Once Upon a Christmas

by Diane Farr

  “Oh, I think so.” He smiled faintly. “One must be willing to appear foolish, of course.”

  She made a little moue of distaste, but he was delighted to hear a glimmer of actual humor in her voice when she said, “Then it is no wonder I have not developed my own. I abhor looking foolish.”

  He chuckled and handed her the scissors. “Well, it might be sufficient to only laugh at the foolishness of others. But I warn you, if you laugh at others and never at yourself, you will not have many friends.”

  Her eyes were on her hands as they wrestled with the bow she was tying. “I have never had many friends,” she said lightly. “I shouldn’t know what to do with them if I had them.”

  She finished the bow with a flourish, but he saw that her hands were not quite steady. They stepped up to the next stair and he silently lifted another evergreen bough, holding it in place while she picked up the twine. He had not expected to feel so much sympathy for Elizabeth. It had certainly never occurred to him that there was anything pitiable about her self-sufficiency. But her admission that she had never had many friends was striking. He now realized that he could not remember any woman ever naming Elizabeth among her friends, and that he had never heard Elizabeth mention a friend of her own.

  He said nothing while she knotted the twine, knowing she would drop something or tremble if he forced her to feel any emotion, and that she would then hate herself for betraying weakness. He would not inflict that on her. He waited until she had finished, then took the twine and scissors from her. When he failed to hand her the ribbon, she looked up at him as he knew she would, and he was able to look steadily into her face. Then he spoke.

  “Elizabeth, I count myself your friend.”

  He saw pleasure in her eyes, but fear as well. She smiled, but it was a rather tentative smile. “Thank you—Eugene.” It was still difficult for her to remember to call him by his first name. “I count myself yours.”

  Her hand rested on the banister, on the knot she had just tied. He covered her hand with his own. “I hope to become something more than your friend. I think you know that. Would that be acceptable to you?”

  That was definitely fear he saw in her eyes now. Fear, and pain. And a strange mixture of relief and joy that made her look almost fierce. But she swiftly veiled her eyes and gave a brittle laugh. Her voice sounded strained when she said, “I think we have had this conversation before.”

  “No, we have not. Not this one.” He took a deep breath. “If we talked of friendship before, and you believed that I meant to offer you marriage, I apologize. I truly regret any—misunderstanding. I suppose I was not clear.”

  She looked very unhappy, but she did not remove her hand from beneath his. “No,” she said in a low voice. “You were not.”

  “I was incapable of speaking clearly to you then. I did not know, myself, what I intended. I am clearer in my mind now, however, and I intend to offer you marriage, Elizabeth. If you can forgive me. If you will have me.”

  Now she removed her hand. She stood before him, pale and agitated, and said something he thought he would never hear from her bloodless lips: “You do not love me.”

  Blenhurst rocked back on his heels, staring at her. His first instinct was to lie, but the lie died when he saw how much it had cost Elizabeth to say such words to him. He would not repay her honesty with some facile, false assurance. “No,” he said unsteadily. “I suppose I do not love you, in the way I think you mean. But I never thought—that is—”

  “You did not think it was important to me.”

  “Frankly, no. I did not.”

  “Well, you were right. It isn’t.” She was paler than ever, but stood very straight, her hands clenched in the silken folds of her skirt. “But I think it is important to you.”

  A pang of grief squeezed his heart as Esther’s dear image danced in his memory. “It is important,” he said hoarsely. “Love is the most important thing on earth.”

  “Is it? I do not even know what you mean by it,” said Elizabeth, in the thread of a voice. “I do not know if I am capable of it. I have been taught to hold such feelings in contempt. I have never inspired love in any man’s heart. I have never felt it in my own. I would like above all things to marry you, and I would do my utmost to be the wife you require. But I would have you know, before you take some irretrievable step, that I may disappoint you.” She looked desperately unhappy now. “That I will probably disappoint you.”

  It was the first time he had ever seen her appear vulnerable, and something like tenderness filled him. “Thank you for your generous warning, but I do not think you will disappoint me,” he said softly. “We shall start with mutual respect. With friendship. I think you can offer me that, can you not?”

  Her relief was palpable. “Yes, I can.”

  “That is all I hoped for. But we may feel differently in future, you know.” He smiled into her eyes and felt a tiny, but genuine, flutter of happiness. It seemed to be mutual, for she looked almost as surprised as he felt. “I hope you will not be disappointed, Elizabeth, if we discover that we love each other someday,” he whispered, and took her hand in his.

  Elizabeth’s hand felt as cold and smooth as marble—but softer. She was much softer than she appeared.

  And she blushed! Would wonders never cease? He felt her cold fingers curl hesitantly around his and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that however cold her hand was at the moment, he was capable of warming it.

  Chapter 17

  The woodsy scent of the Christmas greenery grew stronger as the stacks of evergreen boughs were spread along the banisters. The hall was filled with their heady fragrance. Celia and Jack had reached the topmost stair and were fastening the last of the evergreen branches. Before tying the bow, Celia stopped and looked behind her, inhaling deeply. For the first time in the past twenty minutes, her air of artificial politeness dropped and her face lit with real pleasure.

  “Oh, I do love Christmas!” she exclaimed.

  Jack sniffed the air. It was redolent of pine, with pleasant undertones of tea and wood smoke, gingerbread and furniture polish. The gay red bows along the evergreen-decked banisters were not only pretty, they changed the entire appearance of Delacourt’s formal foyer, making it appear more welcoming than Jack had ever seen it. “It’s wonderful,” he agreed. “Like bringing the outdoors in. And I must tell you, cousin, the room has never looked so well.”

  Just then, on the other side of the hall, Elizabeth dropped her ribbon. The wooden spool clattered and bounced down the stairs behind her.

  “View halloo!” shouted Jack, pointing, and Blenhurst took off after it like a hound after a hare. Celia burst out laughing.

  The duke quickly caught up with the spool and held it aloft like a prize. Celia and Jack applauded. “Well done, sir!” cried Celia. The duke bowed and started back toward Elizabeth, who was waiting for him halfway up the stairs.

  The moment of spontaneity had broken the spell of constraint. Celia was relaxed and smiling again, although she looked a bit guilty when she glanced at Elizabeth and Blenhurst.

  “Oh, dear! They are only halfway up the stairs,” she whispered. “I should have worked more slowly.”

  “Why?”

  “I dislike appearing more highly skilled than your sister. I ought not. Especially when it is so important to her to impress her—friend.”

  Some knot in Jack’s chest suddenly loosened. He grinned. “Rubbish. If it is so important to Elizabeth to appear the most highly accomplished woman in the room, all she need do is sit at the pianoforte.”

  “That is true.” Celia’s smile was full of mischief. “Or, better yet, seat me at the instrument. Three minutes ought to suffice.”

  “Do you not play? I thought all genteel young women played the pianoforte.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “I daresay they may. How unkind of you, cousin, to remind me of my humble origins.”

  “Humble, my eye! Your origins are the same as mine.”

  Celia
looked very prim. “I am a poor man’s daughter. You, Lord Lynden, are the Duke of Arnsford’s heir. Or haven’t they told you?”

  “They have, but information of that sort makes little impression on my addled brain. Leaks through it just like water through a sieve.”

  She was standing one step lower than he, and had to tilt her chin up to look at him. Her eyes were full of laughter. “You told me last night that there was nothing wrong with your brain.”

  “Why, so I did!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “You see what I mean? Can’t keep two thoughts to rub together.”

  Her eyes went suddenly round with doubt, and she bit her lip. It had obviously occurred to her that it was unkind to laugh at a lunatic. He smiled. What a darling she was. “If you are wondering whether to laugh or not, I assure you that I am joking.”

  “We ought not to joke about your—health.”

  “My health is perfectly sound, thank you.”

  Something kindled in her eyes then, and she squared her small chin. “You know, Jack, I think you will be well one day. I mean to help you if I can.”

  He was touched. “Thank you, Celia,” he said gravely, then smiled. “It’s almost enough to make me wish there were something wrong. It would give me so much pleasure to let you fix it.”

  She actually blushed with happiness at his simple statement. There was something about her, her somber black frock speaking of sorrow and loss, and the absurd sprig of holly in her hair singing defiantly of joy, that caught at Jack’s heart. She seemed to embody all the sweetness in the world. He was suddenly swamped with a fierce desire to protect her and shelter her, to lift her from her grief and stand like a shield between her and all future pain.

  The rush of emotions choked him and he stood, speechless and aching, staring into the velvet depths of Celia’s eyes. Her pleased smile faded, and her eyes widened in puzzled wonder as she gazed back at him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  But he could not reply. Although he knew now what it was, of course. He had lost his heart.

  Against all reason, and somehow breaking the curse of the Delacourt second sons, he had fallen irrevocably in love with the very girl his mother had chosen for him. But there was no room in his heart for irony; it was already full. He loved her. It didn’t matter that she was Mother’s pet. It didn’t matter that he would pay through the nose when he returned to London and had to tell his friends that they had won their bets. It didn’t even matter that Celia thought he was a madman.

  Well, perhaps that last one mattered a little. He had to admit, it was awkward that she thought him a moonling. But time would mend that—he hoped.

  He reached impulsively to cover her small hand with his. “Will you do me one small favor?”

  “Anything in my power,” she replied promptly.

  “Meet me here, right at this spot, just before midnight.”

  She cocked her head to one side, puzzled. “Tonight?”

  “Yes. You and I care more for Christmas than anyone else in the household. We’ll see it in together.”

  Her smile was sweet. “I can think of no one with whom I would rather greet Christmas.”

  “Then you’ll be here?”

  “Yes.”

  ………

  The short December day was drawing to a close. The Duchess of Arnsford sat by the fire in the small drawing room at the entrance of her apartments and watched the sky darken to purple as the dying light gilded the edges of the windowpanes. She was weary to the bone. She had had to take laudanum for her pain again today. It coursed and curled through her, making her feel sluggish and dreamy.

  Mr. Willard had just left. He was a discreet soul. She had no fear that he would betray her secret, not even to her husband. He had expressed his shock and his sorrow, and then had gotten on with the business she had called him to perform. An excellent solicitor, Mr. Willard. And since he had lost a child himself to the ministrations of some quack, he perfectly understood her horror of physicians. He wasted no time in stupidly urging her to consult this specialist or that, but simply bowed and sharpened his pen. Good man.

  It was an exhausting way to spend the afternoon, wrestling with the provisions of one’s last bequests, but there was something satisfying about it as well. It was pleasant to know that she had set in order everything that she could. The bulk of her fortune belonged to her husband, of course, and was not hers to control, but what monies she did control would now pass in an orderly fashion to their most deserving recipient.

  The edges of her mouth quirked in an unholy smile. She wished she could be there to see it. Her family would be baffled, and possibly enraged. But Mr. Willard had assured her there was nothing they could do. It was a great deal of money, but little enough reward for a lifetime of devoted service.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, Hubbard glided into the room, moving to the fireplace to poke the flames higher. You’ll be a rich woman soon, Gertrude, thought the duchess. I hope it brings you more joy than it has brought me.

  She leaned her head back, resting it against her chair, and followed Hubbard’s familiar movements with her eyes. Her thoughts drifted here and there. A tiny revelation occurred to her—an insight that she had never had before. The laudanum robbed it of its power to startle her, but still, it seemed worth commenting upon.

  “Do you know, Hubbard,” said Her Grace drowsily, “the only thing I have ever truly cared for is Delacourt.”

  Hubbard did not look up from her task. “You have been its best steward, madam,” she said matter-of-factly. “Your work will be mentioned in history books, I fancy.”

  The duchess thought back over the years, remembering the improvements and changes she had instigated. She smiled a little. “I ran it well.”

  “You still run it well, Your Grace.”

  “Not long now,” the duchess murmured. “Not much longer.”

  Hubbard straightened, her tall, angular form throwing a long shadow across the carpet. “Shall I draw the curtains?” she asked. Her flat voice had taken on the gruff tone she used to mask emotion. “It grows cold.”

  “Yes. So it does.” The duchess turned her head slightly and watched as Hubbard moved with deft strength to pull the heavy draperies across the tall windows. She suddenly remembered what day it was. “Christmas Eve,” she said aloud.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hubbard sent Her Grace a searching glance. Her gruff voice roughened further. “I hope you are not overworking yourself, Your Grace. Taking on too much, I mean, what with training Miss Delacourt and all. Is there anything more I can do to help you?”

  A spasm of pain twisted the duchess’s features. “No, Hubbard. I’m afraid not.” She lifted her head and frowned at the fire. There was no sense in hiding anything from Hubbard. Still, it cost her something to form the words.

  “She won’t do,” she said at last.

  Hubbard paused. “She—? Do you mean Miss Delacourt, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. I was mistaken. She’s a poor choice. Completely unsuitable.”

  Hubbard clucked her tongue sorrowfully. “Ah, Your Grace, I’m that sorry. We had to take her on a bit hasty-like, but I was hoping she would give satisfaction. For your sake.”

  “Thank you, Hubbard.” Her Grace gave a faint sigh. “Well. There’s nothing to be done. I had to try. Time was short. But now it’s shorter still.”

  Hubbard’s sympathy was palpable, although unspoken. Worry sharpened the strange planes of her face. “What will you do, ma’am? I know how much it means to you, finding the right bride for his lordship.”

  “Yes.” The wry smile twisted the duchess’s features again. “But, as I say, I have lately realized that finding the right bride for John is secondary. What is primary, Hubbard, is finding the right mistress for Delacourt.”

  She moved restlessly, feeling another stab of pain at the thought of her own powerlessness. But she wasn’t powerless, she reminded herself. Not while she had breath in her body. “I must e
nsure that Delacourt passes to worthy hands, to someone who will care for it as I have. Someone who will understand the responsibility and honor it.”

  “But, Your Grace—” Hubbard hesitated, twisting her hands in her apron. “It will pass, in the course of time, to Lord Lynden’s bride. If Miss Delacourt isn’t suitable, you can’t have her marrying Lord Lynden, can you?”

  “No,” said the duchess sharply. “Absolutely not. Out of the question. I shall pass Delacourt to Elizabeth.”

  Hubbard’s homely face registered surprise, but she caught herself before blurting out an observation improper to her station. The duchess held up her hand, dreamily watching the firelight burn and sparkle in the jewels that adorned her fingers.

  “You are thinking that I have invited Blenhurst here, hoping that he would offer marriage to Elizabeth,” she remarked. “Quite right. But I have changed my mind. I think there is little chance that he will do so—after all, he never did before—but, indeed, I must now do what I can to ensure that he will not. If John is to remain unwed, Elizabeth must remain unwed.”

  Hubbard’s face creased in a concerned frown. “You take too much upon yourself, Your Grace. You’ll wear yourself out, worriting about the fate of everyone around you. There’s only so much a mortal body can do.” Hubbard’s respectful tone robbed her words of insolence. Anticipating the duchess’s needs with her usual uncanny efficiency, she crossed to the duchess’s chair and moved a footstool closer. “Madam. You know I would never cross you.”

  The duchess nodded her thanks and placed her feet upon the stool. “Certainly, Hubbard. I know that.”

  Hubbard folded her arms and said shortly, “I will do what I can to help you. But some things are not within your control. And you’ll be easier in your mind if you accept that.”

  The duchess dropped her head back against the chair again and gazed hazily into the fire. How tired she was. “But I am easy in my mind. It’s a simple plan,” she murmured. “All for the best. Simple plans are best. I have given it a deal of thought today, and my mind is quite made up. Elizabeth shall remain a spinster. She will run Delacourt exactly as I have run it, first for her father and then for her brother. She will enjoy being the lady of the manor. And I know she is more than a capable successor. She is perfect in every way—temperament, ability, training. I am completely satisfied that I have hit, at last, on the correct solution. Elizabeth will be chatelaine of Delacourt.”