“Ee, Blanche,” Debbie had protested, “no, love.”
“I am going to need you,” Blanche had said with a smile. “Merely to wield a cool, damp cloth to wipe Mrs. Moffatt’s face when she gets very hot, as she will. You can do that, can you not? I will be there to do everything else.”
Everything else. Like delivering the baby. Julian had stared, fascinated, at his opera dancer.
“Have you done this before, Blanche?” he had asked.
“Of course,” she had said briskly. “At the rectory—ah. I used to accompany the rector’s wife on occasion. I know exactly what to do. No one need fear.”
They had all been gazing at her, Julian remembered now. They had all hung on her every word, her every command. They had leaned on her strength and her confidence in a collective body.
Who the hell was she? What had a blacksmith’s daughter been doing hanging around a rectory so much? Apart from learning to play the spinet without music, that was. And apart from delivering babies.
Everyone had run to do her bidding. Soon only the three men—the three useless ones—had been left in the sitting room to fight terror and nausea and fits of the vapors.
The door opened. Three pale, terrified faces turned toward it.
Debbie was flushed and untidy and swathed in an apron made for a giant. One hank of blond hair hung to her shoulder and looked damp with perspiration. She was beaming and looking very pretty indeed.
“It is all over, sir,” she announced, addressing herself to the Reverend Moffatt. “You have a new…baby. I am not to say what. Your wife is ready and waiting for you.”
The new father stood very still for a few moments and then strode from the room without a word.
“Bertie.” Debbie turned tear-filled eyes toward him. “You should have been there, love. It came out all of a rush into Blanche’s hands, the dearest little slippery thing, all cross and crying and—and human. Ee, Bertie, love.” She cast herself into his arms and bawled noisily.
Bertie made soothing noises and raised his eyebrows at Julian. “I was never more relieved in my life,” he said. “But I am quite thankful I was not there, Deb. We had better get you to bed. You are not needed any longer?”
“Blanche told me I could go to bed,” Debbie said. “She will finish off all that needs doing. No midwife could have done better. She talked quietly the whole time to calm my jitters and Mrs. Simpkins’s. Mrs. Moffatt didn’t have the jitters. She just kept saying she was sorry to keep us up, the daft woman. I have never felt so—so honored, Bertie, love. Me, Debbie Markle, just a simple, honest whore to be allowed to see that.”
“Come on, Deb.” Bertie tucked her into the crook of his arm and bore her off to bed.
Julian followed them up a few minutes later. He had no idea what time it was. Some unholy hour of the morning, he supposed. He did not carry a candle up with him and no one had lit the branch in his room. Someone from belowstairs had been kept working late, though. There was a freshly made-up fire burning in the hearth. He went to stand at the window and looked out.
The snow had stopped falling, he saw, and the sky had cleared off. He looked upward and saw in that single glance that he had been wrong. It was not an unholy hour of the morning at all.
He was still standing there several minutes later when the door of the bedchamber opened. He turned his head to look over his shoulder.
She looked as Debbie had looked but worse. She was bedraggled, weary and beautiful.
“You should not have waited up,” she said.
“Come.” He beckoned to her.
She came and slumped tiredly against him when he wrapped an arm about her. She sighed deeply.
“Look.” He pointed.
She did not say anything for a long while. Neither did he. Words were unnecessary. The Christmas star beamed down at them, symbol of hope, a sign for all who sought wisdom and the meaning of their lives. He was not sure what either of them had learned about Christmas this year, but there was something. It was beyond words at the moment and even beyond coherent thought. But something had been learned. Something had been gained.
“It is Christmas,” she said softly at last. Her words held a wealth of meaning beyond themselves.
“Yes,” he said, turning his face and kissing the untidy titian hair on top of her head. “Yes, it is Christmas. Did they have their daughter?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “I have never seen two people so happy, my lord. On Christmas morning. Could there be a more precious gift?”
“I doubt it,” he said, closing his eyes briefly.
“I held her,” she said softly. “What a gift that was.”
“Blanche,” he asked after a short while, “where was this rectory you speak of? Close to the smithy?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And you went to school there,” he said, “and were given lessons in playing the spinet and delivering babies.”
“Y-yes.” She had the grace to sound hesitant.
“Blanche,” he said, “I have the strange suspicion that you may be the biggest liar of my acquaintance.”
She had nothing to say to that.
“Go and get ready for bed,” he told her. “I am not sure whether it would be more accurate to say it is late or early.”
She lifted her head then and looked at him. “Yes, my lord,” she said—the martyr being brave.
He was in bed when she came from the dressing room, wearing the virginal nightgown again with her hair down her back. She was still looking brave, he saw in the dying light of the fire. She approached the bed without hesitation.
“Get in,” he told her, holding back the bedcovers and stretching out his other arm beneath her pillow.
“Yes, my lord.”
He turned her as she lay down, and drew her snugly against him in order to warm her. He tucked the bedcovers neatly behind her. He found her mouth with his own and kissed her with lingering thoroughness.
“Go to sleep now,” he told her when he was done.
That brought her eyes snapping open. “But—” she began.
“But nothing,” he said. “You are at the point of total exhaustion, Blanche, and would be quite unable either to enjoy or to be enjoyed. Go to sleep.”
“But—” she began again, a protest he silenced with another kiss.
“I have no desire to hear about five hundred pounds and the necessity of earning it,” he said. “You promised to be mine for a week, obedient to my will. This is my command for tonight, then. Go to sleep.”
He waited for her protest. All he heard instead was a quiet, almost soundless sigh, deepened breathing and total relaxation. She was asleep.
And the funny thing was, he thought, feeling her slim, shapely woman’s body pressed to his from toes to forehead, he did not feel either frustrated or deprived. Quite the contrary. He felt warm and relaxed and sleepy, more like a man who had just had good sex than one who had had none at all.
He followed her into sleep.
VERITY AWOKE a little later than usual in the morning. She snuggled sleepily into the warmth of the bed and then came fully awake when she realized that she was alone. She opened her eyes. He was gone. He was not in the room, either, she saw when she looked about.
It was Christmas morning.
He had slept with her last night. Just that. He had slept with her. He had had her in bed with him, he had held her close and he had told her to go to sleep. It had not taken her long to obey. But had there been tenderness in his arms and his kiss? Had she imagined it? Certainly there had been no anger.
He was a likable man, she thought suddenly, throwing back the covers and making for the dressing room. It was a surprising realization. She had thought him impossibly attractive from the start, of course. But she had not expected to find him a pleasant person. Certainly not a kind one.
She washed in the tepid water that stood on the washstand and dressed in the white wool dress she had made herself back in the autumn to wear after she left off
her mourning. It was very simply styled, with a high neckline, straight, long sleeves and an unadorned skirt flaring from beneath her bosom. She liked its simplicity. She brushed her hair and dressed it in its usual knot at the back of her head. She took one last look at herself in the looking glass and hesitated.
Should she? She looked at the plain neckline of her dress.
She opened the drawer in which she had placed most of her belongings and stared at the box before drawing it out and opening it. It really was beautiful. It must have cost a fortune. Not that its charm lay in its monetary value. It was well crafted, tasteful. The chain was fine and delicate. It was easily the most lovely possession she had ever owned. She touched a finger to the star, withdrew, and then, after hesitating a moment longer, lifted the chain from its silken nesting place. She undid the catch, lowered her head and lifted her arms.
“Allow me,” a voice said from behind her, and hands covered her own and took the chain from her.
She kept her head bent until he had secured the chain.
“Thank you,” she said, and looked up into the glass.
His hands were on her shoulders. He was dressed with his usual immaculate elegance, she could see.
“It is beautiful,” she told him. It really was the perfect ornament for the dress.
“Yes.” He turned her to face him. “Is that sadness I see in your eyes, Blanche? It is where it belongs, you know. You have earned the right to wear the Christmas star on your bosom.”
She smiled and touched a hand to it. “It is a lovely gift,” she said. “I have something for you, too.”
She had spoken entirely on impulse. When she left London, she had given no thought to a Christmas gift. She had expected him to be merely an employer, who would pay her for the unlimited use of her body. She had not expected him to become…yes, in some strange way he had become her friend. Someone she cared about. Someone who had shown her care.
She turned to the drawer and reached to the back of it. She could not believe she was about to give away such a treasure and to him of all people. And yet she knew that she wanted to do it, that it was the right thing to do. Not that it was either an elaborate or a costly gift. But it had been Papa’s.
“Here,” she said, holding it out to him on her palm. It was not even wrapped. “It is precious to me. It was my father’s. He gave it to me when I left home. I want you to have it.” All it was was a handkerchief, folded into a square. It was of the finest linen, it was true. But still only a handkerchief.
He transferred it to his own palm and then looked into her eyes. “I believe,” he said, “your gift might be more valuable than mine, Blanche. Mine only cost money. You have given away part of yourself. Thank you. I will treasure it.”
“Happy Christmas, my lord,” she said.
“And to you.” He leaned toward her and set his lips against hers in what was a gentle and achingly sweet kiss. “Happy Christmas, Blanche.”
And she felt happy, she thought, even though her thoughts had gone to her mother and Chastity, celebrating the day without her. But they had each other, and she had…
“I wonder how the baby is this morning,” she said eagerly. “I can scarcely wait to see her again. Did she sleep? I wonder. Did Mrs. Moffatt sleep? And have the little boys met their new sister yet? I wonder if their papa will have time to spend with them today. It is Christmas Day, such an important day for children. Perhaps—”
“Perhaps, Blanche,” Viscount Folingsby said, looking and sounding his bored, cynical self again suddenly, “you will conceive ideas again, as you did yesterday, for everyone’s delectation. I do not doubt that the boys and the rest of us will be worn to a thread by the time you have finished with us.”
“But did you not enjoy yesterday?” she asked him. Surely he had. “It is Christmas, my lord, and Mr. Hollander had made no plans to celebrate it. What choice did I have? Poor man, I daresay he has always had a mother or some other relatives to plan the holiday for him.”
“Precisely.” He sighed. “It was our idea to escape such plans this year, Blanche. To spend a quiet week instead with the women of our choice. Not gathering greenery in the teeth of a blizzard, but making love in a warm bed. Not loading down the house with Christmas cheer and making merry noise with Christmas carols and entertaining energetic little boys and delivering babies, but—well, making love in a warm bed.”
“You did not enjoy yesterday,” she said, dismayed. “And you are disappointed. I have failed you. And I have ruined the holiday for Mr. Hollander, too. And—” He had set two fingers firmly against her lips.
“The baby slept through the night,” he said, “and has only just begun to fuss. Mrs. Moffatt had a few hours of sleep and declares herself to be refreshed and in the best of health this morning. The Reverend Moffatt is in transports of delight and proclaims himself to be the most fortunate man alive—as well as the cleverest, I do believe—to have begotten a daughter.
“The little boys have been given their gifts and have met their sister, with whom they seem far less impressed than their papa. They are roaring around the sitting room, obeying the paternal command to confine their energies to it until they hear otherwise. Cook is banging around the kitchen with great zeal and has every other servant moving at a brisk trot. Bertie and Debbie have not yet put in an appearance. I daresay they are making love in a warm bed. And you are looking more beautiful than any woman has any right to look. Virginal white becomes you.”
“I am sorry it is not the Christmas you intended,” she said.
“Are you?” He smiled lazily. “I am not sure I am, Blanche. Sorry, I mean. It is an interesting Christmas, to say the very least. And it is not over yet. Do you have plans for us?”
She felt herself flush. “Well,” she said, “I did think that since there are children here and their mother is indisposed and their father will wish to spend much of the day with her…and I thought that since there are still heaps of snow out there even though no more is falling…and I thought that since the rest of us have nothing particular to do all day except…” Her cheeks grew hotter.
“Make love in a warm bed?” he suggested.
“Yes,” she said. “Except that. I thought that perhaps we could…that is, unless you wish to do the other. I am quite willing. It is what I came here to do, after all.”
He was grinning at her. “Outdoor sports,” he said. “I wonder how Bertie and Debbie will greet the happy prospect?”
“Well,” she said, “they cannot spend all day in bed, can they? It would not be at all polite to the Reverend and Mrs. Moffatt.”
He merely chuckled. “Let the day begin,” he said, offering her his arm. “I would not miss it for the world, you know, or even for all the warm beds in the world, for that matter.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
JULIAN did not change his mind all through the day though he had hardly exaggerated when he had predicted that Blanche would have run them all ragged before they were done with Christmas.
As soon as breakfast was over, they took the children outside to play in the snow. They being he and Blanche until Bertie and Debbie came out to join them. They romped in the snow for what seemed only minutes but must have been hours until Bloggs appeared to inform them that their Christmas dinner was ready. His expression suggested also that Cook would have their heads if they did not come immediately to partake of it.
But long before that they had engaged in a vigorous snowball fight, which turned out to be grossly unfair in Julian’s estimation—and he complained loudly about it—as he and Bertie were pitted against both boys as well as both the ladies, two against four. And if Debbie had ever been a member of a rifle regiment, there would surely not be a Frenchman left in France without a hole through his heart. She had a deadly accurate aim and was wildly cheered by her side, and herself, whenever she demonstrated it.
They built snowmen. Or at least Julian and Bertie did while the boys danced around “helping” and Debbie ran off to beg ashes and carrots an
d one ancient straw hat from the kitchen. Blanche, reclining on a snowbank, declared that as judge she had the hardest job of all. She awarded the prize of one leftover carrot to Bertie and David.
They made snow angels until Rupert declared with loud disgust that it was a girl’s game. Blanche and Debbie continued with the sport notwithstanding while the men constructed a long slippery slide on a bit of a slope and risked their necks zooming along it. Somehow Julian ended up with David on his shoulders, clinging to his hair after his hat had proved to be an untrustworthy anchor. The child whooped with mingled fright and glee.
Debbie sought out the tree swing, brushed the snow off it and cleared a path beneath it before summoning everyone else. They all sampled its delights, singly and in pairs, all of them as noisy and exuberant as children. The adults continued even after the children had rushed away at the appearance of their father to bury him up to his neck in snow.
“The snow is starting to melt,” Blanche said wistfully as they were going indoors for dinner. “How sad.”
“It is in the nature of snow,” Julian said, wrapping one arm about her waist. “Just as it is in the nature of time to pass. That is why we have memories.”
“The children have had a marvelous morning, have they not?” she said, beaming happily at him.
“Now to which children are you referring?” he asked, kissing her cold red nose. “To the very little ones? Or to the rest of us? For myself I would as soon have been sitting with my feet up before a roaring fire.”
She merely laughed.
Christmas dinner proved to be a culinary delight beyond compare. They all ate until they were close to bursting and then Bertie sent for the cook and made a rather pompous speech of congratulation.
But that was not enough for Blanche, of course. If Mr. Hollander would be so good, she suggested, perhaps all the staff could be invited to the sitting room for a drink of the excellent wassail. She for one would like to thank them all for the hard work they had put into giving everyone such a wonderful Christmas.
The Heart of Christmas Page 7