by Diane Farr
“You must learn French, of course,” ordered the duchess, white-lipped. She pressed her hand to her side, and then to her forehead for a moment. “I cannot teach you. It is too much,” she said, in a querulous tone. Her voice still sounded breathless and faint. “I shall hire someone.”
Celia’s puzzled frown vanished. “But this is nonsensical!” she exclaimed, distracted by her own sparking anger. “I have no interest in improving my French. Am I to learn a new language merely to enable me to correct a menu? For heaven’s sake, madam, if I am ever in a position to hire servants, I shall simply hire servants who speak English.”
The duchess glared balefully at her. “All the best chefs are French.”
“Then I shall make do with the second best! Really, dear ma’am, this is absurd.”
At this, Her Grace’s eyes flashed fire. “You will not hire second-best servants for Delacourt!”
“No, indeed. I shall not hire servants of any sort for Delacourt.”
“Why do you persist in defying me? Do not argue with me any longer! I am teaching you how to become worthy of this place, you ungrateful little ninnyhammer!”
Celia felt her fingers curling into fists. She hid her hands in the folds of her skirt and squeezed them tight, trying to vent a little of the steam she felt rising in her. Still, her voice was a little unsteady when she spoke. “Aunt Gladys, you are trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. It can’t be done.”
The duchess’s smile was unpleasant. She pressed her hand against her abdomen again, almost as if Celia’s words were making her ill. “I own, I have been suffering second thoughts of late. I have recently been wishing you were a little more biddable, and a little less obstreperous! But I never leave a project half-done. Come! We are wasting valuable time.”
“We are, indeed,” said Celia evenly. “Let us waste no more. I have changed my mind, Your Grace. I will not acquiesce in this scheme of yours to bully poor Jack into marrying me.”
The duchess’s brows snapped together. She seemed almost to be struggling for breath. “What—did you—just say—to me?” she asked, in a ghastly voice.
Celia felt her knees begin to tremble beneath her. She clutched the back of a nearby chair for support, and forced herself to speak calmly. “I believe you heard me, madam. I will not help you. I will not help you do this terrible thing.”
In the painful silence that followed Celia’s announcement, color slowly returned to the duchess’s face. She rose from her place on the sofa and towered over Celia like a vengeful goddess.
“I begin to believe it is a terrible thing,” she said, in a voice of angry amazement. “How dare you challenge me? How dare you defy my will? How dare you accuse me of bullying my son? He is a man grown!”
“Yes, he is,” flashed Celia, standing her ground. “No thanks to you, I fear! You have made him unwell with your browbeating and your ill-humor—why, you may have even created the very malady that causes you to despise him! But it is you who are despicable, not Jack! You are at fault, madam—you are grievously at fault.”
Celia found it necessary to dash the tears from her eyes with a shaking hand. The duchess was staring at her, wrath and incredulity writ large across her face, but Celia plunged on, her voice growing stronger as her conviction grew.
“And now you seek to use me—to dominate and control me, and then marry me to your unfortunate son, so that you might achieve final mastery over us both! You believe he is unworthy of any higher marriage, do you not? You would not have chosen me for him otherwise. You think him incapable of securing the affections of a rational woman! It is unjust. You underestimate him. He is as kind-hearted as he is handsome, and there is not a woman in the world who would not give—” she broke off, her voice wholly suspended in tears, and gave a defiant sniff. “In short, you do him a grave disservice, ma’am, in trying to match him with me! There is no reason why he should not marry as high as even you could wish.”
“You little fool!” snapped Her Grace. “Of course he is capable of marrying well. It is through his own choice that he has not! But you—I confess, I do not understand you! Had I glimpsed this side of your character beforehand, I would never have brought you here. You are impertinent—willful—unmannerly—I have been grossly deceived in you! But my eyes have been opened this day. You are nothing but a bumpkin, incapable of rising to the heights I had planned for you.”
Celia was too angry to consider before she spoke. “I am not incapable, ma’am! I am unwilling. I shall not do your bidding. I shall not.”
For half a heartbeat, Celia was certain that the duchess would slap her. She even braced herself for the blow, but it did not come. Her Grace regained control over herself, although a murderous fury, terrible to behold, still burned in her ice-blue eyes. “Very well,” said Her Grace, in a clipped, toneless voice.
She walked, with graceful movements, to her escritoire and sat, picking up a pen. “I am withdrawing my support, Celia. You need come to me no longer. I will teach you nothing more. I no longer desire you to marry my son. In fact, I will do my possible to prevent it. You will never marry a man of rank.” Her voice quivered with contempt. “Some ignorant hayseed will be good enough for you.”
She dipped her pen briskly in the ink and began to write, still speaking. “Christmas is upon us now, so your departure must be postponed until after the New Year. But go you shall. I will not have you in my house. It pains me to look at you.”
Despite Celia’s anger, the duchess’s words hurt. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said stiffly.
The duchess looked up from her task. Her face was utterly calm. It was chilling to see her indifference after the terrible row they had just had, and the ugly words she had just said. Celia could scarcely believe the evidence of her eyes. It was incredible that such violent emotions could be quelled so quickly.
But perhaps they could not. Her Grace’s smile was eerily bland, her voice pleasant and gentle, but what she said was: “Get out of my sight.”
Celia fled, almost running down the passage to her chamber. When she arrived, however, she found housemaids busily tidying it. No sanctuary there. She stayed only long enough to don a hooded pelisse, then snatched up a pair of warm gloves and headed for the back of the palace, down the marble stairs, and out the nearest door. It happened to lead to the water garden. She took a deep draught of the fresh, cold air, and expelled it in a quivering sigh. She then closed her eyes and leaned for a moment against the limestone lintel, waiting for the hammering of her heart to subside.
She would have to leave Delacourt, the duchess had said. Fear licked through her at the thought. It was disgraceful for that wicked woman to tell her this was going to be her home, and then renege on the promise—but, after all, Celia reminded herself, she had meant to leave anyway. It was just that she had not yet thought of anywhere she could go. It was all very well to tell herself how glad she would be to live with the Hinshaws, but the Hinshaws had not offered. In fact, it was Dr. Hinshaw who had written to the Duchess of Arnsford and begged her to take Celia away. That was hardly a good omen.
And Celia had formed the intention of leaving before she had come to know Jack. Knowing Jack had altered everything.
Celia opened her eyes and looked forlornly out across the water garden. All the fountains had been turned off for the winter. They looked strange and sad with their bubbling and motion stilled, the stone women holding jars from which nothing poured, the stone dolphins leaping through empty space instead of spray. All those naked cherubs standing in puddles of ice made one shiver in sympathy. She had been looking forward to seeing it in spring, when it would come alive, but it appeared now that she never would. She would doubtless never see Delacourt again once she had left it. Her grandfather had not, after he left—and he had been born here, had grown up here, and had had every right to call it home.
She walked down to the terrace of fountains and looked over the view it gave of the wood and the lake. The snow had, for the most part, melted and h
er boots crunched on muddy ice wherever the path was shaded. The stark beauty of the wintry landscape looked bleak to her now. Clouds were moving in, and a stinging wind made her eyes water. It was a fit counterpoint to her mood.
If she weren’t careful, she would slip into maudlin self-pity. That would never do. Celia deliberately stiffened her spine, lifted her chin, and turned to walk back toward the palace. She must be strong, she told herself. For her own sake, but also for Jack’s.
She was determined to help him. Whatever strange affliction burdened him, he was not past help. She was sure of it. Why, he appeared perfectly normal more often than not—at least when he was around Celia. She rather fancied herself a good influence on him.
What would happen to Jack when Her Grace sent Celia away? Would he suffer a relapse? The idea made her smack her fist into her palm in angry frustration. There was something about Jack, poor man, that made her feel fiercely protective. It seemed there was little she could do for him, but whatever she could do, she would.
Anger gnawed at her as she considered the depth of the duchess’s betrayal. How could she hold her wonderful son in such contempt? How could she treat him so? Celia could scarcely credit that any woman, let alone his own mother, could believe Jack Delacourt incapable of forming an alliance suitable to his rank. Jack, of all people! It was staggering. Why, he was the most attractive man Celia had ever met. There were women who would marry a man of his rank and fortune were he ugly, or stupid, or cruel—or all three! Jack was none of these things. And yet his mother had been ready to shackle him to a girl whose only claim to nobility was her surname.
Celia could only suppose that she had not seen the worst of his illness. There must have been some outburst in the past, some frightful exhibition that had convinced Her Grace that Jack was unfit for the marriage mart. This was a depressing thought. And yet, Celia reminded herself, whatever attack Jack may have suffered might have been brought on by nothing more than Her Grace’s malevolent influence. In fact, to Celia this seemed not only possible, but probable.
The thought only strengthened her resolve to rescue Jack if she could. Although it was hard to think how she might exchange the evil influence of his family for her own beneficial influence. Short of marrying him, that is.
By this time, she had reached the door again. As she dutifully scraped her muddy shoes against the decorative piece of wrought iron placed there for the purpose, she could not help feeling a little wistful. What a pity it was that the duchess had changed her mind about matching her with Jack. But this was a dangerous path, and Celia turned her thoughts hastily from it. She would stand Jack’s friend, she told herself firmly. And it was not the part of a friend to join with the duchess in pushing Jack down a road he did not wish to travel. No matter how tempting that road might appear to Celia.
As she let herself sadly into the house, Jack himself appeared on the stairs above. “Hallo, I’ve found you at last!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together boyishly.
Celia smiled, her heart lifting at the very sight of him. “Were you looking for me?”
“Everyone’s looking for you,” he assured her. His eyes took in her pelisse and rosy cheeks, and he glanced in surprise at the doorway she was closing behind her. “Have you been wandering round the water garden in mid-winter?” he asked, shaking his head as if baffled. “And you say I’m mad!”
“I wanted fresh air. Why is everyone looking for me?”
A triumphant grin rendered his features even more handsome than usual. He pulled a sprig of holly out from behind his back with the flourish of a conjurer. “Time to deck the halls! Or, rather, hall. I’m afraid we only brought in enough greenery to adorn a fraction of the place—but then, we wanted to leave a portion of the wood still standing. Come, come! Don you now your gay apparel, and let’s get on with it.”
Celia’s eyes brightened as she took the proffered holly sprig. “Oh, thank you for waiting for me! I shall only be a moment.”
She almost danced up the stairs to her chamber, unbuttoning her pelisse as she went. She had soon tossed it unceremoniously aside, together with the stout gloves and wet shoes, and changed into a soft round gown of fine black wool. As she tied the ribbons of her dainty black slippers, she wished, for the second time in as many days, that she could set aside mourning and appear attractive.
She bit her lip. Did Christmas gave her sufficient excuse to modify her dress? It did, she decided defiantly. She picked up Jack’s holly sprig and fastened it in her newly-brushed hair. The glossy green leaves and fat red berries seemed to glow against her curls. Blushing for her vanity, yet feeling happier nevertheless, she hurried toward the stairs.
Christmas was working an especially strong magic this year, she reflected. The bleak despair she had felt half an hour ago had vanished with remarkable speed—almost the instant Jack invited her to deck the halls. During the past day or two she had become increasingly aware of a tug of poignant happiness in her heart, a sudden desire to look pretty again, and a strange inability to stay sad for very long.
Yes, it was all because of Christmas, she told herself firmly. It had nothing to do with Jack.
Chapter
Jack heard the patter of quick feet behind him and turned to see Celia running lightly down the stairs. The sight of her made him smile. She looked rosy and excited and absurdly youthful—and she had fixed his holly sprig in her hair. For some reason, that pleased him enormously.
She paused while still on the stairs, her eyes traveling round the hall below her, and then treated Jack to a sound he had not heard from her before: merriment. Her laughter suddenly rang out like the pealing of mirthful bells. It was extremely infectious, and Jack could not help grinning.
“What is it?”
Celia waved her arm to indicate the hall. “I just—I just never saw anything quite like it,” she blurted, laughing again.
He looked around, mystified, as she came down to join him. “I see nothing amiss.”
“Jack, they have washed the greenery!”
They had, in fact, done more than that. The servants had removed from the sledge all the branches and sprigs he and Celia had gathered yesterday, washed them, trimmed them, and carried them into the hall. The greenery had then been sorted by species and arranged in tidy stacks. No brown edges, bark dust, globs of sap, or straggling ends marred their perfection. Had it not been for the piney fragrance filling the hall, anyone seeing the perfect boughs would have assumed they were artificial.
Two tables had been brought in as well and covered neatly with snowy linen. Atop one pristine surface lay several pairs of scissors, some twine, spools of velvet ribbon in various widths, sheets of tissue paper in various colors, and all manner of materials suitable for the making of Christmas decorations. Atop the other, smaller, table were a platter of gingerbread, a platter of sweetmeats, and a teapot in a cozy. Cups, saucers, serviettes, plates and spoons were prettily arranged near the teapot. A fire crackled briskly in the huge fireplace, there was not an object out of place, and the room generally gave the impression that it had been prepared by genies.
A slow smile crept across his face as Jack tried to picture how absurd it must look to a girl who had never had servants to smooth every task for her. “I suppose it is a little oppressive,” he admitted. “Will it take all the fun out of it, to have Christmas so civilized?”
“Certainly not,” Celia said promptly. “It merely took me by surprise. For a moment.”
“In that case, have a biscuit.”
She chuckled. “No, thank you, but pray do not abstain on my account.”
“You’re a right one, cousin,” Jack informed her, helping himself liberally to the gingerbread.
“Where are the others?”
“Blenhurst should arrive at any moment, and Elizabeth with him. Augusta and Caroline have been persuaded to do the dining room, and Winifred is nursing a toothache.”
“Poor Winifred,” said Celia piously.
Jack winked. “I confess
, I think we will do better without her. But I’ve always been an unfeeling chap. Ah, here come our compatriots now.”
The Duke of Blenhurst and Lady Elizabeth Delacourt entered the room together, walking sedately side by side—but at a respectable distance from one another. Their demeanor was formal. Certainly no one would mistake them for lovers, thought Jack, disappointed. They looked like acquaintances rather than old friends.
On the other hand, Elizabeth had honored the occasion by donning a silk dress in a sort of cranberry color, and twisted her hair up in some new way. She looked almost beautiful. Perhaps she meant to make a play for old Blenhurst after all.
Old Blenhurst didn’t look half bad himself. He also seemed to have dressed with meticulous care, but Jack was less sure what inference, if any, could be drawn from that. It might be for Elizabeth’s benefit, but it might as easily be Celia whom he sought to impress. Celia greeted him with a trifle more pleasure than seemed strictly necessary, and Blenhurst’s smile definitely warmed when he saw her. Jack’s biscuit turned to ashes in his mouth, and he felt his own smile fade. He swallowed, and tried to pin an amiable expression onto his face before anyone noticed.
“Well, this is all very pleasant,” said Blenhurst, looking round him with satisfaction.
“It’s perfect,” agreed Celia, choking back a giggle.
“Well, let’s not stand about, eating gingerbread all day,” ordered Jack, who was actually the only one eating gingerbread. “This is not a tea party. There’s work to be done, comrades! Where shall we begin?”
“Perhaps the ladies have ideas,” suggested Blenhurst. “In my experience, it is usually the fair sex who display artistic ability.”
Jack was disgusted by this mawkish observation, but Elizabeth appeared pleased. “You are gallant, Eugene,” she said archly.
Jack pricked up his ears at that; had his sister and Blenhurst progressed to Christian names? He was inclined to think that a hopeful sign. Some of his cheerfulness returned. He turned at once to Celia.