Christmas with His Wallflower Wife

by Janice Preston

  Jane lay awake, staring blindly into the darkness, worrying. Alex was still downstairs and, if she was honest, it was something of a relief. Lately, when they made love, although she was always physically satiated, she ended up feeling flat. Emotionally hungry. Dissatisfied.

  And his moods seemed to be worsening. Was it simply pride that kept him from confessing what he was so afraid of? Because he was afraid. She saw the fear haunting his eyes, especially since Monday when, whatever he might tell her, she was convinced he’d had another of his funny turns. And that fear, she was certain, was new. He had always been haunted. But he had not been afraid. Rather, he had always been fearless. She frowned. At least, he had always appeared fearless. On the surface.

  If only he would trust her. He must know she wouldn’t think any the less of him, or love him any less, no matter what. But he stubbornly refused to even admit anything was wrong and, try as she might, she couldn’t find a way to break through the barrier he had thrown up between them.

  Finally, weary of her ever-circling thoughts that appeared to get her nowhere, she rolled over and slept.

  * * *

  My husband is the most frustrating man I know!

  The refrain ran through Jane’s thoughts a minimum of twice a day in the days and weeks that followed. Alex continued to act all strong and manly, denying there was anything wrong and, despite knowing that pestering him to talk only made him irritable, Jane could not help herself. She was worried sick about him. If only he would trust her...she was certain they could resolve whatever it was that shadowed his eyes and was robbing him of his appetite.

  * * *

  A voice inside Alex’s head warned he was in danger of becoming obsessed with finding out everything he could about his mother. Most days, either Anthony visited Foxbourne, or Alex rode over to Halsdon and if, for whatever reason, they did not meet for a few days a panicky feeling would take root in his gut, growing there until the next time he saw their neighbour.

  He shoved aside Jane’s concerns—this was his problem, and he would find a solution. He couldn’t risk giving her even the slightest hint of what was going on inside his head until it was clear in his own mind, and it was a long way from being clear. Talking to Anthony helped, however, and those distressing visions became less frequent—he even coped with the smell of the rose-scented perfume worn by a lady seated in front of him in church one Sunday without making an utter fool of himself. It helped to breathe through his mouth and to concentrate his thoughts on the sermon... It was surely the first time he had ever paid so much attention to a vicar’s discourse.

  Things were improving. Except for that deep dread that assailed him whenever a mental image of his father formed in his mind’s eye. But was his father’s face linked to his memories of that day because it was he who had carried seven-year-old Alex back to the Abbey or was there a more sinister reason? What if those dreadful suspicions were true? What if his father had killed his mother? That thought alone was enough to make him feel physically sick.

  * * *

  Alex and Lilley were debating which of their young stock to sell to ensure a sufficient stock of winter fodder one day when Anthony rode up to them.

  ‘Would you care to come up to the house?’ Alex asked. ‘There’s a real nip in the air this morning. I dare say you would appreciate a glass of something to counter it.’

  Anthony’s gaze slid away from Alex, as though embarrassed. ‘I should not like to presume. I...’ He shook his head. ‘No. I am being over-sensitive. Yes. Thank you, Alexander. I accept with pleasure.’

  Alex frowned. ‘What do you mean...presume? There is nothing presumptuous about accepting an invitation from a man to join him for a glass of wine.’

  ‘No, of course there is not. Ignore me, I beg of you.’

  ‘No. Tell me what you meant. Has...has Jane made you feel unwelcome?’

  ‘Not at all! Please do not think... I am certain she did not mean...after all, I have been a frequent visitor. It would be no wonder if a bride resented a friend who distracted her husband. Not that a word of criticism has left her lips, I assure you. She has been all that is civil.’

  Civil? Alex had been on the receiving end of Jane’s civility when she disapproved of something but it was her duty as lady of the house to make all visitors feel welcome, without regard to personal feelings. His inner voice urged him not to fly in and throw accusations at Jane—she’d warned him she didn’t care for Anthony, and it was true he visited Foxbourne frequently.

  The last thing they needed was even more conflict between them—it was bad enough with her constantly on at him to talk about his mother, and what had happened. She seemed unable to accept it was part of his life separate from their marriage and their life at Foxbourne. Plus, at the back of his mind, was the nagging realisation that he still hadn’t told her they wouldn’t be going to the Abbey for Christmas. It never seemed to be the right time but he was horribly aware he couldn’t put it off much longer.

  ‘Well, you may take it from me that you are welcome to visit any time you choose, Anthony. After all, I visit Halsdon as often as you come here.’

  ‘Thank you, my boy. You have no idea how much that means to me, coming from Margaret’s boy. If I had ever been blessed with a son, I would wish for him to be just like you.’

  Once indoors, Alex led the way to his business room.

  ‘I do suggest, though, that you might visit me at Halsdon more often instead,’ Anthony continued as Alex stood aside for the older man to precede him into the room. ‘At least there we can be sure we are not disturbing—Oh! I do beg your pardon, Jane. I am sure neither of us had any notion you might be in here.’

  Alex entered to see Jane standing on the far side of the desk, his quill knife in her hand.

  ‘You may rest assured you are in no way disturbing me, Anthony,’ she said. ‘I have merely come to borrow Alex’s knife as I have mislaid my own and I am writing to my father.’

  She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. She rounded the desk and headed for the door, saying, ‘Please excuse me. I must go and attend to my correspondence.’

  Alex poured them both a glass of Madeira.

  After they had settled, Anthony said, ‘I am reluctant to broach the subject, but I hope Rosalind is content with your father? I know I forfeited any right to concern after my despicable actions five years ago, but I still care enough to wish her happy in her marriage.’

  Alex always tried to avoid the subject of his father but Anthony was persistent in introducing him into conversation.

  ‘Yes. They are happy together.’

  ‘I am glad. She is more fortunate than poor Margaret. Her life with your father was far from happy.’

  He’d told Alex that many times, as he’d recounted his memories of Alex’s mother. He sipped his wine. ‘Speaking of your father...’

  Alex tensed. He might have grown closer to Anthony but he was conscious the man had never put aside his hatred and jealousy of Alex’s father.

  ‘What about him?’ he asked when Anthony seemed reluctant to continue.

  Anthony shrugged. ‘Oh. It is of no importance. Not really. But I cannot help but wonder why your own relationship with him has not improved? Five years ago, you were still a headstrong young man, for ever in trouble...as I remember, that is. Forgive me if I have misinterpreted the events of that year.’

  Alex scowled. ‘No. Your memory is correct. But I do not see your point.’

  Anthony waved his arm, indicating the room. ‘I am curious why—five years later, with you a responsible estate owner, running a business, and, from my observations, no longer in thrall to your previous wild existence—you are still at odds with the Duke?’

  When Alex failed to respond, Anthony continued, ‘Have I touched upon a nerve? My dear Alexander, please forgive me. It is family business. I understand.’ He leaned forward, patting Alex’s knee. ‘B
ut if you ever need someone to listen, you know where I am. I know you have family loyalty at heart—and you’re aware your father and I can never be friends—but if anyone can understand, it is I.

  ‘It is hard to be the outsider; the only one, seemingly, out of step. Your father is universally admired. And the rest of your...of our...family love him unconditionally.’ He shook his head. ‘I sometimes wonder why I cannot do likewise.’ He raised his glass. ‘You and I, m’boy, are kindred spirits. We should take strength from that. Cheers.’

  He smiled, and drank, and Alex automatically responded to his toast although the very notion he and Anthony Lascelles were alike bothered him. Intensely. Anthony had always resented and loathed Father. That was his conscious decision, driven by resentment and jealousy. It wasn’t the same with Alex. He’d always longed to love his father unconditionally, as Dominic did, but that natural filial love had always eluded him.

  And he didn’t know why; unless these accursed visions were trying to expose the reason. The familiar dread coiled in his gut. He no longer doubted he had witnessed his mother’s murder. But...could his father really be her killer?

  ‘What is it?’ Anthony’s voice seemed far away. ‘Alexander? You are pale, my boy. Are you unwell?’

  ‘No. I’m all right. It’s nothing.’ Alex drained his glass and rose to his feet. ‘Thank you for calling in, Anthony, but I really must return to the stables...there are decisions to be made.’

  Lascelles was soon mounted, ready to leave. He touched the brim of his hat in farewell.

  ‘Don’t be a stranger, Alexander. Call upon me whenever you wish...you will always find a warm welcome.’

  Later, Alex found Jane in the drawing room, embroidering initials on the handkerchiefs she’d made for Christmas.

  ‘Anthony feels unwelcome here.’

  ‘Does he?’ She captured Alex’s gaze. ‘I am sorry, Alex, but I have said nothing to make him feel that way. I’m aware of my duties as hostess, and I say all the right words. I cannot help it if my inner feelings reveal an aversion to Lascelles, the same as he seems unable to prevent his inner...offensiveness...from peeking through at times.’ Her lips tightened before she added, ‘There is something not right about the man.’

  ‘You shouldn’t allow Aunt Cecily’s prejudice to infect you. You are positively searching for reasons to object to him.’

  Jane leapt to her feet, her eyes shooting sparks. ‘I am not! You are being unfair, Alex. I am polite to him because he is your guest, but you cannot force me to like him. I cannot understand why you don’t recognise his deviousness.’

  ‘He knew my mother! I—’

  ‘But that doesn’t stop him being devious!’ He winced as she raised her voice. What had happened to quiet, inoffensive Jane? ‘Why do you always find time for him yet hardly have any time to talk to me?’

  Anger roared through him, partly fuelled by knowing she was correct. He sought out Anthony to talk about his mother, and yet his mother was the very reason he avoided talking to Jane. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He paced the room, desperately tamping down that rage. How ridiculous, to allow a neighbour to cause such a row.

  ‘You know I need to find out about Mother.’ He stopped pacing and took Jane’s hands. ‘Let’s not quarrel, Janey. I hate it when you’re cross with me.’

  Jane’s face softened. ‘I hate it, too. But please don’t expect me to mindlessly obey you when it goes counter to what I believe. I will continue to speak my mind—but I only ever do it out of love for you.’

  Shame now held him in its grip. She was far too good for him. His hands slid up her arms to her shoulders.

  ‘I do know it. But I won’t stop seeing Anthony. I cannot. Please accept that.’

  ‘I do.’ Her soft hand caressed his cheek. ‘But I wish you would trust me enough to talk to me, Alex. You are remembering something from the past, but what can be so dreadful that you are unable to tell me?’

  He stiffened. He didn’t want this discussion. Not again.

  ‘Whatever it is you’re afraid of, I can help. Please. Just tell—’

  Alex jerked away from her. ‘There’s nothing. I have told you. Time after time. Why won’t you trust me when I say there’s nothing wrong?’

  He spun on his heel and slammed out of the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jane picked up her discarded sewing, her throat a painful mass of unshed tears. Her hands shook and, after pricking her finger twice, she gave up trying to control her emotions. She crossed to the window, staring blindly out, as she relived every moment and every word of their argument. Her arms wrapped around her waist, her hands fisting in the fabric of her gown. Should she have apologised, and promised to be less mistrustful of Lascelles? Should she give in, and accept Alex’s refusal to talk about whatever was troubling him? She could be the easy, supportive wife who never questioned her husband’s judgement and decisions but she believed, with her whole heart, that was the wrong path.

  Despite Alex’s fury. Despite his refusal to confide in her. Despite her distress at his reaction...she still believed she was right to keep encouraging him to trust her.

  Or nagging him, as he would no doubt see it.

  She hauled in a deep breath, and lifted her chin. She knew Alex. She’d seen these tactics time after time, from way back when she first knew him. It was how he kept the world at arm’s length—his brother, his sister, his aunt and uncle. His father. He kept them all away, never allowing them to probe too deeply. It was his defence...the way he pretended nothing mattered...nothing could touch him...hurt him. But he was hurting, deep inside. She knew it.

  And that fear still haunted him. She had glimpsed it too many times, shadowing his tiger eyes before his expression would blank, his jaw tight. It had started with his stay at the Abbey, and Pikeford’s attack, and it linked to that day he had discovered his mother’s body. The entire family counted it as a blessing he couldn’t remember, believing ignorance protected him. Jane wasn’t so sure.

  Now...was he remembering the details of that day after all? Could he now picture his mother’s brutalised body as he had found her? Jane shuddered, the memory of Pikeford close. He’d hit her. He was drunk...she’d been unable to reason with him... How far would he have gone had Alex not intervened? Another shudder racked her body, her skin crawling with gooseflesh and, of a sudden, all she wanted was to turn to Alex, to feel his arms around her, his strength and his comfort.

  Her heart ached that he would not turn to her in his distress, but chose to turn to Lascelles. With a muttered exclamation she swiped the tears wetting her cheeks. Crying wouldn’t help. She didn’t know what would help. Or...yes, she did.

  Alex.

  She couldn’t bear to leave his anger to fester...she hated it when they quarrelled. For her own sake, she would apologise for now but it wouldn’t stop her trying again. She’d lived too long with her stepmother—having to edit every word before she spoke—to be prepared to tiptoe around within her own marriage.

  She spun on her heel and half ran to the door, which opened as she reached it.

  Alex. Contrition on his face.

  Jane stepped back. ‘I was coming to find you. To say I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. It’s me who is sorry.’ He hugged her close. ‘I’m a brute. I know you are trying to help me, but...’ He shrugged. ‘I am too used to fending for myself.’ He tipped up her chin, searched her eyes. ‘Forgive me, Honeybee?’

  She bit her lip. ‘I forgive you, Alex. But...I still want you to trust me. I really do believe it will help you to talk about whatever is haunting you. Unless, of course, you have already confided in Anthony?’

  She couldn’t help herself, even though she was aware she was playing with fire by revisiting the very reason they had argued. A myriad of emotions played across Alex’s face. Jane braced herself for him to lose his temper again, but he sighed, and Jane relea
sed her own breath, knowing he would not fly up into the boughs again. This time.

  ‘Jane...sweetheart...there’s nothing to tell. Your imagination is conjuring up ghosts where there are only figures draped in sheets. They are of no concern. Now...come for a ride with me? I want to inspect the two-year-olds in the north paddock. Lilley and I have been discussing which of them to sell and which to keep. I’d value your opinion.’

  Jane knew a distraction when she saw one. Alex was a master at deflecting attention from subjects he refused to discuss. She suppressed another sigh as she accepted her husband’s latest olive branch.

  * * *

  It was the first day of December, and Jane had just finished writing to Olivia when Kent came into the parlour.

  ‘Mr Lascelles is here, milady—he brought a letter with him. He met Tommy on his way to the village. I told him His Lordship is away from home, and he asked for you.’

  Jane stood, her insides clenching. The prospect of being alone with Lascelles unnerved her, with Alex absent from the house.

  ‘Thank you, Kent. Have you offered him refreshments?’

  ‘Yes, milady. He declined. He said he will not linger but didn’t wish to leave without paying his respects. He is waiting in the library.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jane smoothed her clammy palms down her skirt before she preceded Kent into the hall. The letter lay on the console table and she recognised Liberty’s neat hand. Her heart lifted. Liberty’s letters were always entertaining—almost as good as chatting face-to-face. They’d become firm friends since their first meeting, before Dominic and Liberty’s marriage.

  But before she could read it, there was Lascelles to face. She longed to ask for a maid to come and sit with them but was embarrassed to reveal her mistrust in Lascelles.

  As she passed Kent into the library, however, he murmured, ‘I shall be in the hallway should our visitor change his mind about refreshments, milady. You only have to call.’