“Cecy puts on an admirable front.” Marcus frowned. “A pity about the snow. She needs something to make her smile, especially now.”
“Now?” Liam leaned forward.
“She is caring for Father, readying the house for the holidays, and carrying the secret of my injury. Too many burdens.”
“You called her a willow in the wind.” Liam could imagine her—a slender, pale thing like her brother, bowed down by the weight of her obligations.
Marcus nodded slowly. “I only hope she doesn’t break.”
December 1
Tarrick Hall, Suffolk
Dear Cecy,
You will notice that Lord Tarrick is still serving as my secretary. I believe he missed his true calling in life—it’s a pity he was born into the gentry. (Miss Fairfax, I cannot let such a slight upon the characters of secretaries pass. I assure you that, even were I not the Earl of Tarrick, I would make a poor secretary. Indeed, if you can decipher my writing, I commend you.)
Do not be alarmed, but the doctor has ordered me to wait another week until I travel. He fears the jouncing of a coach may disrupt the progress of my returning sight. And it is returning, have no fears on that account.
You have not written much of Father. Is everything well? Will our esteemed elder brother be joining us for the holidays, or will we be lucky enough to avoid his family this go-round?
Expect me to arrive by 20 December. The earl has kindly offered his coach to transport me to Wiltshire, so you see I’ll be traveling in great comfort.
Until then I remain,
Your loving brother, Marcus
(P.S. I must add that your brother’s eyesight is slow to return. He is reluctant to speak of it and add to your burdens, but I do believe you’d be happier forewarned. T)
Cecilia smiled as she read the angular, dark writing. The earl’s letters were not difficult to decipher—although she noticed his penmanship had declined slightly from the first, more formal missive he’d sent on her brother’s behalf.
She tapped the letter thoughtfully against her lips. Was the Earl of Tarrick as dark and angular as his handwriting?
Oh, foolishness. She needed to be readying rooms for Marcus, and discussing meals with the cook, and making sure Mrs. Bess had not ordered the servants to hang all the washing outside to freeze, forgetting it was winter.
There was, too, the work to be done in preparation for her brother’s visit. Edward and his fretful wife, Honoria, and their clamorous set of boys would be descending imminently (like a flock of harpies, Marcus was fond of saying). Cecilia did not, quite, agree. Honoria was not as strident as a harpy, though she did find fault with almost everything around her. And everyone. Poor Edward.
Still, receiving the earl’s—or rather, Marcus’s—letters, provided a welcome respite. A few stolen minutes where she could retire to the parlor, sink into the overstuffed wingback, and be elsewhere for a brief time.
Always too brief, however. Letting out a low breath, Cecilia went to her desk to compose a reply to the earl. She certainly had no time to spin fancies about a man she was likely never to meet.
A pang went through her as she pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. She would not receive another letter from Tarrick Hall, as Marcus would be departing there within the week. She was glad the earl had warned her that her brother’s recovery was not as complete as he would have her believe. He seemed quite the gentleman, the Earl of Tarrick. Swallowing back something that tasted suspiciously of disappointment, Cecilia dipped her pen and began to write.
December 8
Wilton House
Dear Lord Tarrick,
I am not certain this letter will reach you before my brother’s departure, so I shall not include exhortations for safe travel (which no doubt he will ignore in any case).
Again, thank you for caring for him whilst he recovered from his injuries, and for your frequent letters. And the guard lions, of course. Please give them a pat of gratitude from me – provided they do not bite your fingers off.
Perhaps some day we will have the good fortune to meet in London.
My brother and I are deeply in your debt.
Most gratefully,
Cecilia Fairfax
“There you are,” Liam said, slipping the letter back into its envelope and nodding to Marcus, seated across from him. The cozy fire burning on the hearth belied the chill in Liam’s bones. “Homeward bound at last. No doubt you’ll be happy to shake the dust of Tarrick Hall from your feet.”
How long would it be until another guest graced the set of rooms? Years? Liam crossed his arms, banishing the thought.
“You’ve been an excellent host.” Marcus squinted happily at him. “In fact, I have a splendid idea.”
“If it involves remaining here another few weeks, I can’t say I agree. Your vision is improving daily, and you are wanted home for Christmas. Is your sister-in-law truly that dreadful, that you’d wish to remain here?” Liam glanced at the half-packed trunks lined up by the door of Marcus’s room.
Marcus waved his hand in dismissal. “Cecy and I manage to prop one another up during Horrible Honoria’s visits. No, I think you ought to come with me to Wiltshire for Christmas!” He grinned. “I’ll be able to repay your hospitality, and you’ll have a marvelous time.”
“You expect me to believe that, after regaling me with tales of your sour relatives?” Liam tamped down the sudden surge of interest that ran warmly through his veins. “I am quite content here at Tarrick Hall, though I thank you for your offer.”
He tried not to think of the empty hallways, the lack of greenery and holiday cheer. Did he not, every Christmas Eve, sit beside the fire and drink a fine glass of port? Did he not go for a long ramble about his estate, savoring his property, despite the winter’s cold?
“Quite content?” Marcus let out a snort. “Let me guess. You give the servants a Christmas holiday and send them off, then sit alone beside the hearth in your study, eating cold ham. Perhaps indulging in a brandy or two.”
“It is not a bad life.” Liam lifted one shoulder in what was meant to be a shrug. “I’m happy enough.”
He did not examine too closely the itch that had lodged beneath his ribs at the thought of going to Wiltshire with Marcus Fairfax. And meeting Miss Cecilia Fairfax.
“If you’re happy here, then you’re easily pleased, and my sister-in-law will prove no obstacle to your greater joy.” Marcus reached forward and took him by the shoulder. “Do come, Tarrick. Or are you afraid of the ghost?”
“I take no alarm at the figments of a boy’s overactive imagination.”
“Lizzy’s real,” Marcus said, letting go of Liam’s shoulder. “It would serve you right to meet her in the upper hallway. You must come to Wilton House, just for that comeuppance. Besides, I know Cecilia would like to meet you.”
Liam had not read him that crossed-out line in Miss Fairfax’s letter—the one about possibly meeting some day, that had made him stumble briefly in his narrative—but clearly her brother knew her well.
“I hardly think your sister would welcome the unexpected burden of my arrival.”
“How often has she said we are in your debt?” Marcus raised a blond eyebrow. “She will be glad to repay it, I assure you. Besides, I am still not recovered enough to read, or count out my bills correctly. What if the coachman takes a wrong turn? What if the innkeeper decides to take advantage of my infirmity? I need you, sir, to see me safely home.”
“That’s a patent lie.”
“I wager it won’t take you long to pack.” Marcus leaned back, smiling. “You’ll be ready to leave before I am.”
“I’m not coming with you, Mr. Fairfax.”
Cecilia sat at her desk, resolutely keeping herself from rereading the earl’s—Marcus’s—letters. Instead, she busied herself with making lists of all the tasks still looming, before the holidays at last came to a close. The maid, Martha, hurried into her sitting room—a welcome distraction.
“Mistress,” Mar
tha said, “the Earl of Tarrick’s coach is coming up the drive.”
“Indeed?” Cecilia rose from her desk and went to the window.
As the maid had said, a large black coach was approaching, the side emblazoned with the earl’s coat of arms. Thank goodness. Having Marcus home would lift some of the weight pressing down upon her. And he had arrived just in time—Christmas was only a handful of days away.
Giving her hair a quick smooth, Cecilia hurried down the stairs. No need to change from her worn gray muslin. It was just Marcus, after all.
She arrived in the entryway as the butler opened the door.
Marcus strode in. “Cecy?” he called.
“Here,” she said.
As soon as she spoke, he turned toward her, a wide smile on his face, and opened his arms.
She embraced him, then drew back, grasping his shoulders.
“You still can’t see,” she said.
“Why of course I—”
“Don’t deny it.” She gave him a little shake. Drat her brother, pretending he was well.
His smile faded. “I can see—but details are blurry. You blended with the shadows.”
At least the earl had forewarned her. She sent a prayer of thanks to the man, wherever he might be.
“There’s one more thing,” her brother said. “I brought a guest for Christmas.”
“What?” Sudden apprehension jolted through her, and her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “Who is with you?”
She knew the answer, however. Who else could it be?
“The Earl of Tarrick,” her brother said. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“I…”
“He’s just outside. I’ll go fetch him.”
Her throat was dry, her nerves suddenly fluttering. A pox on her impulsive, generous brother. As if the holidays were not complicated enough.
Whirling, she rang for the maid, counting the seconds until the girl hurried up.
“Martha, we need another set of rooms made up immediately. Marcus has brought the Earl of Tarrick to stay for the holidays.”
The maid’s eyes went wide. “Of course, Mistress. The gold rooms?”
“Those will do very well. Make haste.”
Martha bobbed a curtsy and hurried off.
Moments later, Marcus reappeared in the doorway, followed by his guest. The Earl of Tarrick was tall and solidly built. As she had imagined, he was dark and angular, with steely gray eyes set in a forbiddingly remote face. Judging from his expression, he rarely smiled.
He removed his hat, revealing hair as black as a raven’s wing.
Marcus stepped forward. “Tarrick, allow me to present my sister, Miss Cecilia Fairfax. Cecy, this is Liam Barrett, the Earl of Tarrick.”
“Miss Fairfax, the pleasure is mine.” The earl made her a stiffly correct bow.
Judging by his appearance, she would have expected his voice to be rough and growly, but the earl’s tone was surprisingly smooth—like a cup of warm chocolate.
Cecilia dipped a curtsey, wishing she were not wearing her drabbest gown. Would the earl mistake her for a shadow, as her brother had? No. Indeed, his gaze rested on her a trifle too long, and she felt heat rush into her cheeks. What dreadful stories had Marcus told about her?
“Lord Tarrick,” she said. “Please, come into the parlor. Your rooms will be ready as soon as possible, given that I had no notice of your arrival.”
She shot her brother a narrow-eyed glare. Surely Marcus could not see her expression, but he grinned back at her anyhow.
“My apologies for the unexpected visit,” the earl said. “Your brother insisted.”
Cecilia ushered them into the parlor, where a fire was burning merrily, thank heavens.
“Marcus is too persuasive for his own good,” she said, wishing the earl had resisted. Well, half-wishing. “Make yourselves comfortable. I must see to the maids.”
“Cecy, sit with us.” Marcus made a grab for her hand, and missed. “Let Mrs. Bess arrange things.”
“I cannot. Please excuse me.” She nodded at the earl. “Marcus, offer our guest some brandy. It’s on the sideboard.”
“I’ll pour,” the earl said, an unexpected dry humor in his tone.
Cecilia shot him a glance, but his eyes were as cool as ever. Heart pounding in her chest, she hurried out of the room. Heavens, she had so much to arrange.
Liam watched Miss Fairfax leave the parlor, her step firm, her chin high. She was, as he’d suspected, as fair as her brother, with the same long, slim nose and smoky blue eyes. There, the similarities ended. Her brother was more sturdily built, while she was—yes, willowy was the word. Where Marcus was full of open humor about the world, his sister seemed much more contained, her expression guarded.
He glanced about the room, which seemed cheery and warm. No black draperies hung at the windows to signal the family’s ongoing grief, yet Miss Fairfax had been wearing a markedly dreary gown.
“Is your family still in mourning?” Liam asked.
“No,” Marcus said. “Father has declared we’ll celebrate the holidays without that pall. Mother loved this season. I forgot to warn you—there will be singing. And a yule log, and greenery, and the best pudding you’ve ever tasted.”
“It sounds splendid.” And like no Christmas he’d ever known.
“Brandy?” Marcus gestured in the general direction of the sideboard. “When Cecy commands, we must obey.”
Liam found the crystal decanter and poured them two glasses. He made a point of handing Marcus his brandy, not releasing it until he was certain his host had a firm grip.
“How will you keep your father from noticing your blindness?” Liam asked. He took a swallow of brandy, a bright fire warming the inside of his mouth.
“Father is…” Marcus threw back a swig of his own drink. “The last time I visited home, he was so overtaken by his own infirmity he would not notice anyone else’s.”
“What’s the nature of his illness?”
“A broken heart, mostly, with gout and rheumatism complicating matters.” A rare, pensive look crossed Marcus’s face. “He’s old, you know. Cecy and I were rather a surprise, coming a good fifteen years after Edward was born.”
At least they had been loved—that much was clear. Liam drank his brandy and stared out the window. Bare branches etched a sky pearling into evening.
“Your brother and his family arrive soon?”
“Tomorrow or the next day. At which point, you and I shall go riding, and make many expeditions to gather boughs in the forest.”
“Are evergreens that difficult to find in this part of Wiltshire?”
Marcus made a face. “No. The difficulty lies within the walls. Come, I’ll introduce you to Father, and we’ll see about settling you into your rooms.”
Liam set his half-empty glass of brandy aside, and followed Marcus. Not for the first time, he wondered if coming here had been a mistake. Well, and he could always leave again. He’d delivered Marcus safely home, and met the pale, lovely Cecilia Fairfax. His escape was parked in the stables, should family interactions prove too difficult for his taste.
And what of Miss Fairfax? an errant voice inside him whispered. Has she any refuge at all? A coach to bear her away? The excuse of rambling about in the woods?
The uncomfortable answer was, no. There had been a shadow behind her eyes, a trapped look like that of a hare pursued by the shivering howls of wolves.
He suspected Cecilia Fairfax was running nearly as fast as she could, inside, where no one would ever see.
“Begging your pardon, Mistress, but Martha said as how there was nest in the chimney of the gold bedroom. Well, there was, and now the carpets are sooty. And there’s, er, a pair of swallows loose in the room.”
“The laundry soap is wet through, completely ruined—how shall we wash all the linens in time for your elder brother’s arrival tomorrow?”
“Mistress, cook says the partridges are all burnt on one side. So sorry—would half a bird
each do for dinner?”
“Mrs. Bess has set herself to polishing the silver, and there’s no forks fit to dine with. Please come!”
“Milady, the best bottle of claret has gone missing. Perhaps you might check your father’s study?”
Cecilia paused inside the study, her fingers tight around the neck of the half-full claret bottle. Instead of opening the door and returning to the hallway, she leaned against it, resting her forehead against the slab of oak. If only she could keep all her troubles from reaching her, held at bay by the solid wooden door.
Dinner was going to be dreadful; all the mishaps of the afternoon compounded by the presence of the Earl of Tarrick. If it were only family, they could smile through their difficulties, but having a stranger in their midst made everything more difficult.
She could hear Martha calling for her. Taking a deep breath, Cecilia opened the door and stepped into the hallway. They would have to make the best of it, as ever.
As she had feared, dinner was a strained affair. The earl, seated on Father’s right, watched everything with his cool gray eyes and said very little. Father had nipped too much of the claret and alternately pontificated at length about the joys of family and lapsed into long silences.
Marcus was his usual cheerful self, though he was using his utensils in an odd manner. Both knife and fork were engaged in poking and chasing bits of food around the china, and each successful mouthful was lifted carefully to his lips, with a few near-misses. Luckily, Father was too far gone to notice when a stray piece of turnip tumbled off Marcus’s fork to lie forlornly on the white tablecloth.
“You have a charming home, sir,” the earl said to Cecilia’s father.
“Twas all my wife’s doing. She had the touch, you know. Domesticity. Children about the knee.” He peered from beneath his bushy white brows and scanned the table. “I say, where is Edward and his brood?”
“They arrive tomorrow,” Cecilia said, doing her utmost to keep her voice even, though her heart pounded at the thought.
There was so very much to do.
Alphas for the Holidays Page 124