may not be able to kiss you as I so earnestly desire, but I can hold your hand and walk you to your room. That they have seen me do, and have adjusted somewhat to.”
“I would like that. Thank you for such a stellar day. I think Jonathan enjoyed it too, although from the look of things, all the activity was quite wearing. He is sound asleep.”
“Well then, it’s to bed with you,” he said, and at the door, under the protection of the overhang, he smiled and blew her a kiss.
They were lighting the Yule log when they entered the house and after a few more carols everyone disbanded and made for their beds. Most had had more than their fair share of mulled cider or brandied eggnog and would have heads to show for it on the morrow.
She went to her room after the Yule log was burning brightly, shortly after midnight. She placed Jonathan in his bassinet and sighed at how sweet he looked. Then she made her way to her own bed. She had to acknowledge that the day had been perfect. Except for the mistletoe. He had seen through to her ploy and called her on it. And he had said it was not because he did not want to kiss her that he hadn’t. She knew from earlier in the day that he did not want anyone else to kiss her either. It was curious. It was possessive. It was frustrating.
Chapter Eighteen
The next day was Boxing Day so there was no staff to serve the earl and his family. Of course, she herself was considered staff—but she could not possibly take the day off from her duties involving Jonathan. Everyone else was with family or visiting friends so she was alone for most of the day while the earl spent time with his mother.
They passed Jonathan back and forth as the baby’s grandmother wanted to spend some time with Jonathan, but she was not of a mind to actually tend to him when he was wet or fussy, or drooling. Which he seemed to be doing a lot lately.
Catherine took a nap to recover from the events of the day before and then took a leisurely bath after a footman knocked on her door and offered to bring her buckets of hot water.
Cook had left huge pots warming on the hod and Jaime had insisted on returning in the late afternoon to haul water for her. He knew she enjoyed a bath late in the day while Jonathan slept. She could not persuade him to enjoy his leisure time. He said he’d had as long a visit with his family as he cared to and was chaffing to get back to work.
When the earl had seen Jaime carrying steaming buckets to Catherine’s chambers, he had joined him in his efforts and the two of them had made short work of hauling and dumping eight buckets into the bright copper tub. Catherine suspected the earl had offered to help so he could make sure his footman didn’t tarry. He never seemed to like it when a footman was alone in a room with her.
When the earl brought
Jonathan back from his last trip to his mother’s rooms, he pulled Catherine up from the settee she had been sitting on, to lead her to their dining area. He and Jaime had managed to scrounge enough food that didn’t require cooking to set a substantial table for them.
With Jonathan happily nursing, she and the earl ate from cold plates of ham, cheese, bread and fruit. Then followed that with leftover custard tarts and gingerbread. It was a wonderful dinner and she was thrilled with his attentiveness.
“So, have you recovered from the Christmas madness?” he asked.
“I have. And thank you for the basket I found in my room last night. It had a few items in it that I don’t remember being in any of the other baskets I helped to pack.”
When she had finally made it to her room late last night, she had found a basket similar to the ones she had helped make, only hers had included cards games, writing tablets, several combs for her hair, some perfume, a change purse with five pounds tucked inside, and a notecard saying how happy the household was with her service. It was signed by the earl in a flourished hand. “Was this private gifting . . . another aspect of the Roman Saturnalia?”
“Actually, yes. Modern day gift giving, the sending of greeting cards, even the gingerbread men we make today are all traditions begun in ancient Rome around the time of the Roman Saturnalias.”
“For an estate dedicated to dairy and orchard products I was surprised that the baskets you sent out did not include some of your delicious apples or sweet creamery butter, or even your local fair winner, the Sefton apple butter.”
“Well that would not have been much of a gift now, would it?”
She frowned. “I do not understand.”
“It has long been an accepted practice that anyone needing a dairy product or produce of any kind, needed only to see the estate manager and it would be given them.”
“For free?”
“Of course. We have ample. We cannot use all that we produce, so we share any surplus we have. Fortunately, we are blessed with both healthy livestock and bountiful harvests, so we have always had a surplus.”
“That is so generous.”
“It is my job as the earl to provide what I can for our community.”
“You are an exemplary earl. So, it was a good holiday for you, as well?” she asked.
“Yes. Better than I would have thought possible in early November. Oh, I almost forgot, I have something for you.” He brought a small box forward from the inside pocket of his day coat.
“Another present?”
“It’s nothing of any consequence really. Just something I wanted you to have.”
She took the small box from him and turned it over in her hand. It was quite light. She wondered what it could be.
“Open it,” he prompted.
She propped Jonathan back against her chest and wrapped her arms around his waist securely so she could use both hands. She opened the white cardstock box and unwrapped the gold tissue she found inside.
Settled on a bed of white velvet was a perfect sprig of mistletoe. The little green berries were hard marbles of jade; the branches were woven gold wires connecting tiny filigreed leaves to dainty stems. There was a folded notecard inside. She picked it up and recognized his precise hand.
Mistletoe never gets to be kissed by anything other than the elements and the rough bark of the tree that harbors it. It surely must be a celebration when it is finally released to go free. Seeing it above us encourages us to kiss . . . to simply enjoy touching.
She looked up at him and arched a brow in confusion.
He pulled a nearly identical piece from his outer pocket, only this one was real. “I shot it down early this morning and sent it to the crafter in the village. He was able to copy it perfectly.”
She arched him a look, “But why?”
“I wanted you to have mistletoe all year. You deserve to be kissed each day.”
“It didn’t work that way on Christmas,” she reminded him.
“There were too many people around. And I was fairly certain that had I shored up the courage to kiss you, I would not have been able to stop with just one.”
She felt her blood warm and her heart run apace. She took the tiny bit of mistletoe out of its box and held it above her head. He grinned broadly and leaned over to kiss her, and just as he did, the door opened and his mother entered the room.
“What is she doing here?” she asked with acid tones, her piercing gaze settling on Catherine. Catherine had managed to pull her arm down in such a way that it appeared she was simply adjusting her hair.
Thorne jumped back. Then stood so abruptly his chair tottered in place. He gaped at his mother then quickly clamped his lips tight. “I thought you and Mrs. Whimplewhite were dining ensuite tonight?”
“I sent her down to the kitchens for some of those delicious mince pies and she saw that you had prepared a table. I thought I had mistaken you earlier and that you did mean for me to dine with you. So I dressed for dinner and came down.”
“I am sorry mother. I had intended to dine with Catherine and Jonathan tonight.”
“I can see that.” Her tone was icy and she had that angry eyebrow look her aunt used to throw in her direction when she thought she had overstepped her welcome, or lied about saying her daily prayers.
Catherine stood with Jonathan in her arms. “I was just leaving, it is time to bathe Jonathan and prepare him for bed.” She managed to get the mistletoe pin back into its box and now gripped the box with the earl’s gift in it in her hand. She shifted it between her body and Jonathan’s as she fussed with his blanket, arranging it around them both. She had not fully buttoned herself in and did not want his mother to see that she was still partially undressed after having fed Jonathan.
“We’ll see everyone in the morning. Enjoy your dinner,” Catherine called over her shoulder, giving the earl a tentative smile.
In the event Catherine thought she had plans for her son later in the evening, the earl’s mother doomed them. “Thorne, I thought you and I could play some Rummy and then perhaps look through some of the picture books my friend Jane sent me. There are some fabulous pictures of gardens of the world, and the ones in Tuscany are particularly intriguing. I was wondering if perhaps we shouldn’t plan a trip there to see them in person this spring.”
“I am game for cards, Mother. I am not game for a world tour. I have already told you, I have electricity coming to the house this spring.”
“Annaliese would have loved looking at these gardens, it is a shame she is no longer with us, she would have gone with me to see them.”
“Yes mother, it is a shame she is no longer with us. More so for her son than for your grand garden excursions. Come have a seat, I will fix a plate for you.”
“Such a good son,” she murmured. “So responsible. So reliable.”
“Mother. Don’t start. It’s been a fine day. Let’s leave it that way.”
Chapter Nineteen
A pattern began. In the early mornings, just as the household was beginning to advance the day, they breakfasted. He pretended to read his paper while surreptiously keeping an eye on the mirror opposite her. She fussed over Jonathan, cooing and telling him what a handsome, sweet lad he was while taking brief glances at the man, who in passion-laced dreams, robbed her of sleep at night almost as much as Jonathan did.
In the late morning or early afternoon, they walked when it was mild and sunny. Often he found a reason to reach for her hand, to either help her over a puddle or navigate around a wayward branch. He used the opportunity to run his thumb over her palm, to stroke the fine, soft skin along her wrists, or to simply grip her hand tight and keep it warm in his. At intervals, when he paused to admire his son, he bent and kissed him lightly on the temple and then lingered to absorb her scent deep into his lungs. Once, he even purposely
misguided a kiss and his lips grazed along her neck sending a shiver through them both.
At first, they took turns holding the baby when walking, then when the perambulator came, they took turns pushing it. Soon the household adjusted and footmen could be seen carrying the buggy down the stairs on sunny mornings in preparation for the long walks in the afternoon. Most days, they took two turns around the garden. Occasionally, on really nice days, there would be three, as the earl and Catherine always seemed to have so much to tell each other.
He loved to talk about his light bulb factory and the progress they were making getting electricity to the manor, the extensive work that was being done in stages to prepare the house, and his exciting plans to travel come springtime.
He told her about Heinrich Göebel, a precision mechanic and inventor from Germany, credited with perfecting the light bulb. Göebel had actually had it working in 1854. Had even tried to sell it to Thomas Edison, but Edison had simply scoffed and dismissed it as impractical and a trivial thing.
She loved to talk about Jonathan, relaying every sweet little thing he did, bragging on his strength, talking about how he was growing and all the things he was learning to do, asking if it was proper for the son of an earl to have little ducks embroidered on his gowns, and laughing when Thorne said, “God no!”
Everyone in the household bit their tongue at the impropriety of the earl walking with his son’s nursemaid, but soon, after seeing them together, so happily engaged in conversation with each other, their interaction became so commonplace that no one even chaffed upon hearing him refer to her as Catherine—although the first time they had heard her refer to him as Thorne, they had all gasped. Finally, it became customary for them to address each other by their Christian names and soon no one bothered to raise an eyebrow over it. The earl adopted the habit of cutting a derisive look if someone even dared to suggest by look or mannerism that anything was not as it seemed between them. To those who had been around when the earl and his lady had first become husband and wife so many years ago, it was reminiscent of happier times. Most were pleased to see the earl smiling throughout his day. Unfortunately, one person clearly was not. But the earl made it a point to ignore his mother’s veiled hints regarding the improprieties he was taking with his wet nurse.
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