A Yuletide Regency (A Timeless Romance Anthology Book 21)

by Regina Scott

  “The babe, Miss. It’s Thursday and somehow she knows it.”

  Arabelle closed her eyes. “I dine with her on Mondays and Thursdays. With Mr. Linfield’s arrival, I’d forgotten. Has her dinner already been sent up?”

  “Yes. She noticed it was too small and asked where ‘Abibelle’s’ was.” His brows rose expectantly. “Edith sent me to fetch you.”

  Arabelle glanced back at Mama, who watched with interest. Isaac only gazed at the fire.

  She turned back to Clark. “Tell Edith I’ll be right up. And ask Cook to send up a little something more.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Isaac rose as she returned to the fire.

  “I apologize,” Arabelle said, “but I’ve forgotten a previous engagement and shall be late for dinner.”

  “A previous engagement?” Mama asked.

  “It’s Thursday.”

  Mama smiled. “Ah. Yes, you shan’t miss that.” She looked up at Isaac. “When George wrote to you, did he mention that he and Jane had a daughter?”

  “He did. To be honest, the child has weighed heavily on my mind, but I’d not presumed to ask yet.” He turned to Arabelle. “Is everything well with her since your brother’s passing?”

  His concern intrigued her. “She is very well, thank you. Would you . . . would you like to meet her?”

  * * *

  To say that Isaac was conscious of the young woman walking next to him as he limped up the stairs was a grand understatement. She graciously matched his snail’s pace, though he imagined her darting up this flight like a bird.

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid our days of racing to the nursery are done.”

  She paused. “I cannot decide if you are serious. I remember how you would tease, but do you tease about this, sir?”

  He released a half-aggravated laugh. “If I can’t tease about this, then what do I do, Miss Hyatt? Bellow? Moan? Perhaps it’s just a façade, but teasing helps.”

  “In that case,” she said, “I would have to balance on one leg, and perhaps borrow George’s cane for leverage.” She glanced sidelong at him.

  “Ah,” he said, taking the opening she’d allowed him. “Tie one hand behind your back. Then I might have a sporting chance.”

  Her eyes danced. “Of course, we’d have to put you in a gown, to really even things up.”

  He broke into a laugh. “You might have me there.”

  She smiled as they continued up the staircase. She’d grown up rather prettily. When she’d followed George and Isaac around the estate, she’d been a waif of a thing. Six years separated them, just enough for her to keep up, but not close enough for them to be thrilled about it. To her credit, she was a good sport and kept their secret escapades. And she’d had them laughing more often than he’d give any six-, eight-, ten-year-old girl credit for.

  “Will you tell me about it?” she asked quietly. “How it happened. Someday?”

  He frowned, the lightness gone. He’d given her permission to address his injuries. He should have known she’d ask further. “I’ll not promise you that. It’s difficult.”

  “I understand,” she said, though he knew she could not.

  He changed the subject. “Tell me about Eleanor.”

  “She is thoughtful for one so small. Perhaps it’s because relationships mean so much to her. She was only a year and a half old when she lost her parents. People dismiss the effect that has on an infant. But believe me, we watched her mourn just as we did. She knew.” Her gaze narrowed as if in contemplation, and she paused on the stair. “She is a person. As much of us as George was.”

  He wondered at her ardent tone. “I do not doubt it. Loss comes in all forms, to all ages. It affects each differently. But I’ve learned that it is not what happens to us, but rather what we do afterward that determines our course. She has your example to learn from.”

  She lifted her chin, studying him. “Sometimes I believe I’m the one learning from her. Is that childish of me?”

  He studied her. The last time he’d seen her she was fourteen, with ringlets on either side of her face and wide eyes watching him say goodbye before he took his commission. He’d bowed over her hand and told her something silly to watch her break into a smile, because he couldn’t have borne leaving her in tears.

  “In all my years of knowing you as a child, Miss Hyatt, you were never childish.”

  Again, she smiled, the action lighting something inside him he’d not felt in a long time.

  Again, he reminded himself of his duty here.

  They made the first landing and walked down the hallway to the narrower staircase leading to the nursery. He sighed inwardly. If he ever built a house, it would have scandalously few staircases.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Linfield?”

  He nodded. “Still recovering from the ride, that’s all.”

  “I should have thought better and brought Eleanor down.”

  He gestured for her to lead up the narrow flight. She moved gracefully, and he caught himself appreciating his perspective for more than one reason. He’d known she would have grown. It seemed a lifetime had gone by since he left England. But when he’d pictured Abby here, he’d somehow removed the “woman” part of the experience, and now reality mocked him. Isaac shook his head to clear his thoughts and focused on his steps.

  “What sort of fellow is Mr. Forbes?” he asked, more to keep himself on task than anything.

  She halted on the stairs, then quickly resumed. “He’s a good man. He is . . . sure of himself.”

  “Fortunate. George mentioned he was to inherit. What are his intentions for Hybrigge House?”

  She’d reached the nursery door and turned to face him, her eyes over-bright. “The best intentions, I’m sure. He’s paid the structure more attention than the inhabitants inside it.”

  He frowned, puzzled by her response.

  At that moment, the maid opened the door. “Miss. Sir.” She addressed Arabelle. “All is ready for you. If you need me further, only ring.”

  They entered the room Isaac knew well. Before the familiar surroundings and scent could settle with him, his gaze was drawn to a little girl in folds of sprigged muslin, with pink cheeks and white curls atop her head. Arabelle stepped toward her, hand extended. The little girl took it, her gaze glued on Isaac, then to his leg.

  “Eleanor, meet our friend, Mr. Linfield. He’s come a long way to see us.” She smiled up at Isaac. “Mr. Linfield, this is Miss Eleanor Hyatt.”

  “Of course it is.” Isaac bowed. “Hello, Miss Eleanor.”

  “Show him your curtsy, darling.”

  The tiny figure held her dress out with one hand and dipped, wobbling. “Hello.”

  Isaac couldn’t help smiling. “May I join you for your dinner?” He motioned to a small, waiting table.

  She followed his gaze and nodded. Then she let go of Arabelle’s hand, crouched, and as Arabelle gasped, touched his wooden leg.

  He put his hand up to silence Arabelle’s protest, his face warming with the awkwardness of the moment.

  “You leg hurt?” the child asked. She waited for Isaac’s answer to her simple question, her finger tapping softly on one of the buckles holding his boot on.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, I am hurt.” He flashed her a trying smile. “But I’m getting better.”

  Eleanor frowned, but nodded. “Better. Hurt aw gone.”

  “That’s right.” He wished he could believe as she did. Pain was part of him now.

  Without another word, Eleanor stood and reached for his false hand—he’d changed out his riding hook for the less off-putting carved hand. He quickly reached across with his good hand and allowed her to lead him to the table set with bread and butter alongside miniature crocks of chicken and potatoes and an apple tart the size of a tea saucer. He pulled out a chair for her, then for Arabelle, whom he caught watching him perplexedly, then seated himself in the tiny space.

  “It hasn’t changed much,” Isaac said, looking aroun
d. “It’s smaller than I remember.”

  Arabelle smiled. “We were smaller. Though you and George seemed like giants to me. Even when you were twelve. May I?” she asked, holding his dish near the crocks. She didn’t wait for his answer. “Usually it’s just Eleanor and I. Edith has so much to do that I manage without her.”

  “Yet another example of how I’ve disrupted your routine.”

  She set down his plate in front of him and dished Eleanor her food. “Not at all. Things can get a bit monotonous here. Hybrigge hasn’t been as it was. Here you are, Linny. Use your spoon, now.” She lifted her gaze. “A visit from an old friend is a balm, even when unexpected. Perhaps especially then.”

  He found himself without words, because she was unexpected, and if he could describe the effect her presence had on his nerves, it would be something like a balm.

  It was her kinship to George, he told himself. The familiarity of better days.

  “Eleanor,” she said once they’d each been dished up a plate. “Tell Mr. Linfield about our walk yesterday.”

  The little girl’s blue eyes lit up. “Fro rocks.” She giggled.

  “Throw rocks?” he asked, intrigued.

  She nodded. “And tick. In da water.”

  “In the river?” He eyed Arabelle, who watched them both, amused. He continued with Eleanor. “Did you throw it with all your might?”

  She nodded with fervor and put a piece of chicken in her mouth.

  “I do most of the throwing,” Arabelle said. “But one day she’ll be skipping rocks across the water better than her father.”

  “Well,” he said with a chuckle, “that shouldn’t be too hard. Many perfect skipping rocks lie at the bottom of that river by George’s hand. Alas, they never met their full potential.”

  “He taught me,” she exclaimed with a laugh.

  He shook his head. “He did not.”

  “He did. I remember his hand around mine, moving me through the motions and then letting me try, over and over until I did it.”

  He pushed a potato around his plate. “That was me.” Peering up at her, he caught her stare. She busied herself with a piece of chicken. Aware he might have stolen what she believed to be a warm memory of her brother, he amended himself. “George was right there cheering you on, of course.”

  She nodded, and quickly helped Eleanor with a sip of water. “Of course. I just presumed.”

  “Naturally. While I could best him in skipping stones—which requires some finesse, as you know—George always had the stronger arm. He could clear the river and then some, every time.”

  “I do remember that.”

  “He would save the best skipping stones he found for you.”

  She paused, her fork halfway between her plate and mouth. Her light blue eyes became glassy. “Thank you, Mr. Linfield.”

  He nodded, biting back the urge to ask her to call him Isaac.

  They resumed eating.

  “And thank you,” she said. “For teaching me to skip rocks.”

  He smiled. “It was my pleasure. You possessed finesse.”

  “Kip rocks,” the little girl said, both hands flat on the table, looking between the both of them. “Kip rocks.”

  “Now we’ve done it,” Arabelle said, grinning. “She’ll not rest until we’ve made her the best rock-skipper in all of England.”

  Isaac leaned forward. “I believe those particular seeds of destiny were planted the moment you became her aunt.”

  She beamed at him, as though his words were the greatest compliment he might have paid her.

  Chapter Three

  Arabelle paced her bedroom floor as Edith pushed two gowns at her. She paused, realizing Edith was speaking. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “Miss, you must dress for dinner. Mr. Forbes will be here at any moment.”

  “Is Mr. Linfield down yet?”

  “I do not know, as I’m up here with you.” Edith lifted a brow.

  Arabelle took one of the gowns. “No need to get cheeky.”

  “Beg your pardon, Miss. The red is right pretty on you.” She helped pull it over Arabelle’s head. “I dare say both gentlemen will have a hard time focusing on their meal tonight.”

  “Both gentlemen?”

  “Yes. Mr. Linfield may not be here courting, nor may he have all his limbs, but he’s both his eyes—and he’s an old acquaintance who knew you before you bloomed, not that you were ever plain, mind you. Only a bit wild. And here you are, no more a child, a lovely woman born from the fires of trial, for sure.”

  “Edith, I didn’t know you were a poet,” she teased, attempting to cover her blush.

  “To be sure. Now sit while I make something of those tresses.”

  Arabelle sighed and sat. “He’s changed so much. Do you remember how full of life he was?”

  Edith nodded, beginning a crown braid. “Yes, Miss. I’ll venture to say he still is. Just as you and the missus still are. Life fills us, whether it’s the kind we want or the kind we don’t.”

  Arabelle had no response to that except to stare unfocused at the glass before her, thinking on Edith’s words, and on Isaac, and on losing a leg. And a brother.

  * * *

  Downstairs, Arabelle approached the drawing room doors with a twisting stomach and hands clasped. Her state of nerves weren’t on Mr. Linfield’s behalf, as he seemed confident despite his injuries. It wasn’t on Mr. Forbes’s behalf, as she hadn’t felt this way over his previous visits. And yet her insides felt as though she were about to step up to a pianoforte and play for a hundred people, and Arabelle knew not one note of that instrument.

  “Good evening, Miss,” Clark said as he opened the doors for her.

  She nodded absently. Just as she crossed the threshold into the room, her slipper caught and she stumbled, only slightly. All sound ceased, and she lifted her gaze to find Mr. Forbes and Isaac having just risen to their feet, their expressions startled.

  “Forgive me,” she managed to say. “I can’t imagine what I did to the carpet to offend it so.”

  Mr. Forbes broke out into a genial laugh, but Isaac only stared.

  She blushed under his gaze.

  “No person or thing could be offended by your presence, Miss Hyatt,” Mr. Forbes said with a grin and bow.

  She curtsied. “Then you don’t know me very well, Mr. Forbes.”

  He laughed harder, and Isaac seemed to remember himself and bowed as well.

  She curtsied and lifted her gaze to him with difficulty. “Mr. Linfield.”

  “Miss Hyatt. You look lovely.”

  The pull in her stomach mysteriously tightened. She’d only left him an hour ago in the library, where he’d been going over business with George’s steward. She’d pretended to read. “You sound surprised.”

  He gazed at her steadily. “I suppose I shouldn’t be.”

  She had nothing clever to say to that but observed the room growing warmer. She took a deep breath and looked about her. “Where is Mama?”

  Mr. Forbes offered her his arm, leading her to the settee nearest the fire. Arabelle wished for a fan.

  “Addressing a question from your cook, I believe.” He took the chair next to her, leaving Isaac leaning against the fireplace.

  “I’ll assume you two have been properly introduced,” she said. “What were you discussing before I entered so gracefully?”

  “I was getting to know the war hero, here,” said Mr. Forbes, gesturing to Isaac.

  “The war hero?” She looked at Isaac expectantly, but he frowned at the fire.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Forbes. “Of course, when I read about the battles at Badajos in the papers, I had no idea I would one day be standing with Major Isaac Linfield in your drawing room. Another unexpectedly pleasant event arising from very difficult circumstances—making your acquaintance being the first, Miss Hyatt. It’s rather exciting.”

  “Major?” she asked, with still no response from Isaac except a clenching of his good hand resting on the mantel
.

  “Indeed. Saved his commanding officer’s life, and his company as well. Can’t imagine. I’ve often asked myself how it would’ve been, to not have had to stay home to manage the family assets, but to have instead gone off to war in name of crown and country.” His expression drew uncharacteristically grave. “At such a cost. Such a cost.” He glanced toward Isaac’s leg and shook his head. Then blinked away. “Good man,” he said. “I’m honored to be in the same room with you. And the fact that you were George Hyatt’s good friend raises him in my eyes.”

  Arabelle frowned. “Did George need raising in your eyes, Mr. Forbes?” Movement from Isaac drew her attention. Indeed, he watched her, amusement in his expression. But she returned her attention to Mr. Forbes.

  “I didn’t know your brother,” he said. “Therefore, the more I learn of him, the more my opinion of him may rise, or sink. One learns a great deal about a man by the friends he keeps, and their loyalty. The fact that he has your loyalty, my dear Miss Hyatt, is another testament of his good character. A man could be content having such loyalty and the capacity with which to keep it.”

  My dear Miss Hyatt.

  Arabelle had stiffened at the term of endearment, the easy way it had rolled off his tongue. She knew it was coming. With every visit, Mr. Forbes had become more forward, more familiar. No one had ever called her my dear Miss Hyatt before. She thought it would feel less . . . confining.

  “And in what way would you keep it, Mr. Forbes?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

  “Such loyalty. You mentioned desiring the capacity to keep it.” She smiled.

  “Ah. Well.” He tilted his head in thought. “To earn it, of course. In acquiring property and the means to provide comfort, hospitality, amusements. I do have friends.” He chuckled. “I hope I’ve earned their loyalty to some extent.” Then his brow rose. “Perhaps not to the same extent as that of a war hero’s friends.” He beamed at Isaac.

  “You would be surprised, Mr. Forbes,” Isaac said, “at how few loyalties remain when a soldier, hero or no, returns home with fewer parts of himself than he left with.”

  The expression on Mr. Forbes’s face fell with the gravity of Isaac’s words. To his credit, he did not try to save the moment with some glib remark. Arabelle’s heart sank for both men. Mr. Forbes was ignorant in his remarks and had been set down. But Isaac . . . he had opened up about his injuries to the point of joking about them with her. But how far did the consequences of war go for him?