Goodwill for the Gentleman (Belles of Christmas Book 2)

by Martha Keyes

  “Mother, Miss Caldwell, Miss Bolton,” he said. “What do you say that we honor this Christmas evening by playing a game of snapdragon?”

  The suggestion was received with excitement by everyone but Hugh’s father, who had already installed himself in his large wingback chair, spreading out a days-old copy of The Morning Chronicle, and paying no attention at all to the others in the room. Hugh’s mother, on the other hand, declared that she would enjoy participating as a spectator.

  Alfred’s expression had lightened considerably upon Hugh’s suggestion, and Hugh had high hopes that, whatever the future held for the four of them, they would at least be able to enjoy themselves this one evening.

  The bell was rung to request the needed components, and Hugh walked toward the nearest candle, extinguishing it with a breath. “The first step is to extinguish all of the light in the room.” He smiled and walked toward the Christmas tree, alight with dozens of candles.

  “Surely not the Christmas tree,” Emma said, disappointed.

  Hugh stopped, looking around the room at the various candles left to extinguish. “If you wish to leave these candles alight, I shan’t extinguish them.”

  Emma smiled, staring contentedly at the tree. “There is nothing quite as magical as a dark room, illuminated by a lighted Christbaum.”

  The corner of Hugh’s mouth tugged upward. Emma seemed a bit like a child when she spoke of Christmas.

  When all the other candles had been extinguished, Hugh looked around the room to see the effect of the candlelit tree. The small flames reflected on the window panes, creating a mirror-effect.

  Emma came up next to him, and he felt the familiar tingling her closeness provoked.

  “You were right,” he said, staring mesmerized at the flickering flames. “Magical is the only way to describe it.”

  She smiled at him, the flames reflecting in her soft eyes, and his breath hitched.

  “Come,” he said, forcing himself to put an end to the thoughts and emotions coursing through him, and she followed him to the table.

  The four young people gathered around it, Miss Bolton and Alfred sitting next to one another on a settee while Hugh and Emma took their seats on the gray chaise lounge which Hugh had moved toward the table.

  Two footmen entered, one holding a glass bowl and a bottle of brandy, the other holding a bowl of raisins and a tinderbox.

  “I warn you,” Emma said, “that I have never actually played this game.”

  “Nor I,” Miss Bolton said, shifting nervously in her seat.

  “Between Alfred and I, we have ample experience.” He took a moment to review the rules of the game, with Alfred interjecting every now and then.

  “Enough talk,” Alfred said, putting down the half-full bottle of brandy dropping a handful of raisins into the bowl.. “Let us play!” He opened the tinder box, striking the steel against the flint. After four or five attempts to light the char cloth, Hugh put out his hand.

  “You think you will light it more easily than I?” Alfred said skeptically.

  Hugh only kept his hand out. Alfred surrendered the materials, and Hugh smiled.

  With one solid strike, the char cloth ignited. “I have lit more fires over the past three years than you can possibly imagine.” He lit the brandy on fire, and blue flames danced on the surface. “Ah,” he said suddenly, closing the tinder box and setting it beside the bowl. He picked up a single almond from the bowl of raisins, holding it up for the others to see. “Whoever fishes this out of the bowl is declared the winner, no matter how many or how few raisins anyone has managed to pluck out during the game.”

  “And what is the benefit of such a prize?” asked Emma, removing her shawl and laying it across the end of the chaise lounge.

  “The winner,” Hugh said slowly, enjoying the suspense he saw in Miss Bolton and Emma’s expressions, “can claim a reward of his or her choosing.”

  Miss Bolton looked at Alfred with flushed cheeks, and he winked at her.

  Despite the initial hesitation from Miss Bolton and the skepticism of Emma, the four of them enjoyed a rousing game of snapdragon. Miss Bolton was particularly agile, and Hugh was pleasantly surprised at the way the game seemed to break through her shell of calm composure, bringing out a side of her which was lively and competitive.

  Hugh’s mother watched in apprehension and amusement for some time from a nearby chair, but once his father, who had been snoozing in his chair, stood and announced his intention to go to bed, she adjured them not to burn the house down and followed her husband out.

  Emma was predictably competitive, determined not to let Hugh claim the almond. Little did she know that he had already done so with no fanfare, slipping it into his coat pocket with no one the wiser.

  So determined was Emma, though, that she had plunged one ungloved hand into the brandy and then made to do the same with her gloved hand, fishing inside with no regard for the blue flames which licked at her wrist.

  Hugh grabbed her gloved hand by the wrist, pulling it toward him and away from the bowl and fire. The fingers were soaked with caramel-colored brandy, and small flames whipped up at the tips.

  Alfred swore softly, and Miss Bolton’s hand flew to her mouth.

  Heart thudding in his chest, Hugh snatched a towel from the table, enveloping Emma’s hand between his and pressing forcefully.

  Emma cried out in pain, attempting unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand.

  Hugh maintained the pressure a moment longer and then opened the towel to inspect the fingertips of the gloves in the blue light of the snapdragon flames. The fabric was charred but still intact, as far as he could tell. “Has your skin been burned?” he asked, stooping over her hand and wishing that there were more light in the room to see by.

  “No,” Emma said waspishly, “but I believe you have crushed my fingers.”

  Hugh glanced at her and smiled slightly before looking back to her hand and beginning to remove the glove gently, fingertip by fingertip.

  “I was very close to picking up the almond, you know.” Her voice was bitter, but he saw her dimple peep out as he looked up at her.

  He held her bare hand in his, trying to ignore how soft her skin felt on his own. “In this dim light, I can’t tell whether the skin is red.” He glanced at the illuminated tree. “Come to the light of the tree. If you have been burned, we should treat it immediately.”

  She sighed dramatically.

  “Please let us know if we may do anything to help,” Miss Bolton said in a worried tone, as Alfred grabbed her hand in a comforting gesture.

  Emma smiled at her and nodded, following Hugh to the tree.

  Hugh stopped next to it, the branches brushing up against his coat as Emma joined him. The scent of pine wafted around them, overtaking the smell of burning firewood and brandy.

  “Let us see what damage has been done,” he said, holding out a hand to invite hers.

  “I am quite all right,” Emma insisted, though she offered her hand all the same, holding the charred glove in her other hand.

  Hugh took her hand in his again, wishing that it were to keep hold of rather than for a brief inspection for injury. Where her hands were soft, delicate, and smooth, Hugh’s were undoubtedly rough—hardly a pleasant experience for Emma. But it was decidedly pleasant for him to hold hers.

  He examined her fingertips in the candlelight. “They don’t look particularly red, which I would expect them to if you had been burned. Do they hurt?”

  Emma shook her head. “And if you think this will keep me from the almond, you are horribly mistaken.”

  Hugh laughed and looked up from her hand.

  Her eyes sparkled, the flame of numerous candles reflecting back at him. “And what if I obtain it before you?” He knew exactly what reward he would claim if he could; if things had been different.

  What reward did she wish for?

  Her gaze flitted down to her hand in his, but she made no move to pull it away.

  “Then I supp
ose,” she said, “that we must consider ourselves enemies once again and our truce at an end.”

  He brushed off the dismay he felt. He wasn’t ready for Emma to revert to her icy enmity. How would he bear it after the last few days? “So, I must prepare myself to again face the infamous wrath of Miss Caldwell?”

  She laughed but was prevented from responding.

  “What a very thorough inspection you are doing, Hugh,” said Alfred in a sharp voice.

  Emma’s hand dropped, and Hugh felt a flash of annoyance with Alfred.

  He looked to his brother. He and Miss Bolton were no longer holding hands, and Miss Bolton’s head was bowed and turned away from Alfred. Alfred wore a scowl.

  Emma walked back over to them, and Hugh took in a breath and followed, sitting again on the chaise-lounge near her.

  “No harm done,” Emma said. “I believe this was all a pretense, though. Lieutenant Warrilow wishes to keep me from the almond, of course. But he shan’t.”

  Alfred let out a scoff. “Yes, Hugh will stop at nothing to attain his goals, no matter the wreckage he leaves behind.” He stood and stalked out of the room.

  “Alfred,” called out Miss Bolton, following after him.

  Hugh sat motionless, stunned, a great lump in his throat that he couldn’t even bring himself to swallow. What had happened so suddenly to alter the wonderful understanding between his brother and Miss Bolton?

  To hear how Alfred felt about him, how he perceived him, it struck right at Hugh’s core. No matter how many times it had seemed that his mistakes were finally behind him, Hugh found himself confronting them again and again.

  He was vaguely aware of Emma’s presence, of the fact that they were the only ones remaining in the candlelit room, but all he could manage was to drop his head into his hands.

  What a mess had he made of his life and the lives of those he loved?

  9

  Emma forced herself to sit still, afraid that if she moved, she would draw attention to herself and to the fact that she and Lieutenant Warrilow were alone together in the dark room. Her impulses warred: one telling her to leave the room, to leave the lieutenant to himself, to pull away from the discomfort of being present with his strong emotions; the other impulse telling her to comfort the large man in front of her, who seemed to have crumpled at his brother’s unkind words.

  For so long, she had seen the lieutenant just as Alfred had described him: a man who acted out of self-interest, heedless of how it affected those around him.

  But such a characterization did not account for the man who sat two feet away from her, silent and cast down. It didn’t account for anything she had seen of him over the past few days. Whether there was some truth to it or none, she had to admit to herself that her opinion of him had been hastily modified and woefully inaccurate.

  Casting her eyes away from the troubling image of the lieutenant’s pain, she made a small movement to rise from the couch, to leave him with whatever emotion he needed to sort through. She had thought there would be some sense of justice to see him in pain. But there was nothing of that in what Emma felt.

  Rather, in his hunched form and the hands which covered his face from her view, she caught a glimpse of Lucy. She had comforted Lucy in her dejection. Who would comfort the lieutenant?

  She cleared her throat and scooted nearer, ignoring an impulse to put an understanding hand on his back, as she might have done for Lucy. “I am sure that your brother did not mean what he said, Lieutenant. He was only speaking out of anger. I understand that he and Miss Bolton are in a difficult position regarding their engagement, and it has him on edge, I imagine.”

  She shifted in her seat again. It was strange to be reassuring the man she had sworn she would always hate, to be contradicting the words she herself might have said only a week ago.

  The lieutenant’s hands moved down his face, pulling at his features and stretching his skin downward as he sat up, still not looking at her. “He spoke the truth, out of anger or not. I have only managed to bring hurt to those around me.”

  It took a moment for Emma to find any words to counter his statement. She had agreed with his sentiment for too long to have any contrary words at the ready. But she could hardly confirm what he had said—she was not so unkind.

  And surely it wasn’t entirely true, even if Emma didn’t know how to respond. What might the lieutenant’s mother say if she were here, in Emma’s seat, comforting the son she loved?

  “It is not true, though,” Emma said.

  He looked at her, a wry smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. “You needn’t try to pretend you disagree, Miss Caldwell.”

  Emma was glad for the relative darkness of the room, feeling the heat seep into her cheeks.

  “I am not pretending,” she insisted. Seeing his incredulity, she continued. “I can think of a number of reasons it is untrue. Most notably, you bring your mother great joy. I have seen a contentment in her the past few days that was missing during the entirety of your absence. And your brother, too, despite the way he just lashed out at you. Besides that, think of what comfort you brought to the villagers earlier today.”

  “That was your idea,” he said, though he seemed touched by her comments.

  She waved away his words. “My initial idea, perhaps, but you were the one who made sure that it was carried out. It was you who insisted that it not be the servants who did so.”

  He rubbed at his mouth and shook his head. “I’m afraid that it hardly outweighs the pain I have caused elsewhere.”

  “I am sure it is nothing that cannot be forgiven or set right, Lieutenant.”

  “Then you haven’t any idea of its scope.” He paused. “Do you know that a man died to save me?” His voice was low and soft, and she watched his throat bob. “Did you know that, because of me, his wife and child are left without a husband or father?”

  Her mouth opened wordlessly. “No,” she finally said in a soft voice, looking down at her clasped hands, one still ungloved. “I did not know that. But surely he would not have sacrificed his own life if he thought you were not worth such a sacrifice.”

  “Robert Seymour would sacrifice himself for any man,” the lieutenant said, staring into the lights on the tree.

  Emma’s head came up. “Robert Seymour?”

  “You knew him?”

  Emma nodded and closed her eyes. “I know his wife somewhat. I can tell you, though, that he wouldn’t wish for you to be eaten up with guilt. He would want his sacrifice to enable your happiness, not to diminish it.”

  He frowned, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a signet ring, letting the candlelight reflect off the large red stone set within gold. “This belonged to Seymour. I have been meaning to return it to his wife, but”— he grimaced —“my courage fails me.” He looked up from the ring at Emma, an earnest question in his eyes. “How can I face the woman who became a widow so that I could live?”

  She wet her lips, unsure how to respond. His burden was not an easy one to live with, and Emma was too familiar with the Seymour’s situation to downplay the emotional and financial difficulty they faced at the loss of Robert.

  “It will not be easy, I’m sure. But perhaps returning the ring can put you in a situation to discover how else you might assist them. There is no doubt that they stand in need. But your guilt, understandable as it may be, serves no one—least of all you.” She raised up her shoulders. “Let it spur you to action, let it drive you to make things better than they otherwise would be. You have the means to do much good.”

  He was watching her steadily, holding the signet ring between his thumb and forefinger and then clutching it in his fist. “You are right.” He shut his eyes and exhaled. “But I will never be able to repay what he did for me.”

  Emma reached for his hand, covering it with hers. She felt his hand startle slightly as he looked at her with surprise.

  The lieutenant clearly felt his share of pain and, much as Emma might have thought this fact would sa
tisfy her and make her feel some sense of poetic justice existed, she found that, sitting with him here and hearing how he hurt, she only wished to comfort him, to help him see the good he had done.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t think you will be able to repay it fully.” She looked down at her hand on top of his. “But you saved another man’s life, you gave him a home and work, and that means something, Lieutenant. It is no small thing to help another in their greatest need.”

  He stared into her eyes, his own soft and tender, a smile playing at the corner of his frowning mouth. “Never did I think to be consoled by you, Miss Caldwell.”

  She smiled teasingly at him. “I am only abiding by the terms of our truce, of course.” She looked away, her smile fading slightly. “And despite what I may have given you to think, you have made my unexpected stay here more rather than less bearable.”

  She stole a glance at him, realizing suddenly how very close they were sitting to one another, how their hands still touched. She could feel the heat of his leg on her own, and she stood quickly, removing her hand from his.

  He followed suit, picking up her charred glove and handing it to her. “Thank you for staying with me. I am sure this was not how you envisioned spending Christmas.”

  She gave a soft laugh. Would she have done things differently if she could have? Would she have escaped the conversation she’d just had with the lieutenant if given the opportunity?

  No. She had seen a new side of the lieutenant—a side which drew her to him. What she was to do with such feelings, she didn’t know. But she knew she wouldn’t trade them.

  The Lieutenant reached for her shawl, draped across the back of the chaise, and placed it over her shoulders.

  Emma felt her heart thump uncomfortably as his hands brushed her arms, his face near enough that she could feel his breath graze her cheek.

  It was a polite gesture, no more, and yet her body was not reacting that way. Did he feel it, too?

  Having wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, he stood looking down at her, still so near, and the distance between them thickened with tension.