A Rogue in Winter

by Grace Burrowes

  “Rothhaven the Recluse,” Joy said. “He’s whispered of even in London. The rumors are that he’s mentally unbalanced, but his family has closed ranks to protect him from meddling.”

  “He’s epileptic,” Pietr said. “This is no secret in the local surrounds. His affliction has befallen him during services, but he attends regularly nonetheless. His family closes ranks to ensure his safety. The saddle he rides in is nearly impossible to fall out of. The walkways on his estate feature a lot of benches and no protruding rocks. He and his duchess are ferociously protective of each other. I like them both and have asked His Grace to manage my investments.”

  Joy passed Pietr the wooden spoon. “You are planning to snitch again, so you might as well earn your treat. I do not believe another vicar in the whole of England has prevailed on the local duke to manage both the village flower gardens and his investments. But this is what you do, isn’t it? You see how somebody can make a contribution, whether by carving fantastic birds or mixing up fishy-smelling hair tonics to delight your mousers. And these people don’t even know they are being coaxed away from their troubles.”

  Pietr dabbed icing onto a bun. The result didn’t look nearly as delectable as the three Joy had done. “I am the vicar. I am given the sacred charge of looking out for the community’s wellbeing. Bleating off about Scripture isn’t always the best way to go about that. Spouting Scripture, in fact, can have the opposite effect. I am no good at this.”

  “You are brilliant at being the vicar of Rothton, Pietr. You have built a cathedral here, and your sister has no idea of the temple you’ve constructed out of love, common sense, tenacity, and native wit. The parishioners have fallen in with your schemes—how could they not?—but without you to shovel the path and pass out the potatoes, the edifice will not be half so sturdy or grand.”

  She kissed him, while his spoon dripped icing onto the table, shrieks of childish laughter came from the backyard, and some fool thumped on the front door.

  This is heaven. This right here, in my kitchen, with this woman, on this cold, gray day, is heaven.

  “I’d best see who that is,” Pietr said, surrendering his spoon and stepping back. “Bad weather can bring on all sorts of ailments and even childbirth. Save me at least one bun, please, and expect a dozen children to descend within an hour or so.”

  He bussed her cheek, stole another finger of icing, and departed before he gave in to the temptation to steal more than that.

  Much more.

  A day could be leavened with kisses as a loaf of bread was leavened with yeast. This was a revelation to Joy, who’d regarded kissing as a male fixation to be tolerated previous to tolerating other male fixations—groping, fumbling, and lowing like a bovine, for example.

  How little she’d known. How little she’d settled for, when it came to her own longings. What had she been fixated upon, such that where desire should have been, she’d mustered only curiosity, or the need to rescue her family’s fortunes?

  Pietr Sorenson had kissed her in the kitchen and in the little barn. He’d kissed her in the chilly foyer, and the previous evening, he’d kissed her sweetly, almost chastely, outside her bedroom door. How she’d been tempted to invite him through that door…

  “We can explain an extra night en route,” Hiram said, waving his hand before the study’s window. “But two? Three? You’re already long in the tooth, Joy. Frittering away the holidays at this poky little parsonage will not advance your cause with Lord Apollo at all. More to the point, it won’t advance my cause.”

  The sudden motion of Hiram’s wave at the window startled the birds away from the feeder, though they came winging back in ones and twos.

  “You are feeling better,” Joy said, “for which I am grateful, Hiram, but one day’s bedrest isn’t enough to recover from an illness that had you nearly swooning in the street.”

  “Two days. We arrived on Tuesday. Wednesday is half gone, and you refuse to pack up and be on our way because of a little snow. This is Yorkshire, need I remind you. In December, Yorkshire takes on the aspect of the Ninth Circle of Dante’s Hell. Frozen, bitter cold. You knew that when you agreed to make this journey.”

  “When exactly did anybody solicit my agreement to travel? I came down to supper one night and was presented with a fait accompli, Mama’s acceptance of the invitation already in the post.”

  Hiram’s expression was amused and a little peevish. “Nor did I agree to escort you, but a decree went out from Mama and Papa that we were to be taxed with this trek, so here we are. It’s time to leave, Joy. I am your brother and your escort, and you will do as I say. We’ll depart after the noon meal.”

  Not yet, she wanted to retort, not so soon. “I have gone one full day without ordering my thoughts and prayers to comport with the aspirations of Lady Apollo Bellingham, Hiram. I cannot recall when I’ve found a span of twenty-four hours more enjoyable.”

  “You like to play cook. What of it?”

  When had Hiram become so nasty? “I like to make a contribution, the same as anybody with a scintilla of self-respect does, but what contribution does Lord Apollo make?”

  Hiram turned from the window, his arms folded as if he were a governess frustrated by a dull pupil. “He will contribute to your settlements, Joy, and that is all you need to know. His consequence will keep Papa’s creditors quiet, as well as my own. His connections will open doors for me, and by this time next year, I could be wed to a suitable heiress. You might aspire to wipe a dozen sticky little faces at the vicar’s kitchen table, but my ambitions run in more genteel directions.”

  Heaven defend the suitable heiresses from a match with Hiram. “Genteel directions, such as cockfights, horse races, drunkenness, and debauchery?”

  “You begrudge me a few manly amusements.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair and over unshaven cheeks. “I can’t spend every waking hour standing up with wallflowers or escorting you and Mama to one silly at home after another.”

  No, but you could have taken on a clerkship. Could have read law. Could have tried the Church. Could have picked up an extra language in hopes of gaining a diplomatic post.

  “Where do you expect to meet your suitable heiress, if not at such an at home, Hiram?”

  He taunted the birds again. “At the Bellingham family seat, of course. This is a holiday gathering, and surely cousins and neighbors of all the best sorts will be on hand. I will be the much coveted bachelor just up from London. Pack your things, Joy. We are leaving after lunch.”

  Hiram would have stalked from the room, except that Pietr Sorenson stood in the doorway, his expression stern enough to grace the visage of a biblical patriarch.

  “You do not address your sister thus,” he said, advancing into the room. “Joy is a lady, and you are charged with her comfort and protection.”

  “She is stubborn,” Hiram retorted. “I know her better than you do, Sorenson, and she wants firm guidance.”

  “I know Yorkshire winters, Danforth, and while the first post coach has finally made it out from York, we’ve had no traffic from the west. There’s not a wagon track to be seen in the direction you’re heading, and your coachman already got you lost once. Risk your own neck for the sake of your marital ambitions, but you will not be so cavalier with your sister’s safety.”

  Thank God. Thank God and Pietr Sorenson. Joy had honestly feared the journey, given all the fresh snow.

  “Not even a post coach?” Hiram replied.

  “If a foot of snow fell here, then the moors and dales might have seen twice that. The drifts reach higher than your head, and only a blethering fool would chance those odds with a habitually drunk London coachy. You are so blinded by the opportunity to socialize with a marquess’s family that you lose sight of the only sibling you have.” He treated Hiram to a perusal that made those drifted dales look toasty by comparison. “My prayers will include a request to the Almighty that you grow up sooner rather than later.”

  Hiram blinked. He cleared his thro
at. He sent Joy a fulminating look. “Then I suppose we wait until traffic has resumed from the west, but only until then. I will take a tray in my room for luncheon.”

  “Then you will fetch that tray yourself,” Pietr said. “Joy has waited on you hand and foot while you slept off shameful intemperance and a passing cold. Tend to your own needs and consider thanking your sister for her many kindnesses to you.”

  Hiram’s masculine pride apparently could not countenance such an indignity. “I have only Joy’s best interests at heart, Sorenson. Matters for the Danforth family have reached a very bad pass, worse than she knows. Much depends on her success with Lord Apollo.”

  “How bad?” Joy asked.

  “The sum of our debts is appalling, Joy. Papa tried his hand at investing. It did not go well, and Mama is accustomed to certain amenities. I shudder to think what will befall us if you can’t bring Lord Apollo up to scratch.”

  “So you are frightened,” Pietr said, a reasoning note creeping past the frost in his voice. “You are anxious for your family and for yourself. A gentleman’s education has prepared you for little else besides idleness, and your worries make it harder to think clearly. Lord Apollo may not offer for your sister, despite her best efforts to win his esteem. He is a marquess’s spare and likely a creature of whim and fancy. What will you do if he decides to favor some duke’s granddaughter with his suit instead?”

  Frightened. The word bore a bracing whiff of truth as pungent as the fresh pine greenery adorning the vicarage’s eaves.

  The fleeting panic in Hiram’s eyes confirmed that he was both afraid for his future and appalled that anybody should see his fear.

  “I am worried too,” Joy said. “I grasp the seriousness of the situation, Hiram, probably more accurately than you think. But if it’s not safe to travel, it’s simply not safe, and nobody can blame you for exercising basic prudence on my behalf. The Bellingham family seat has been in the north for four hundred and sixty-seven years. Lord Apollo will not fault your caution.”

  She nearly added, I will bring a tray to your room, except that she’d brought Hiram enough trays. Too many trays, truth be told.

  “One can only hope that’s the case,” he said. “I’ll have a lie-down now. All this contention has given me a ferocious headache.”

  If a man new to his majority could flounce, Hiram flounced out of the room.

  “I hope you won’t go after him,” Pietr said, closing the door. “He was being an ass. I was tempted to rap him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper, except he’d take out his ill humor on you.”

  “You put your finger on the problem. Hiram is facing serious grown-up problems, but he hasn’t the grown-up tools to deal with them. He was too young to learn the business from Grandpapa. Papa never steered him toward a profession, and his friends are all of the class that doesn’t need a profession. He is stranded on the moor, but I had not seen that.”

  “If he’s truly desperate, I could use a curate,” Pietr said. “They tend not to last here, but we appreciate them while they’re on hand and feed them prodigiously well. Speaking of which, I made lunch. A baked omelet based on one of Monsieur’s recipes.”

  Joy went to him, because the door was closed and because they had so little time. She did not castigate herself for slipping her arms around his waist.

  “Thank you for making lunch, but you need not change the subject for fear I’m upset. Hiram is a problem, and the solution to his problem is apparently Lord Apollo’s good offices. I don’t want to leave here.” Do not want to leave you.

  Already, Pietr’s embrace felt like home.

  “I don’t want you to go. I doubt the post coach will come through from the west today, but I’d be very surprised if we don’t hear the horn blast tomorrow by midday.”

  “We have another day, then.”

  He stroked her back, stealing much of the tension from her body and none of the sorrow from her heart.

  “The holiday assembly is tomorrow, Joy. I was hoping you’d stay for that. We waltz once a quarter here in the provinces, and I long to waltz with you.”

  “I would enjoy that.” An understatement, not quite a lie. Were it possible, she would treasure the memory of publicly partnering him for the rest of her days and nights. She eased away, pleased to see that the feeder was once more adorned with birds.

  “Let’s eat,” she said. “I never realized what a busy place a vicarage is. You have had a steady stream of callers.”

  Pietr let Joy change the subject. He let her go when she eased away. Tomorrow, saint that he was, he’d doubtless let her climb into the coach and make her way to the Bellingham family seat, if the weather obliged.

  Lunch was good and simple, making use of the peculiar abundance of eggs so late in the year. Pietr acquainted Joy with more of the stories of the folk who’d called at the parsonage that morning. Mrs. Peabody had brought by her signature recipe for hot plasters, in case the young man was still doing poorly.

  Mr. Weller had dropped off an old Latin primer, because the village boys who studied with the vicar might be able to use it. The call had lasted half an hour, while Weller had put away three servings of brandy and remarked on how he wished he’d been able to join his daughter’s family for the holidays.

  Mr. Petrie was missing his sons, gone to America to earn their fortunes.

  The Lumley twins had come by offering to sweep the back porch again. Their gracious generosity had been accepted, though the back porch was all but bare of snow. Pietr had sent them on their way a quarter hour later, pockets stuffed with potatoes and each twin clutching half a loaf of holiday bread wrapped in a table napkin.

  “You are pensive,” Pietr said, rising to take dishes to the sink. “Or have I bored you with my recitation of the local edition of Debrett’s?”

  “I am full of good food. You mention Debrett’s. Is it possible I know your sister?”

  “Her husband is Lord Beacham, and she does spend her Seasons in London. Summer holidays include a trip to Denmark every other year, and Beacham conscientiously votes his seat, though Clara doesn’t care for London in winter.”

  Beacham. Lady Beacham… The name was familiar. “We’ve been introduced. She is formidable. Also very handsome.”

  “I love her dearly,” Pietr said, “but formidable is accurate too. She doesn’t trade on Mama’s royal connections, but then, she doesn’t need to. Shall we finish off the meal with a lemon biscuit?”

  He loved his lemon biscuits. Mrs. Baker had left him a good supply too.

  “Shortbread will do for me.”

  Their hands brushed as Pietr passed her the sweet, and Joy felt the fleeting contact like a blow to the heart.

  I do not want to leave this place.

  I do not want to leave this man.

  “How will you spend your afternoon?” she asked, taking a bite of her shortbread.

  “I might spend it pummeling a worthy opponent at chess, if you’re interested.”

  I’m interested, heaven help me. “You have calls to make, don’t you?”

  He popped half a lemon biscuit into his mouth. “How did you know?”

  “Because you are that sort of vicar. You will look in on the elders after a heavy snow, make sure they have coal, and take them some of Mrs. Baker’s largesse. You will casually shovel off any snowy walkways the children missed and make sure the widows and widowers have a way to get to the assembly. For new parents, you’ll make a different sort of call. Brief, mostly reconnaissance, and you will set the elders to knitting blankets and shawls for the family of the new arrival.”

  He smiled, once again putting Joy in mind of a Viking. “I will meddle, to use the more accurate term. I enjoy meddling, and I’m good at it. I will miss our chess match, though.”

  And he did not mean he’d miss a few games that very afternoon. “Might I pay your calls with you?”

  He set down the uneaten half of his biscuit. “You wish to come with me?”

  “I have baked as much as I
can stand to. The house will be warm for the next two days. Hiram is poor company, and I’d like to enjoy what sunshine we have.”

  Pietr’s smile turned bashful. “I would delight in having your company this afternoon, Joy. You are right. We must make the most of what sunshine we have. Bundle up, and don’t expect to be home before dark.”

  Joy passed her afternoon dandling babies, discussing bonnets and tisanes, and admiring Pietr Sorenson, a lovely way to pass a few hours on a chilly winter day. She did not once consider what Lady Apollo Bellingham would have done with those hours.

  She did not wonder, she did not care, and she was not Lady Apollo Bellingham yet.

  Chapter Six

  The afternoon sped by too quickly, and as Pietr watched, Joy charmed everybody she met. She listened earnestly while Mr. Wiles explained the various knives needed to carve each individual bird. She clapped in happy appreciation when one of the younger Lumleys slogged the entire distance through an alphabet of approximately twenty-two letters.

  She sat with old Mrs. Peeler and admired her knitting, while Pietr filled up the coal buckets and chopped kindling. He got more shoveling, sweeping, chopping, and water hauling done in one afternoon than he could have in three days of polite calls on his own. Joy had known, ten minutes into each visit, to shoo him away to “make himself useful” while she enjoyed some friendly conversation.

  Mrs. Baker’s largesse, and Joy’s as well, had been distributed, and Pietr had never enjoyed tending to his flock more.

  “At least if the sun must set early, it does so spectacularly,” Joy said. “How many of those birds did you purchase from Mr. Wiles?”

  “A few.” A half dozen. “They are exquisite, and one village can only use so many drawer pulls, doorknobs, newel posts, and so forth. The oldest Lumley boy paints the birds, and the younger Wiles children are all learning to carve as their father does. They have the capacity for much more production. I simply need to find them customers.”

  Joy walked through the churchyard beside him, the paths all tidy and clean. To the west, the sky had turned crimson, orange, and mauve, while the temperature went from frigid to shockingly cold.