That was it, she realized—somehow he had lost trust in her, and then everyone. The effect of war, perhaps, compiled on a heart as broken as hers had been by their separation. Yet now, tonight, he was easing back into himself.
She sipped the cider, and Henry did the same, raising his glass in a toast. “To snowstorms and strandings—and to a good Yule.”
“To snow,” she toasted. “And a blithe Yule to you, too. What would your sister be doing tonight? Though her children do have chickenpox,” she added. “Does she celebrate as your mother did in your childhood? Does she invite you to her home?”
“They invite me, though it is a simple family dinner. She and her husband keep a little Yule for the children. Alan Graham is a tea merchant and does exceptionally well, but his offices in Edinburgh are open on the Christmas holiday. Fiona does some baking with the girls and they perform wee songs, and then there is dinner. Usually, I do not attend.” He glanced at her. “So her girls call me Uncle Grumphy. They have not had a Yule gift of me, and believe I should produce them dutifully and often.”
Clary laughed. “Uncle Grumphy! And well you’ve earned it, giving no Yule to wee lassies.”
“I do not know what wee lassies want.”
“Ribbons,” she suggested. “Dolls. Hoops and balls. A small gift and they would no longer call you Uncle Grumphy.”
“I am loath to give the title up, for its advantages. And just this morning I sent tinctures for their fevers, so I am not miserly, am I?”
“And you are generous with your snow treatments as well.”
“Tonight at my sister’s house,” he said thoughtfully, “there is also the ceremonial dragging about of the greenery.”
“But not the raucous Yuletide of Roaring Archie Scott.”
“We no longer burn houses down around our ears at Christmas.” He raised his glass again. “Cheers to quiet holidays, Clarinda.”
“At least you are toasting the holidays now, sir,” she replied.
“There is that,” he murmured.
Henry carried the dishes down to the kitchen and Clary followed, insisting on cleaning them in a basin, though he had not wanted her to risk the rough stone steps to the basement level, or spend too much time on her feet. The chores were quickly done between them, and enjoyably so, and again he did not mind the work.
“I have cleaned many a dish and basin myself,” he told her. “Besides, who is there to clean dishes but poor Max, who only uses his tongue for it? We cannot leave things about to wait for Mrs. Johnstone’s return, nor can we chance that Mrs. Hall, the forester-minister’s wife, will make her way here soon.”
“We?” she had only said, tilting her head in that fairylike way she had, all gray eyes and gorgeous lips, so that he had to look away or pull her into his arms.
Later, he sat in the study going over the student papers while Clary grazed along his bookshelves, pulling volumes here and there to read, sitting and rising and putting one book back for another, her cane tapping softly on carpet and floor.
“Sit, if you will,” he finally said. “So much activity detracts from my idea of a quiet, snowy fortress where I accomplish all my work before the melting begins.”
“Oh,” she replied, looking so hurt that he regretted speaking, “I am sorry. I cannot find a book to my liking at the moment.”
“I thought you enjoyed medical treatises, the more ponderous the better.”
“I regularly saved my father from writing such, so I would only want to make corrections on the pages of the books in your library.”
“Here, then,” he said, and stood to lift down a packet of pages from a shelf. “Try your hand at these.” He carried it to her, and Clary sat in a wing chair that matched his own, a chair rarely used. He rather liked seeing her in it.
She sifted through the pages. “ ‘Treatment of Cranial Injury’—you wrote this?”
“When I returned to Edinburgh after Belgium, I was asked by the publishers of an Edinburgh journal to write about my medical experiences there.”
“You’ve seen a great many head injuries?”
“Far too many. Including yours. So I never take them lightly, having seen the consequences. If you want to make corrections to that manuscript, please do.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I would be honored.”
“Honored! You are my best student,” he murmured. “I value your thoughts.”
“It is an honor because you are well known for your brave actions in the war.”
“Anyone could have done it, had they the training and been there as I was.”
“Let people praise you. We need to appreciate heroes,” she said. “Acts of courage and humanity in a hellish place like a battlefield inspire other people, restore pride in humankind. What you did there, even if you do not know it, helps strengthen our spirits, our hearts.”
Henry watched her, and felt his throat tighten. “It did not feel inspiring at the time,” he said simply. “Hellish, yes. But the memories—the thoughts of men I treated and could not save. I have brooded over that these six months, wondering what I could have done differently, how I might have saved this man or that one, what I could have tried. I wrote scores of reports for the regiment, and copied each one so I could study the cases again. Some I know I could save now, if I had another chance. But—” He gestured futilely.
“You have a chance,” she said. “Write about all those cases, about field medicine, and let others learn from your experience. You could not save those men, but you could save others through the good work of other doctors.”
Henry frowned thoughtfully. “Possibly. But with so many different types of injuries, treatments, surgeries, infections to write about, it’s quite a task.”
“I can help you,” she said. “If you like.”
He inhaled, sitting back. “Yes,” he said then. “We could work together. Yes.” He saw her delight—the elfin, luscious smile that sweetened her face and glowed in her eyes. He smiled, too, and turned back to his work.
The clock ticked in the hallway, and all Clary wanted to do was throw herself into Henry’s arms. But propriety ruled, and he always had such reserve about him, though she sensed it beginning to melt. Suddenly, she wished the snow could continue for days, weeks, cocooning them while they learned each other’s ways and hearts once again. That would take time; she was impulsive, but he was wisely not. She smiled to herself, anticipating what could come of their renewed connection—and excited, too, to work with him on his treatise about field injuries.
Henry capped the ink bottle, set down his quill, and stood. “I’ll look around outside,” he said. “Clear some snow, make sure all is well—trees and roofs and so on. Come, Max.” The dog only opened an eye and huffed back into sleep. “You rascal, stay there then and guard the lady. I will be back soon,” he told Clary, and smiled at her gently before going into the foyer to grab coat, hat, and a lantern. Moments later, she heard the door open.
Clary left the chair to sink to her knees, curling seated beside the dog. She rubbed his thick, warm coat and watched the hot flickering flames, feeling peaceful, happy. She began to hum, smoothing the dog’s fur, lost in thought. The hallway clock rang midnight.
Christmas Day had come. “Blithe Yule to thee, my friend,” she whispered to Max. A favorite Christmas song her grandmother always sang in Gaelic came to her, and she lifted her voice, first in the Gaelic, going on to the refrain. Alleluia, alleluia . . .
Max huffed in contentment, moving his ears. Clary sang on, now in English, as the poignant, lovely melody nuanced each note to sweeten the air.
My love, my treasured one I know
My sweet and lovely one are you
Alleluia, alleluia . . .
She paused, leaning toward the dog. “I want to stay, Max,” she whispered. “Oh, how I want to be here with you and your master, always.”
A pure and lovely sound caught his attention. Singing? Henry paused on the step, shovel in hand, and looked around. In the darkness,
with lantern light pouring gold down the steps, the snow was a deep cloak, shadowy and pale, mounded over the world. It was beautiful and peaceful—dangerous, too, for its cold and ice and silent seclusion.
He cocked his head, and opened the door. Clary was singing. Stepping inside quietly, knocking snow from his boots, he walked along the hall and stood at the study’s threshold.
Her clear, beautiful voice had a pure tone as she sang in Gaelic, then English. Seated on the floor, she rubbed the dog’s ears. Max, the scamp, loved every moment of it, watching her with dark, worshipful eyes.
My love, my treasured one I know . . .
Henry leaned against the doorway, watching. Her voice, rich as whisky and honey, filled the room, the house. His heart.
She bent then, whispering to the dog, and Henry would have given all to know what secret she shared. She wiped a tear from her cheek, and leaned her head against Max’s.
She did have a damnable way about her, and it was doing its work.
You have known love, Dr. Douglas had written. Claim it again.
Suddenly, Henry wondered if John Douglas had written those words for his daughter or for his student, who might read them one day. Perhaps the good doctor wrote to himself—a reminder to never forget the essential importance of love. Of the heart.
Claim it again. Henry stepped back, deeply wanting—but not yet ready.
Hearing the shovel scraping on the steps, Clary got up from the floor, determined to go outside to see what the storm had wrought. She dressed in her warm frogged pelisse, her bonnet, and gloves, and with cane in hand went to the door, Max at her side.
Henry had cleared the steps and was now shoveling snow away from the base of the portico entrance, a valiant if futile effort against the huge expanse of snow that had collected in the several hours since her arrival at Cranshaw.
Max ran ahead of her and she made her way down the steps cautiously. Henry greeted the dog, and turned to see her coming toward him.
“Careful!” Carrying the shovel, he came toward her. “You don’t want to fall.”
“I do not and I will not,” she said, smiling, lifting her chin. “What’s this?” Glancing down, she saw a knee-high stack of pine boughs.
“I cut some greenery,” he said, and shrugged.
She smiled. “Thank you.” He smiled, too, quick and warm. Clary caught her breath, thrilled—then looked around and spread her arms wide. “Henry, it’s so beautiful!”
“And the very devil to clear.”
“Then leave it. Let the snow fall as it will, let the sun clear it when it will.”
“You are in a hurry to leave,” he reminded her. “Though I cannot safely take the horses and carriage out yet. Two days, perhaps more. Do you mind?”
She laughed. Henry looked at her quizzically. Clary walked deeper into the snow, supported by the cane, the snow thick enough to both impede and steady her, though her gown dragged and snow slipped icily into her boots. She turned, her skirt and coattails making swirls over the soft snowy surface, and saw Henry standing there, watching her, head tilted.
“I do not mind at all, Lord Cranshaw,” she said. “I will stay as long as it takes to clear.”
“You may not make it to Lady Holly’s ball,” he said. “I cannot promise it.”
“I do not mind staying.” She spun again, arms out. Something filled her, bubbled joyfully within her, the beauty, the peace, the wonder of the snowfall and this haven with the man she loved. The only man she had ever loved. The thought made her stop in her turning. She faced him.
“I have a question,” she said.
“Yes.” He seemed to expect it.
“Why did you leave—then?”
“I asked your father’s permission to marry you. He refused.”
“Refused?” She put a hand to her chest. “I never knew.”
“He said you had already agreed to marry your cousin. Said I was a fool.”
“And I was told I must marry Sir William, and that you had no interest in me at all—that I was the fool. A girl with a lame foot. A cripple.” She looked away, in the light-dark vastness of the transformed world. “You are no fool, Dr. Seton.”
“And you are no cripple, Clarinda. I have never seen that in you. How long will you stay?” He propped a hand on the upright shovel.
She blinked away grateful tears, and tipped her head. “Well, it is Yuletide, and you do prefer to be alone at this time of year.”
“Do I?” He looked around, surveying the place, the mounds of powdery snow glinting in snow light and lantern light. “It is a good place to be alone, but a better place to share.”
She pointed to the house, and the lantern light caught the long shadow of her arm. She deepened her voice. “We have no Yule here, just work and solitude for Lord Cranshaw.”
He laughed softly. “Is that how you see me?”
She lowered her arm. “Not quite so grim as that.” She stood smiling.
“You know you’re like a fairy when you smile. Like an elf. And I wonder what mischief you’ve got in mind.”
Seeing his grin, she laughed in delight. She stepped toward him, but the deep snow trapped her boot and her weak ankle. She tumbled down with a woof of breath.
“Clary!” Henry was kneeling beside her in an instant.
“I’m fine.” She looked up at him, grabbed his coat, and tugged down. He braced over her, gloved hands in the snow to either side. “I always loved you, Henry,” she said. “Did you know?”
He stared down at her. “I did not. Your marriage, and so on.”
“The marriage was my father’s idea. Well, my mother’s. There was a family debt owed. An agreement—I knew nothing of it until too late.”
“Your father mentioned it once, a rather weak apology after the fact. Too late.”
“You purchased colors and left. I thought you did not care. You did not argue for me.”
“That was my mistake,” he said, leaning over her. “I have learned from it.”
She looked up at him, holding his lapels. The snow was cold. She did not care. He was a shield over her, his breath warm as he leaned closer.
“I have always loved you, Clary Douglas,” he said. “I always will.” He lowered to kiss her, his lips a warm blessing in the chill. He kissed her mouth, the snow from her cheeks, then pulled back. “Though I fear I may ravish you right here, in the snow, since we are being improper.”
“Whatever will we do?” she asked, half laughing.
“I think I will marry you,” he murmured, nuzzling her cheek, the heat and thrill of his breath and his lips melting her inside, no matter the cold. “What say you?”
“Yes, let’s do.” She tilted her face toward his, took his cheeks in her snow-dusted gloves. “I wish we could marry soon.”
“Did I tell you my forester is a parson?” he asked, kissing her again. “And do you happen to have a beautiful gown that you planned to wear at some ball . . . what ball was that . . . ?”
She kissed him deeply, then drew back. “I do have a gown, and I did hear about the parson.”
“We could fetch him and his wife and son for witnesses, and have our wedding in the morning. On Christmas Day.”
“With greenery for the wedding décor,” she added.
“Just so.” He stood and helped her up, grabbed her cane, and lifted her into his arms. While the dog romped at his heels, he carried her up the cleared steps. “But there is something we should do first.”
Clary rested her head on his shoulder. “And what is that?”
“Make this a scandalous Christmas indeed, so there is nothing for it but to marry, and quickly,” he said. “Hey, Max—out of the way!”
CHRISTMAS LARKS
Patricia Rice
CHAPTER ONE
Thursday, December 22, a week before the ball . . .
“Careful-like, don’t spill it!” a mouse squeaked from behind the fading damask-papered wall.
“It’s bloomin’ hot, innit?” another mouse ret
orted.
Mice spoke?
Pinching his nose to wake himself up, Ivo Whitney-Harris emerged from the black depths of his chronic nightmares to examine this curious phenomenon. He couldn’t think past the raging pain in his head.
“Leave it here, then scamper quick-like,” the first mouse whispered.
Mouse feet scampered. Ivo considered all the vermin he and his men had routinely annihilated in camps over the last long years. He didn’t think the mice had raised a vocal protest. Images of mice carrying swords and wearing plumed French caps emerged in his murky mind.
But he was back in England now, driven by necessity and succumbing to homesickness. He now hid behind his own secure walls in Bellsburn—he thought.
Had English mice learned to speak while he was away?
He shivered. He knew this wasn’t sunny Italy, but the room was bloody freezing. He’d hoped to be greeted joyfully by the old family retainers who were all the family he had now. Where the devil were the Merriweathers? Although, given his dilatoriness, he probably didn’t deserve a prodigal son’s welcome.
He rubbed his bandaged temple trying to clear his thoughts.
Bandaged? Hadn’t the bandages been removed?
He suffered a momentary terror that he was back in battle after all. He struggled to drag his aching bones to a sitting position, looked for his weapon, and strained to remember his last hours.
Everything in his braincase lurched, and he almost passed out. He had to cling to the bed’s—sofa’s?—edge to remain upright. He couldn’t remember drinking himself under the table since his Oxford days. His mouth didn’t taste of week-old vomit as it had then.
He pushed past the pain to remember a frantic rush to board a ship across the Channel—and the letters, the damned letters that had followed him over half of Europe, catching up with him in France. A post chaise might have been involved after the ship. He rubbed his aching head again and fought back the weakness of tears.
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