by Diane Farr
Jack rolled his eyes. “Don’t feign innocence, cousin. You stole my favorite foot warmer last night.”
Celia folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes darted to the closed doors on either side of the breakfast room. She looked almost afraid of him. When she spoke, she enunciated her words slowly and adopted a soothing tone. “I think you may have imagined something, cousin. Something that didn’t really happen.” She leaned forward, urgency and compassion written all over her face. “Think back, and I feel sure your recollection will clear. I stole nothing from you last night. Do you remember now?”
Jack stared at her in the liveliest astonishment. She seemed to be reacting very strangely to his jocular reference to the cat.
“I remember perfectly, thank you. You stole a foot warmer from me. A certain fat, furry foot warmer whose habit it has always been to sleep at the end of my bed.”
Celia blushed crimson. “Oh! Oh, dear. You mean—you mean Manegold? I—I quite forgot he was your cat.”
“Humph! He seems to have forgotten it, too.”
She glanced apprehensively at him. “You aren’t really offended, are you? I do beg your pardon. It’s just—” She bit her lip, and stared back down at her plate. “While you were gone, you know, no one seemed to pay him any heed. No one in the family, I mean. Munsil did, a bit, and I’ve seen the housekeeper give him tidbits and talk to him from time to time, but—well, he’s such a friendly cat, isn’t he? It seemed to me that he wanted a little attention.”
A slow smile crept across Jack’s face. Manegold was not, in fact, a friendly cat. To a chosen few, he was almost oppressively affectionate; to everyone else, he was completely indifferent. “So you took pity on his loneliness, and comforted him.”
Celia lifted her eyes anxiously to his. When she saw that he was neither scolding her nor laughing at her, a shy smile lit her features. “Yes, that’s right. At least, I hope I did.”
It was all too clear that the shoe was at least partially on the other foot. Manegold had comforted Celia’s loneliness. Good for you, Manegold, Jack thought approvingly.
What was there about this girl that moved him so? She aroused his chivalry, he supposed. She seemed so alone, and her eyes were so sad. He wished he could reach across the table and hug her. Instead, he tossed his napkin down and rose from the table.
“Come on,” he said. “Since you’ve robbed me of my best friend, you owe me a replacement, don’t you think? You must keep me company while I try to infuse a little Christmas spirit into this cold heap of limestone.”
Her quiet little face suddenly lit with the first expression of genuine pleasure he had seen in her. She even clapped her hands. “Oh, do you mean it?” she cried. “I thought no one cared for Christmas here.”
He grinned. “I do,” he said simply, and held the door for her. “I say, are you sure you’re a Delacourt? I never met a Delacourt quite like you.”
She paused on the threshold and looked up at him. Her smile was actually saucy. “I might say the same about you.” Then a shadow seemed to cross her features and she shrank back a little, eyeing his neckcloth.
“What is it? I’m really not ill,” he assured her.
What the deuce—? Was that pity he saw in her eyes? Whatever it was, her fear seemed to recede. She laid a gentle hand on his sleeve. “Ill or well, I think I shall be safe enough with you,” she murmured.
He was still puzzling over that remark when they met, by agreement, in one of the back porticos some twenty minutes later. Jack had decided to abandon oddity for the time being. To hell with acting the fool. It was tiring, and he couldn’t remember to keep it up. Hang it all, he liked Celia. Whatever she was, at least she didn’t seem the formidable type. He couldn’t imagine her bullying, coercing, or intimidating a man into making her an offer of marriage. He still wasn’t sure what she was doing, ensconced in Delacourt and basking in his mother’s favor, but he meant to get to the bottom of the mystery before making up his mind what to do about it.
He had discarded Will’s cravat and tied his own—a much simpler affair, but it was invisible anyway beneath the muffler he had wrapped round his throat. He had also donned an overcoat, sturdy boots, and a hat and gloves suitable for a December outing in the woods. He was strapping a handsaw to an ancient sledge when Celia joined him. He looked up to greet her, then froze in surprise.
She was wearing colors. He had been right; mourning did not flatter her. Now she was buttoned into a thick, hooded pelisse in a rusty, orangey shade that seemed to warm up her complexion and bring out the highlights in her hair. A few tendrils were escaping from her hood and curling softly round her face in proof of this fact. Her hands were buried in a muff made of some sort of blond fur that further lightened her appearance.
She blushed when she realized he was staring at her, and looked a little anxious. “It’s my warmest pelisse. I’m afraid I have nothing suitable in black—” she began, but he cut her off with a wave.
“You look very pretty,” he said firmly. “And it’s Christmastime. In honor of the season, I believe there is nothing wrong with wearing colors for an hour or two.”
The shy smile flitted across her face again. “And no one else will see me, I daresay. Thank you, cousin John.”
“My friends call me Jack.”
Her smile brightened. “Jack,” she repeated. “And you may call me Celia.”
“I mean to,” he assured her, grinning. “I’m a shockingly informal person, you know.”
“I like it,” she said happily, and almost danced out the door and toward the sparkling fields of snow. He followed, his smile widening into a rather besotted grin. What a dear little thing she was, he thought. It was impossible to keep one’s guard up in the face of so much sweetness.
The cold snow crunched underfoot, but the sun was deceptively warm to two persons bundled up as they were. Jack was glad when they reached the edge of the wood, where a decidedly chilly temperature greeted them.
“Oh, this is delightful!” exclaimed Celia, sniffing the spicy, pine-scented air. She spread her arms wide in exultation. “Fancy owning your very own woods!”
Jack, who had owned his very own woods since the day he was born, blandly agreed. “The only ivy I know of at Delacourt is ornamental, and attached to the gatekeeper’s house, so perhaps we’d better confine ourselves to evergreen boughs,” he told her, looking about for a likely stand of trees.
“What about holly?” she asked eagerly. “Have you any holly? Or hawthorn? You must have hawthorn.”
“Hawthorn is far too commonplace,” said Jack firmly. “Let’s hold out for holly.”
“Very well,” she said gaily, then paused, frowning in concentration. “What day is today?”
“It’s Wednesday. The twenty-third.”
Her face fell. “Must we wait until tomorrow then, before hanging the green? Perhaps we shouldn’t gather anything until tomorrow.”
He had to bite back a laugh. She looked as disappointed as a child. “Rubbish,” he said firmly. “We’ll hang it whenever we please. Besides, I daresay it will rain this afternoon and ruin the snow. And if it doesn’t rain, the sun will do the job. Tomorrow will be a muddy mess. Come on!”
They tramped through the wood for over an hour, ostensibly hunting for holly but mostly ending up with evergreen boughs, and chatting as comfortably as if they were old friends. Celia reminded him of a houseplant starved for sunshine, suddenly set outdoors on a bright morning. One could almost see tiny leaves unfurling and reaching for the sky. She became effusive in her eager chatter, taking in deep gulps of the fresh, cold air and exclaiming over the beauty of the day, the wood, the snow, the landscape. She behaved, in fact, like a caged thing unexpectedly set free.
Celia’s enjoyment was contagious. The sledge, however, grew heavier and heavier as they piled greenery atop it, and he was dragging it for the most part over bare ground beneath the trees, rather than snow. He eventually was forced to stop and remove his muffler. Celia ran lightly on ahead. H
e heard her quick footfalls halt at the top of the rise and her lilting voice cry out, for the dozenth time, “Oh, Jack! Jack! Come and see!”
He grinned. He knew what had excited her admiration this time. He left the sledge at the bottom of the hill and trudged up to join her. She stood, entranced, where the wood suddenly cleared at the top of the rise. A vista had opened up at her feet. From this spot, one could see for miles. The palace, which was still behind them and to their left, was not visible. Below them lay acres of open space dotted with stands of trees, a meandering stream rippling over rocks, a magnificent lake—complete with a sculptured stone bridge that led to a small island in its center, and then arched beyond it to the opposite shore—and, in the distance, the sleepy village. It was considered by all the guidebooks to be one of the loveliest views in England. The air was very clear today, and the pristine snow added to the beauty of the scene.
Jack had loved this overlook as a boy. Later in life, he had realized that there was little about it that was natural. That knowledge had somehow taken the edge off his appetite for the spot. A famous landscape artist had carefully created this magnificent view, wrestling with God until His stubborn earth surrendered and displayed the artist’s genius rather than the Creator’s. Last night’s snowfall helped to mask the heavy hand of the landscape artist, wiping out the geometric pathways that, to Jack, marred its perfection even as they enabled one to get about and enjoy it. The snow also concealed the fact that the open spaces were, for the most part, beautifully-manicured lawn rather than natural meadow.
Celia appeared spellbound. “I have never seen anything prettier,” she said softly, gazing reverently over the valley.
Jack smiled. “Nor have I,” he said, but he was looking at Celia. She stood beside him, her eyes wide with awe, her cheeks rosy with cold and exercise, and her glossy brown curls softly blowing round her face. It was a pleasure to see her deep delight. Some of Jack’s love for the place returned as he witnessed Celia’s heartfelt enthusiasm.
“Let’s sit and look at it for a bit,” he suggested, dusting the snow off the handy log the landscape artist had placed there for this purpose.
Celia’s eyes lit with pleased surprise. “Oh, how perfect!” she exclaimed, without a hint of irony. She seated herself on the smooth, level surface Jack’s dusting revealed and peered rather anxiously up at him. “I hope you are not growing tired?”
“Not in the least,” he assured her. He sat beside her, but turned so he could watch her face. It was more entertaining to watch her ever-changing face than gaze at the view.
She seemed relieved. “I shouldn’t like to be blamed for—that is, I don’t wish to tire you excessively. I daresay it isn’t good for you.”
He laughed out loud. “What a poor creature you must think me! I know you have lived in the country all your life, and I know that country folk have a low opinion of anyone who chooses to live in London, but I assure you I am not a complete pudding-heart.”
“Oh, no! On the contrary, I think it’s very brave of you to live in London. Frightfully brave.” She bit her lip and looked shyly down at her hands, nervously pleating a fold of her pelisse. “Do you—do you choose to live in London, then? I don’t mean to pry, but—well—it seems rather extraordinary, to me. Surely you don’t—you can’t—live entirely alone?”
He grinned and stretched his legs out before him, crossing them casually at the ankles. “Not entirely,” he admitted. “I have my man Hadley, you know, to look after me. He’s very good indeed. Rules me with an iron fist, of course. But, on the whole, I consider that a fortunate thing, so I generally submit without a fight.”
“Ah,” she said quickly, with a swift, compassionate glance up at Jack. “I think I understand. But—you like this man, this Hadley?”
Jack laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t change him for the world! I pay him a shocking wage, in fact, for fear he’d go off and find an easier job! There are any number of chaps who’d be glad to take him off my hands and give him a soft life. But he’s a loyal sort.”
“Really? That’s good. He is not here with you now, however, is he?”
“No. Looking after me is pretty hard work, you know, and poor Hadley had been at it for many months without a holiday. So I sent him home for a bit of a rest before the New Year.”
Jack’s tone was jocular, but Celia only nodded absently. “I suppose that’s best,” she said, “but it does seem a pity that you can’t have a little more help while you are home for the holidays. Forgive me, but it seems to me that you need it.” Her gaze had traveled to his neckcloth. She appeared thoughtful.
He remembered, then, that the removal of his muffler had revealed his cravat. The last time she had seen his neck, it had been swathed in Will Munsil’s badly botched Mailcoach. Or whatever that was. No wonder she thought he needed his valet. He touched the retied cravat self-consciously and cleared his throat. “Oh. That. My—er—eccentricities. I daresay you may have been wondering—” he began, feeling a bit sheepish, but to his surprise, she immediately held up her palm in a gesture of silence.
Her expressive eyes turned up to his, hot with indignation. “You needn’t tell me, for I have guessed the truth,” she assured him passionately. “It’s your family, isn’t it? They make you—nervous.”
He blinked. “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite that way. I suppose they do bring out the worst in me. Unfortunately.”
“I knew it!” she exclaimed. Her small fists balled in her lap. “You are a completely different person when they are nowhere about. Oh, it is wicked! Positively wicked!”
He winced. “I’m sorry, Celia. It hasn’t been fair to you, has it? But you must understand—”
“I do understand,” she interrupted. “I understand perfectly. I ought to have seen at once how it was, because I knew you lived in London. And now you tell me you live alone, with only one man to look after you! Well! How could that be, unless you felt better there? And why would you feel better there, rather than living quietly in the country? It can only be because your family is not there to torment and worry you.”
He eyed her doubtfully, suddenly no longer sure he understood her anger. It did not seem to be directed at him, after all—and her words made little sense. But something had put her in a rare taking. Every muscle in her body appeared tense, and she was suddenly blinking back tears. She looked fiercely back at the view, although it was clear her eyes no longer saw it, and gave a defiant sniff.
“I have felt it, myself, ever since I arrived,” she told him. “It has been a blessing, more than anyone can know, for me to be away from home at this time. To be anywhere else. And, even so, this house—the people in it—your family—I tell you truly, sometimes they are almost too much to bear! And if they oppress my spirits, how much more must they affect a—a sensitive person? For you must know, my spirits are not easily oppressed. I have always been excessively strong-minded.”
“Have you?” said Jack—at a loss, but feeling something was expected of him.
She nodded. “Strong-mindedness is my greatest failing,” she confessed. “It is a terrible fault in a female. Although, to speak truth, I have been glad of my strong-mindedness lately.”
In the natural way of one who is consumed with grief, her thoughts had irresistibly veered from the topic at hand to the topic that gnawed endlessly at the edges of her mind. Her features twisted in the unmistakable expression of someone who is struggling to hold back tears.
Jack thought he had never seen anyone look less strong-minded than Celia Delacourt. Fragile described her more accurately. But he did not say so. Instead, he silently located his handkerchief and handed it to her. Her gloved fingers clutched it spasmodically, seeming hardly to know what it was. She still stared blindly out at the snow-softened valley.
“Tell me what happened,” he said quietly.
Chapter 9
“Tell me what happened,” he said quietly, and Celia felt her carefully-built defenses crumbling. Panicked by her impending loss of co
ntrol, she struggled a moment more to resist his kindness. Kindness is worse than anything, she thought despairingly. I wish he would say something silly or mean. I wish he would turn this into a joke. But he did not. He sat and looked at her, gravely and compassionately, and with a perfect semblance of sanity. And Celia discovered, wretchedly, that even a calamity too deep for tears expressed itself somehow, anyhow, in tears.
Misery crashed down on her like a blow. Had she been standing, she would have staggered and fallen. As it was, she simply clutched herself and gasped, sobbing uncontrollably. His arms must have gone round her then. She was dimly aware of warmth, and rough wool against her cheek.
It didn’t matter that she was being comforted by a virtual stranger. It didn’t matter that she was making a disgraceful spectacle of herself. She simply could not help it. She clutched Jack like a lifeline in the darkness, and wept, and wept, and wept. Once she started crying, she couldn’t seem to stop. Her breath came in great, hitching gasps. She shook like a frightened puppy. She buried her face in Jack’s coat, ashamed to the core of her being, but completely unable to stop.
He held her, and rocked her, and murmured to her for a very long time. It was only when she noticed that his soothing murmurs were interspersed with curses that she was able to push away from him and bury her face in her hands. “Why—why—why are you sw-swearing?” she gulped, her teeth chattering as she regained a little control.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice sounding strained. “I made a rather colossal error, didn’t I? I hoped it might make you feel better to talk about it. I was obviously wrong.”
She could not look at him. She held her head, which now ached fiercely, and rested her elbows on her knees. She concentrated on breathing. In. Out.
Dear saints in heaven, she had just wept all down the front of a madman. She wondered wearily if every madman was as kind as this one. If Jack was an example of what she might find in Bedlam, she would gladly exchange life in a ducal palace for a home amongst the lunatics.