‘Yes. She has gone.’ Carstairs, normally determinedly free of expression, had a slightly concerned look in his eyes. ‘Vanished. Apart from a note pinned to the door, thanking you for the day off.’
‘I… goodness, really?’ Lady Chiltern struggled to conceal her overwhelming sense of relief, before more practical concerns took precedence. ‘But Christmas Day is her day with her family. I was very clear with her.’
‘You were. I remember. But Cook does not normally make mistakes of such import.’ Carstairs sighed. ‘I consider it a serious mistake.’
‘Well, it does leave us in something of a pickle.’ The word us rolled so naturally off Lady Chiltern’s tongue that she didn’t think to correct it; she saw the slight furrowing of Carstairs’ brow. ‘Especially with the maids taking their traditional days of celebration. It might be a little too late to find new help—perhaps you could ask William or John if they have sisters capable of serving?’
‘Well… that would be the other matter, ma’am.’ Carstairs folded his arms, his brow furrowing further. ‘I… I cannot find them.’
‘... Excuse me?’ Lady Chiltern looked worriedly at Carstairs, other concerns briefly forgotten. ‘You cannot find our groundsmen?’
‘Yes. They have gone. Much like Cook.’ Carstairs paused. ‘There might be a note. I’m not entirely sure either of them can write.’
‘I see.’ Lady Chiltern absent-mindedly crumpled the letters in her fist. ‘A larger pickle.’
No maids. No Cook. No groundsmen—and no Daisy, or Iris. Chiltern Manor was hardly bustling at the best of times, but Christmas Eve was beginning to acquire a slightly abandoned air…
… And she and Carstairs were the only ones left.
‘Then we are alone.’ She swallowed, the sound of her own voice suddenly echoing through the empty house.
‘Yes.’ Carstairs blinked. ‘Quite alone.’
They looked at one another for a long, silent moment. Lady Chiltern, all-too-aware of how her eyes refused to leave Carstairs’ own, rushed to fill the sudden space with speech.
‘It is a little curious, to my mind, that my beloved progeny find themselves so mysteriously busy on Christmas Eve.’ She folded the letters over and over in her hands, trying not to lose herself in Carstairs’ dark, inscrutable expression. ‘I would understand Iris falling into muddles, perhaps, but not Daisy as well. And with the absence of the staff—usual for the maids, of course, but Cook? Why, it… it almost seems…’
‘Convenient.’ Carstairs’ voice was low, hoarse with some repressed emotion. ‘Very convenient.’
No words at all came to Lady Chiltern; nothing in the world seemed like a suitable response. A number of unsuitable responses surfaced in her mind, shining, tempting. She was no lady of the manor; not here, in this precise moment. Carstairs was not subservient, not now—they were puzzling something out, together, and if the veil would lift only a little more… perhaps they would see one another.
And he would kiss her. Lord, how she wanted him to kiss her; to take her in his arms and hold her, crushing her to him, as if trying to unite their very souls. He would kiss her, touch her; do things she blushed to think about—and yet kept thinking about in the privacy of her own bedroom, night after night, her fingers creeping beneath her chemise…
‘How, exactly, could this be called convenient?’ At first she barely realised she had spoken; her own voice sounded altered. Bold. ‘Perhaps I could be informed as to its specific convenience. Or… or shown.’
How on earth could she have said that? She felt herself shrinking; ready to laugh, or cry, or run into the scullery and never emerge. She had never provoked him so shamelessly—the poor man had every right to leave, or hand in his notice.
Carstairs didn’t appear to be doing either. He stood still, his face impassive, as Lady Chiltern began to wilt… and then, he stepped forward.
It was going to happen. Lady Chiltern wasn’t entirely sure what it would be; whether it would be word, or deed. All she knew with any certainty was that she was ready. Completely, utterly ready.
A sudden, impossibly loud crash echoed through the room. Lady Chiltern jumped backward, staring in horror at the ceiling as Carstairs quickly turned, unconsciously shielding her with his body. More crashes came; the splintering of wood, the slow scrape and shatter of tiles. Then, the empty howling of the wind.
‘Wilkins.’ Lady Chiltern heard her own voice as if from very far away. ‘The—’
‘The roof.’ Carstairs turned slightly, his face full of delicate reproach. ‘The need for repairs has been stated more than once.’
‘Yes. By you. And I ignored it completely.’ Lady Chiltern blinked, the intensity of the moment between them slowly ebbing away. ‘I apologise.’
‘It is not my place to need an apology, and not your place to offer one.’ The vulnerability in Carstairs’ eyes had been hidden behind the usual, carefully constructed wall of blank servility. ‘Ma’am, please stay here. I will investigate the extent of the damage.’
‘Of course.’ Lady Chiltern stood meekly, loathing herself. ‘Of course.’
He had come far too close to breaking. John Carstairs silently reprimanded himself as he made his way tentatively up the stairs, alert to every creak and far-off crash. He had stood too close to her, spoke too freely—he had even been ready to touch her. Grip her waist, pull her close, and show her exactly what she had asked so boldly to be shown.
Catherine. He couldn’t call her my lady in his head, except for in some of his wilder erotic fantasies—but he couldn’t imagine sensual dalliances when serving her, much as he was tempted to. During the day, during the hours in which he parcelled up and put away his soul, Lady Chiltern was simply Catherine.
Catherine, who had just stepped over a boundary they had painstakingly built over years of seeing one another, knowing one another, sleeping under the same roof. Catherine, whom he had loved desperately ever since his arrival at Chiltern Manor.
Catherine, who had just asked him to show her why being alone with her would be so very convenient.
Ecstasy. Agony. Anarchy. And Carstairs loved Catherine far, far too much to both ruin her reputation, and cheapen his own sentiments by agreeing to some base arrangement. Even if Catherine asked him again, pleaded with him, begged him, she would only be begging for consequence-free pleasure.
It would be bliss. Of course it would; he desired her. But it wouldn’t be the open, public love that he wanted—how could she ever ask for that?
How could she ever ask for that from him, so meagre, so undeserving?
He shook his head, pulling himself from his melancholy self-indulgence as he took in the damage the snow had wrought. An entire portion of the corridor was now open to the sky; icy wind whistled through the jagged hole in the roof, the Turkish carpet now a filthy, bedraggled obstacle course of cracked slates and melting snow. As Carstairs made a tentative step forward, an ominous-sounding creak forced him backward.
‘The upper floor is too dangerous to walk through.’ He looked down at Catherine’s anxious, vulnerable figure, and felt a rush of concern that almost unmanned him entirely. ‘I fear that we are confined to the lower rooms, for now.’
‘Oh, good Lord.’ Catherine bit her lip, her arms folded tight against her bodice. ‘I… I rather fear that we must try and walk to Chiltern village. To ask for help—or find a place to shelter.’ She shivered, and Carstairs fought the urge to hold her. ‘It is already much colder.’
‘There is a blizzard outside.’ Carstairs hated to contradict her, but the angry sky he glimpsed through the hole in the roof did not appear promising. ‘I doubt we could reach the village without trouble.’
‘But it had only just begun to fall.’ Catherine began to walk towards the front door; Carstairs hastened down the stairs to follow her. ‘I’m sure if we walked quickly—’
As she pulled open the front door, a wild whirl of snow gusted through the entrance. Carstairs ran to close the door, pushing the mud-covered mat again
st the bottom of the wood to block out any rogue snowflakes—realising only as he kicked the mat into place that he had taken Catherine in his arms.
She had snowflakes stuck to her eyelashes. Carstairs looked at the tiny points of white, wondering if he should gently brush them away, before he realised the gravity of his position. He could feel her breathing against his chest; feel the clean cotton of her morning robe. The wicked, indecent softness of her skin.
He abruptly let her go. He watched her blink, the snowflakes melting into nothingness, breathing harder than the moment of exertion warranted.
‘It is too dangerous, ma’am.’ His mouth was dry. ‘We must stay here until this blizzard ends. Your daughters will be doing much the same thing.’
‘Yes. I see that now.’ Catherine looked at the door, then back to him. ‘We—we must find the warmest room, and build a fire.’
‘Yes.’ Carstairs swallowed. ‘A fine idea, ma’am.’
My Christmas Eve. Lady Chiltern looked dazedly about her as the wind howled through the upper floors. It is falling to pieces.
Quite literally falling to pieces, if she really thought about it. Chiltern Manor had needed repairs since the birth of Daisy and Iris; Jeremy had been too miserly to pay for essential repairs, even as his London mistress had enjoyed the very finest of fripperies. After his death, with two growing girls that needed all of her attention, Lady Chiltern had allowed the broken parts of the house to sink into romantic, idle neglect—a cheerful acceptance of its faults, as she had begun to do with her own decidedly imperfect self.
This, then, was the reward for her lack of attention; a damaged roof, a ruined rug, and a cold wind that seemed to make its way through even the smallest crack. Combined with the lack of servants—not to mention the lack of daughters—and Christmas Eve, one of her most cherished rituals, was beginning to take on a decidedly different character.
Different. Lady Chiltern tried not to look at Carstairs as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing his strong, tanned arms. Very different. Falling to pieces.
But not ruined.
It was Carstairs who had chosen the study as the warmest room; it was certainly the smallest, all the better for trapping heat, and tucked away in a part of the house where the roof wasn’t quite so weak. It was Carstairs who had begun to make practical changes to the book-lined room in order to ensure warmth; curtains drawn against the snowstorm, rugs pushed against the door—and it was Carstairs, taking off his jacket to reveal a coarse linen shirt, who was currently building a fire. It had been two hours, two very full and busy hours, of Carstairs.
Trapped in a small room with Carstairs, cut off from the rest of the world. Lady Chiltern watched the man sink to his knees, carefully arranging a tower of wood and torn newspaper, as she herself settled into one of the high-backed leather chairs. Not ruined at all, then, as Christmas Eves go.
She never normally had the chance to watch him with such undivided attention. Normally she forced herself not to; it wouldn’t do to have the other servants suspect that her treatment of Carstairs was anything less than platonic gratitude. But here, in the strange, topsy-turvy world that had arrived with the falling roof, she could stare at the man to her heart’s content; lose herself in the careful, graceful strength of his body, his rough-hewn edges, the combination of delicacy and power with which he moved through the world. The complete concentration he gave to the task that lay before him; his complete focus.
How would it feel, to have that focus trained entirely on herself? She had felt it before; hints of it, flashes. Or perhaps she was simply a silly woman, overcome with foolish fantasies, misreading the impersonal care of a servant for the distinctly personal care of a man who saw her.
Who saw her, and knew her, and wanted her all the same.
She watched as a drifting mote of dust settled on the collar of Carstairs’ shirt. Dust was dust, of course; it could settle where it pleased, in the absence of servants to shoo it away. But here, given that she was only a few steps away, looking desperately for a reason to draw closer…
She rose slowly, not wanting to disturb him. It would be the work of a moment to gently brush away the dust; to run her finger along his shoulder, brushing against his linen-clad skin. He probably wouldn’t notice it—after all, he had taken her in his arms to protect her from the snowstorm. Clearly touching her meant very little to him.
It had meant very much to her. Her body still sang with it; the feeling of being held by him, protected from the world’s cruelties. The hunger that lay within her had been briefly, beautifully satisfied—but now it raged again, needing touch. Needing him.
She took a few tentative steps, her eyes lingering on the faint streaks of grey in the man’s dark hair. Lingering so wholly, so completely unaware of everything else, that she almost tripped over a box that lay half-concealed in a pile of linens that needed mending.
‘Ow!’ She clenched her fists, simultaneously embarrassed and curious, as Carstairs rose in alarm. ‘What the devil is hiding in the mending pile?’
‘Are you well?’ Carstairs looked down at the pile, frowning. ‘Do you require a bandage?’
‘Thankfully, no.’ Lady Chiltern reached down to pull away the linens, stopping as Carstairs put up a warning hand. Kneeling, carefully removing each piece of ragged fabric with his usual care, he uncovered a large, handsome wicker box.
‘My goodness.’ Lady Chiltern gingerly pushed one corner of the box with her toe. ‘I do believe it is a hamper.’
‘Was a hamper prepared for one of the girls?’ Carstairs sounded slightly bemused. ‘Such an elegant one, at that?’
‘I certainly do not recall ordering one to be prepared from Cook. But I also told Cook very clearly that she was to work today, and she is absent.’ Lady Chiltern moved closer to the hamper, leaning down to look at it. ‘Perhaps another order was misplaced, or invented.’
‘It seems to have been a very elaborate order.’ Carstairs opened the lid, picking gently through the cloth-wrapped contents as he moved aside two shining sets of silver cutlery. ‘There are oysters here, packed in ice, and champagne, and… and cakes, among other things. They look to have been made by Monsieur Martin.’
‘As well as one of his egg custard tarts.’ Lady Chiltern couldn’t resist a small smile. ‘Your favourite, I believe.’
Carstairs’ brief look of surprise was more telling than his words. ‘I cannot imagine what I have done to give you that impression.’
‘The summer picnic. Laurence made twelve small versions of this very tart to serve to everyone—and there was much umbrage when only eleven were to be found, one hour before we were due to leave for the lake.’ Lady Chiltern raised an eyebrow. ‘I did wonder why you mysteriously excused yourself for ten minutes or so, during the preparations—but when you came back, my suspicions were confirmed.’
Carstairs turned around, looking at her fully. ‘How?’
‘You…’ Lady Chiltern bit her lip, repressing a small giggle. ‘You had crumbs at the corner of your mouth.’
They looked at one another, intimacy filling the small room like sunlight. Lady Chiltern couldn’t resist looking at Carstairs’ mouth; the hint of a smile that lay beneath the grim, professional line of his lips. It would be so easy to kiss that mouth—so easy to lean forward, just a little…
Carstairs looked down, breaking the tension. Lady Chiltern blinked, trying to conceal an audible sigh of mingled longing and regret.
‘Well. No fires are lit in the kitchen. No food has been prepared.’ She returned to briskness as she looked at the tray of ginger cakes. ‘It makes the most sense to eat these things for dinner, rather than venture into an ice-cold kitchen and attempt to scratch together something resembling a meal.’
‘I believe you are correct.’ Carstairs’ voice had the mask of servility over it again; the blankness that Lady Chiltern was beginning to hate. ‘Even if I cannot say I am entirely comfortable doing so.’
‘Only you could eat oysters uncomfortably.’ Lady Ch
iltern sighed. ‘And speaking of being uncomfortable, this room is still far too cold to be pleasant. The fire can only do so much, and the only linens we have are these ragged sheets.’
‘The blanket chest is in the morning room.’ Carstairs reached for his jacket. ‘I will go and retrieve them—’
‘No. Please, stay and tend to the fire. I will be worse than useless should a gust of wind decide to play any tricks.’ Lady Chiltern stiffened her shoulders. ‘It will be the work of a moment. Several moments, if I decide to look for edifying books as a way of making the evening pass quickly.’
‘Ah.’ A glint of humour returned to Carstairs’ expression. ‘Am I to be forced to listen to edifying words? Or worse, read them?’
‘Absolutely not. You will merely be forced to watch me reading.’
‘Ah.’ Carstairs turned back to the fire as a log dislodged; Lady Chiltern, exasperated, made her way to the door. It was only as she opened it, hugging herself as cold wind blew all about her, did she hear his reply.
‘One cannot be forced to watch something so pleasant to look at. Force does not come into it.’
Lady Chiltern bit her lip. Silent, not daring to look back, she made her way to the morning room.
The morning room, true to its role as a room where books were lazily read on cold evenings, had a large supply of soft woollen blankets hidden in a lavender-lined chest. Lady Chiltern padded tentatively down the corridor, looking up with anxious eyes at the hole in the roof as a bitterly cold wind carpeted the upper floor in snow.
Her favourite room seemed grey and sad in the absence of a fire; the blizzard curled and batted at the windows, blocking out any traces of sunlight. Lady Chiltern wondered about taking her favourite cushion back to the study, before thinking better of it and letting it stay on the sofa.
She knelt down in front of the chest, trying not to jump as the wind howled through the house. As she opened it, she gasped.
Private Passions Page 46