The Last Chance Christmas Ball

by Mary Jo Putney

“What? Good Lord.” He took her arm, draped the shawl over her shoulders. “Are you feeling unsteady? Confused? It sometimes happens with head injury, and quite suddenly. Can you manage the stairs?”

  That did it. All the remorse, the hurt, the dismay, the embarrassment over what she had just inadvertently said—all the unfulfilled wishes, too—tumbled through her. Clary pushed away and snatched her cane. “Dr. Seton,” she emphasized, “you know I never complain, not about stairs or wet clothes or snow or—” Or loneliness. Or missing you.

  “I know,” he said softly. Kindly.

  She walked away, head spinning and shoulder stiff as she used the cane, too aware that she likely looked an old woman, shawled and bent, and she felt a spark of anger. Lifting her chin indignantly, she hurried toward the stairs. The dog followed, paws tapping along the floor.

  “Wait.” Henry strode past her and lifted her trunk. He took it upstairs, disappeared for a few moments, and descended the stairs again with the easy athletic grace that she had loved about him once, and discovered that she still loved now.

  She took the stairs in her usual manner, leaning on cane and bannister. But the height made her dizzy. She stopped.

  “Slowly, my girl.” Henry was there, just there, his arm bracing her. She let him help her to the top step while the dog scampered up with them.

  Reluctantly, she stepped away from him. “Thank you. Which room?”

  “I set your trunk in there.” He indicated the closest doorway. “Mrs. Johnstone readied the room for Fiona today, hearth and all.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, hand on the door. “Please pardon what I said earlier. I sometimes speak before I think.”

  “I always rather liked that about you,” he said. “Rest for now. Meet me downstairs for supper later. Mrs. Johnstone left soup, bread, and cheese in the kitchen.”

  “That would be excellent.” She shut the door.

  “Clary.” His voice through the door was close. “Call if you need me.”

  Silent, she pressed her brow to the door. I always needed you.

  Turning, she was pleased to discover a small water closet built into a corner, and a basin of water with fragrant soap. Refreshed, she removed her gown—glad she had worn garments she could manage without her maid—and knelt in shift and petticoat beside her trunk to sift through her folded things to change.

  She touched her ball gown wistfully, lavender silk and flounced hem, and wondered when she might wear it. Given the weather, she might not attend the Holbourne Christmas ball. She sighed, and chose a prim slate-gray gown, long-sleeved with rows of black ribbon marching along front and hem. She had fulfilled two years of widow’s weeds, but was in half-mourning for Papa now. Besides, the somber gray reminded her that she was but a shadow in Henry’s past.

  The hearth fire warmed the chill from the room, and fatigue overtook her. She lay on the bed’s blue coverlet and drew the paisley shawl over her. Just for a few moments, she told herself, and slid into sleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When words and ink swam under his gaze, Henry set aside the student manuscripts. Unsurprisingly, Charles Hay’s paper was the best of the lot. He shook his head, bemused.

  Curious about the storm and needing vigorous activity after a long bout of reading, he shrugged into greatcoat, top hat, and gloves, found a shovel by the kitchen door, and went back to the entrance to clear the snow from the portico steps. No servants were about to do it, nor did he mind physical work. Years as a doctor, rolling up his sleeves to deal with many unpleasant matters, and tending to chores in his regiment days left him no undue pride about what was proper to do or not do. And in a snow-stranding, needs must, he thought.

  The steps were covered again nearly as fast as he cleared them. In gathering darkness and tearing winds, he trudged toward the stables, grateful for sturdy high boots. The horses were content, happier when he petted and spoke to them, found more blankets, poured water and oats for them. Then he headed for the house, whistling Max back more than once.

  Pausing on the top step, he recognized a near blizzard: strong winds, bitter cold, steady snowfall. Travel would be impossible tomorrow and perhaps for days.

  The Christmas holiday that Clary so loved would be spent in isolation with him. Her anticipation, her hopes, and happiness, her disappointment, too, all depended on him. And he was loath to admit that he cared for Yule—or for Clary.

  Her question earlier echoed again. Why did you . . . ? But what haunted him even more were her father’s words seven years ago, on the day Henry had asked permission to court Clary. Ridiculous, Seton. She’s set to marry her cousin Hay. If she’s led you to believe otherwise, well, you’re a fool, sir.

  Scowling, remembering, Henry went inside, stomping and shaking off the snow.

  Hours later, Clary still had not come down for supper. At first, Henry was glad the stubborn girl had taken his advice to rest. The cook’s hearty soup still simmered, a crusty loaf was warming, and the larder supplied cold meat, cheese, apples, butter, and chilled cider. Henry waited his own meal, feeding the dog and returning to his study to listen for a light, uneven step on the stairs. He looked forward to that sound.

  Gloom gathered, so he lit a few beeswax candles and stoked the fire. Hearing a noise at the doorway, he glanced up, seeing only Max. The longcase clock in the hallway ticked steadily, and Henry stood at the window, watching snow plummet.

  Finally, he pivoted and strode toward the stairs, increasingly concerned.

  Knocking at the bedroom door, hearing no answer, Henry eased it open. The room was dark but for the hot glow of the hearth. She was asleep, he saw, cozied with the shawl. He moved forward. “Clary?” he whispered.

  Bending, he listened to her breathing, watched her for signs of distress, and saw none. In the firelight, she was lovely, pure, her hair curled and mussed over the sweet curve of her cheek, one bare arm resting on the patterned shawl.

  She slept peacefully. He did not need to stay. But he lingered, brushing her hair back, touching her brow; he felt no fever, and noted the wound was improving. Rest would help her head. But first he had to know that she could wake easily.

  He touched her shoulder. “Clary.”

  She shifted a little, mewled softly as a kitten, and the sound plunged hard through his body, surprising him. She wrinkled her nose, shifted to her back, the shawl sliding down, revealing the creamy tops of her breasts, full and luscious. He took in a quick breath.

  “Clary.” He knelt, nudging her shoulder. “Wake up. Show me you can.”

  Her eyes opened. In firelight, her irises were gray, lovely. Clear and healthy. She sighed. “Henry,” she whispered. She touched his forearm. “I am so glad you’re here.”

  “Always here, love,” he said before he could stop the words. “How do you feel?”

  “Oh.” Those marvelous eyes, smoke and ice, drifted shut. “Tired.”

  “Sleep. We can wait supper.” He brushed the back of his hand along her cheek.

  She nodded, her fingers curled over his sleeve. Henry waited to be sure her breaths were even. He brushed her cheek again, following the curve of her jaw. She smiled with such quick, elfin beauty that he smiled, too, in the dark, truly, for the first time in a long while.

  He leaned close. Knew he should leave, but instead inclined toward her, his breath sifting her golden curls. She moved her head, and before he could hold back, he set his lips to hers, kissed the soft curve of her smile. She breathed a little moan and her hand slipped to his face as she leaned into the kiss.

  Then he was kissing her again, a deep, lush caress and a sigh shared between them. Her mouth opened sweetly beneath his and her arm encircled his neck, drawing him toward her. He touched her then, caging her torso with his hands, sliding his fingers upward, exploring, caressing her cheek and throat with lips and breath, cherishing the exquisite warmth of her mouth against his as he pressed her into a fuller embrace—

  He drew back. Good God. What was he thinking, to ravish her even for a
moment? And how could he relinquish the control he honed and valued, the taut will that kept him apart from everyone, from emotion—from hurt as well as love. He angled away, and rose to his feet.

  Her hand stayed his arm, and he caught her fingers in his. He kissed them, then let go.

  “Sleep,” he said, and left.

  Clary woke blinking in the darkness. Had she dreamed that Henry had come to her like a prince, kissing her to life again? She sat up, slid a hand over her face, easing sleep away. As she stood, splashed her face, dressed in the dark gray wool and laced her half-boots, she wondered. But he had been there. The kiss had been magical, but real and sincere. He cared—his heart was not closed off. Hope lifted her own heart like a kite and she smiled, smoothing her hair, pinching her cheeks, fetching her cane as she opened the door.

  Down in the foyer, she greeted Max when he padded forward. Resting her hand on his rough, warm coat, she walked beside him toward the library with its cozy light.

  Henry sat at a writing desk under the light of a single candle, making notes on some papers, so focused that he did not see her. Not wanting to disturb him, she entered quietly, heart thumping as she remembered the touch of his hands, his lips.

  Her attention was caught by the portrait over the desk. Earlier, she had seen it and other paintings hung about the room but had not studied them. She recognized Henry’s father, the previous Lord Cranshaw, standing beside the same writing desk, his hand on books stacked beside a row of surgical instruments. He looked remarkably like his son; tall, thinner, equally handsome, he glowered intensely.

  An older painting over the fireplace portrayed a robust man unlike the stern, uncompromising surgeon. In a mulberry dressing gown over tartan vest and breeches, he sat at a table littered with an assortment of books, papers, bottles, coins, cups, candles, a dagger, a pistol. Leaning in his chair, he looked out at the viewer amiably. His powerful presence filled the frame.

  Clary crossed the room, drawn by the larger portrait.

  “My great-great-grandfather.” Henry came toward her. “Archibald Scott, a Border laird. He was an apothecary, but was better known as a reiver.” He looked up at the painting. “As a boy, I often wished I had known him.”

  “He looks a spirited rascal,” she said. Henry laughed.

  “Aye. He kept the Yule well—kept it like a house afire, so they say. Roaring, magnificent Christmases that went on until Hogmanay, and days after.”

  “Goodness!”

  “He’s a local legend. He’d invite everyone, friend and foe, for great feasts and bonfires, songs, and whisky flowing. More than one feud was mended and begun during his Christmas celebrations, so it is said. The original Cranshaw tower burned to a ruin during one of his fests. I suspect,” he added wryly, “that Roaring Archie, as they called him, celebrated every chance he got with feast, song, fires, and plenty of whisky. He did not particularly agree with the Protestants diminishing Christmas, so he continued to keep it. You would have liked him.” For an instant she saw the same mischief in his eyes as in Roaring Archie’s.

  “He would have gone searching for pine boughs in a blizzard,” she said wryly.

  “Indeed. Alas, the current laird of Cranshaw is not wont to do that. How do you feel now? I could fetch you a hatchet so you could get some greenery for the décor, if you are ready to explore the vast frozen arctic.”

  She lifted her brows. “So bad as that?” Henry nodded. Earlier, she had heard winds howling, had seen the windowsills draped in snow. She went into the foyer, crossing to the door. Henry walked behind her, Max with him.

  When Henry reached past her to open the door, Clary gasped to see the vastness he had described—a blurred and pale expanse of mounds in place of steps, drive, hedges, and gardens, even the path to the stables. Winds blew cold and snow fell glistening against a dark sky.

  “We are well and truly stranded,” Henry murmured, echoing her thoughts. “It could snow for a day or two. Who knows when the roads will be clear enough even for larger coaches.”

  She shivered in the chill, awed by the grandeur. “It’s beautiful.”

  “And treacherous.”

  “What of the horses?”

  “I saw to them a little while ago. They should be fine tonight, and I’ll go in the morning. The groom lives over a mile away and may not get to them soon.” He shut the door, closing off the snow light. In the dark foyer, with candlelight far off in another room, Clary looked up at Henry. For a moment, though they did not touch or speak, she felt wrapped in warmth, safety, affection, and more. All that she had wanted and missed for so long was there. Had she imagined that moment, upstairs? She hoped not.

  “Lady Hay,” he said, voice gruff in the shadows, “shall we go to dinner?”

  “You need not call me so formally,” she said.

  “I must.” He offered his elbow. “For propriety’s sake. And your honor.”

  “I am a widow. You are a doctor and exempt, and my widowhood gives me some exemption, too.” She took his arm and he led her to a dining room papered in blue Chinese wallpaper. Candles blazed on the table and the sideboard, where dishes were laid out.

  “I brought up what I could find in the kitchen. The soup is a bit thick, having simmered for so long. The rest is good, if simple.”

  “It’s lovely,” she breathed.

  “I did not want you to eat in the cold scullery, though I would have done were I alone,” he said. “Since you are missing a chance to be with your cousins on Christmas Eve, perhaps this will do instead.” He drew out a chair for her near the end of the table, and then took a chair at the head, just beside her.

  “Thank you, sir.” She smiled. “But who will serve us?”

  “Max!” Henry whistled. Clary laughed, and he grinned fleetingly. “We will call it a country supper so we can serve ourselves.”

  “There is no one about to declare otherwise,” she agreed.

  “Quite.” His eyes met hers, and she felt a shared awareness that made her blush.

  As she rose from the table, he immediately stood, and as she served herself from the dishes on the sideboard, he came behind her to carry her dish as she limped along to ladle soup and choose cheese, meat, bread. When both sat to eat, Clary sensed a curious tension in the silence—and felt a warm, lush tautness in her body. She was keenly aware of his nearness.

  The soup was thick but savory, and she was surprisingly hungry. As they ate, the conversation was quiet, punctuated by Max’s soulful gazes. Finally, Clary laughed and relented, slipping crumbles of cheese to the dog.

  “He adores you,” Henry said. “If you stay, that dog will lose what few manners he has. Down, Max, leave her be.”

  “I do not mind,” she said. “It’s Christmas Eve, and dogs can be spoiled as well as—” She looked away. “I nearly forgot. You do not much care for Christmas.”

  “It has yet to prove its usefulness,” he said. “But you and Max enjoy it, so indulge. I warn you he will be unhappy tomorrow, having had far too much cheese.”

  Clary lifted her bowl of soup. “This?”

  “As you will, Lady Hay.”

  She set the bowl on the floor and the dog happily slurped. “I do wish you would stop calling me Lady Hay. It is so stuffy, and reminds me of my husband’s deceased mother. Lord Cranshaw reminds me of your father. We used to be just Henry and Clary.”

  “We did,” he said, sitting back. “As Lady Hay, do you have lands and such to watch over? What of your husband’s family?”

  “It was fully five years ago, and they have never objected to my part of the inheritance. He left me a house and a little land in Perthshire. The rest went to his brother and nephew. The house is old, not large, but lovely. And after Papa died—well, I am modestly comfortable now. No one need ever worry about me.” She shifted her cane, and tapped it on the floor. “I am a childless widow and a cripple as well, but I am dependent on no one.”

  “Well done, Clarinda Douglas,” he said, elbows propped as he watched her. “If you
were home now—if all was perfect in your world—what would you be doing on this Yule Eve?”

  His question surprised her. All perfect? She pondered. “Singing,” she said.

  “Not dragging in green fripperies and berries better left to the birds, and opening your home for wild pagan festivities?”

  “Singing,” she affirmed, “and having a quiet celebration with people I love and enjoy. And baking—I would make the oatcakes my grandmother made, and seed cakes, scones with raisins, gingerbread and apple tarts like my mother made. The house would be filled with laughter and song and sweet, buttery baking smells. If this was a perfect Christmas Eve.”

  “Which most assuredly it is not,” he said. “I may have to reconsider Christmas. I am partial to apple tarts and gingerbread.”

  “Ah.” Clary wanted to smile, but echoed his mock serious mood instead. Something was happening, and she did not want to interrupt its course. Henry stood and went to the sideboard, taking out two glasses.

  “I shall play butler again, if I may,” he said. “Fresh cider? Mrs. Johnstone made a new batch. No spirits for you, my girl, until your head is fit for it.”

  “I have no headache at all, after a little sleep. But cider would be lovely.”

  He poured, and brought the glasses to the table. She tilted her head, regarding him. He was changed somehow, more open, more the true Henry Seton in the last hour than in all the months since she had first walked into his lecture hall. That day she had found a hard, reserved man with a closed heart—and today she was learning of the grief he had seen and hurt he had endured. She realized that he was simply protecting himself until he could heal and feel whole again.

  She had done something similar all her life, building a wall made of smiles and false cheerfulness to ensure her independence. He had drawn inward quickly, efficiently, to give his wounds and feelings time to sort out.

  But here at Cranshaw, with its snowy seclusion and candlelight and conversation, with stolen kisses and a simple shared supper, moment by moment she loved what seemed to be emerging between them, some magic she thought destroyed years back. Not for all the world would she tip this fragile balance and have him remember he did not trust her.