On a Midnight Clear

by Sandra Sookoo

  For whatever reason, fate had thrown him and Sarah together, and damnation, he refused to waste the chance. She was right when she’d told him yesterday that he’d survived for a reason. It was time to see if they could coalesce into a family for a time, at least until Christmas and the start of Twelfth Night. And he wished to discover if that long-ago spark they’d shared was still there, if it could be coaxed into a fire that might, perhaps, blaze into the inferno they’d once enjoyed.

  Isn’t Christmastide supposed to be a time for miracles? Perhaps he’d find one to spare.

  If there wasn’t anything between them, he would do the honorable thing and concede the cottage to her, wish her well in life, and then continue his way. His heart twinged at the thought of leaving his son, for he’d become yet another man to vanish and leave him behind.

  I refuse to do that.

  Heaving a shuddering breath, Cecil struggled to his feet. He ignored the protest of his muscles, ignored the residual pain in his leg. Today, he would grasp life with both hands and wouldn’t let go.

  Time to pull my head out of my arse and stop merely existing. He had a purpose; now he must find it.

  He was silent during breakfast, preferring instead to actually listen to the interactions between Sarah and Simon. Their banter was pleasant to the ear, but though the boy seemed happy enough, her smile didn’t light her eyes and she held herself too rigidly. Because of him, her life had been reduced to struggling—a far removal from what she’d been used to.

  Right here, right now, I’m going to begin making up for that.

  After licking the last vestiges from the flavorful porridge from his spoon—how did she manage to make hers taste wonderful and not like the wallpaper paste of the hospital in Bath? —he stood. “Simon, could I interest you in a walk? I’m sure your mother would welcome a bit of quiet.”

  When Sarah shot him a grateful smile, his heart squeezed. Yes, he’d done the right thing. It was simply a matter of observation and acclimating oneself to the new interpersonal dynamics around him. “I do have a few matters to attend just now.”

  Simon shot to his feet so fast, his chair nearly toppled over. “I would like that!”

  “I figured.” With a grin, he rose and took his cane in hand. The boy was suited for country life. “Go grab your outer things. There’s quite the nip in the air.” Once Simon scampered off, his pelting footsteps echoing through the hall, Cecil searched out her gaze. “Is more firewood needed?”

  Her lips twitched. “Over and above what you’ve already stock-piled for us?”

  “As I said, the temperatures are dropping. Unless you’d like to suffer cold feet and fingers, which will hinder the handiwork you adore so much, I’ll keep the fire well-stoked.” He admired her penchant for keeping busy. When she wasn’t toiling over meals or cleaning or her stillroom tasks, she always had some sort of sewing or knitting in her lap.

  A hint of a blush tinged her cheeks. “I enjoy doing for others. In fact,” she lowered her voice with a glance to the doorway. “I’m knitting Simon a couple pairs of new socks for Christmas.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be properly grateful for them. I know I would be.” Before either of them could say more, the boy returned.

  “I brought your coat too, Major Stapleton,” he said, dragging the greatcoat into the room after him. “I couldn’t find a muffler.”

  “I lost it long ago.” Cecil took the coat and slipped it on. “Gave it to one of the men in my regiment who needed it more.” The tightening in his chest warned of oncoming emotion, and he shoved it back. “I shall merely button my collar higher.” With an incline of his chin at Sarah, he ushered the boy from the room and then the cottage.

  Eventually, he told Simon, “Perhaps we’ll hunt out a pheasant for your mother. As much as I like rabbit stew, something else would be welcome.” He’d teach the boy how to set a trap for wildlife as he’d done while between battles.

  “That sounds like great fun.” To his credit, Simon kept pace, oftentimes running ahead to pick up a stick here or an interesting rock there.

  “Are you happy with your life, Simon?”

  “Yes.” The boy turned back toward him, confusion lining his expression.

  “If you could change anything about it, what would that be?”

  A brief frown touched the boy’s lips. “I would like Mama to be happy too.” He looked up at Cecil, his brown eyes shining. “It is good you’ve come.”

  “Oh? Why?” It was always interesting talking with the child.

  “Mama smiles more.”

  “She does?” If that was true, then it was more evidence he might have found the path he needed.

  “Yes.” Simon nodded so enthusiastically that his curls bobbed. “Are you friends with her now?”

  “I hope so.” Unable to stop the urge, he ruffled the boy’s hair with his gloved fingers. “Would you like that?”

  “Yes.” Then his expression shifted into somberness once more. “You don’t smile enough. Are you happy, Major Stapleton?”

  Familiar bands of emotion wrapped about his chest and squeezed. Would he ever hear the word “Papa” from this boy? But he concentrated on the question. Since arriving at the cottage, he’d consistently remained angry, yet as he’d settled and learned the new routine of life, he’d looked forward to his days with more aplomb than he had the last seven months. “I am learning how to be happy again, Simon.”

  “That is a good start.” His expression clearing as if he understood.

  “Agreed.” He dropped a hand on the child’s shoulder, redirecting their trajectory. “Come to the shed. I want to show you what I’ve been working on, but it’s a secret just now from your mother.”

  If it did indeed snow, they would have a sleigh ride in an old carriage he was fitting with skis. Would that make Sarah smile and her eyes sparkle? For her sake, he wished for snow along with his son.

  Right before dinner, Cecil managed to convince Sarah into going on a walk through the woods with him. He had an ulterior motive, for he wished to give both her and Simon a cheerful holiday they wouldn’t forget. It was time they each had at least that in their lives. Not to mention, he wanted to spend time in her company, for if they were to suit for the future, they needed a tighter, deeper friendship bond.

  Was he seriously considering courting this woman? He sent her a sideways glance, took in her shining eyes, her rosy cheeks, the escaped tendrils of her hair, the way her cloak snuggled against her curves, and the muscles in his gut clenched. A grin curved his lips. Yes, he was. The memory of her had been his escape on the battlefield, and they had certainly suited between the sheets once upon a time.

  But he wanted—dreamed—of more. Perhaps if he were still as fortunate as his old moniker suggested, she would too.

  Also, he intended to hunt up mistletoe for later in the week, and he thought she might enjoy the exercise.

  As the conversation between the three of them turned to Christmastide, the excitement in Simon’s voice transferred to him. For the first time in many years, Cecil looked forward to a future beyond the military.

  Perhaps it won’t be as bad as I’ve feared.

  “My friend Jack says at times people give each other presents at Christmastide. Is that true, and where do the presents come from?” Simon wanted to know.

  Cecil shot a look at Sarah, who shrugged. “It is a custom followed all over the world, sometimes called by different names. A present can be anything, as long as it comes from the heart.”

  “I must think on it then,” the boy said, his countenance once more too serious for a lad his age. “I do hope my presents are fantastic.”

  “You’d do well to remain grateful for whatever you receive—if anything,” Cecil said with a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “Gifts of practicality are better than the fanciful.”

  Unexpectedly, the trip of Sarah’s light-hearted laughter ran on the frosty air, and this time Cecil had to rein in the urge to gawk at her. So easily he could see her as a
woman without cares who looked forward to any sort of gaiety far removed from responsibilities of life.

  “Christmastide gifts shouldn’t be about what one needs, Cecil.” Briefly, she touched his arm, and then, as if remembering herself, she snatched her hand away, but her warmth lingered. “They should be something lovely, something dreamed of, something secretly hoped for, or something frivolous that one would never procure for themselves.”

  “Perhaps you have the right of it, because then they are all the more special.” Cecil nodded, but focused his gaze on the boy, not daring to hope they’d make forward progress. Now the question was, what sort of silliness did she harbor in her heart of hearts?

  As Simon ran ahead, Sarah continued. “We haven’t many funds, but I intend to make this time special for him.” A thread of wistfulness wove between her words and caught at his heart.

  “I shall do my level best to help in that regard,” he said in a whisper from a tight throat. “For you both.”

  She turned her head, and beyond the brim of her bonnet, he caught the flash of a genuine smile that had his world tilting. “Thank you for the consideration.”

  “Truly, it is no trouble, Sarah.” Just as briefly as her hand on his arm had been, he touched her shoulder, not daring to linger. “I am grateful to find myself here.”

  “Good.”

  Nothing else was said as they resumed their walk.

  Finally closing the book he’d been reading, Cecil stood up from the leather chair. After checking the fire, he made his way slowly up the stairs. Sarah had retired hours before, but he hadn’t wished to lie in his bed, tossing and turning.

  When he slowly eased open the door to their room, he quietly entered on stocking-covered feet. Simon lay with his arms and legs flung outside the covers while Sarah rested on her side, her back to him, only half hidden by a quilt, for of course she’d given the bulk of them to the boy.

  “Stubborn woman,” Cecil whispered. The fire in the grate had died down. A weak orange glow barely illuminated the room, but he found an extra quilt in the trunk at the foot of the bed. Then, with tender, careful movements, he arranged the blanket over her and the boy, tucking them both in. “Sleep well.”

  Yes, it perhaps it would be nice indeed to have a family of his own, to look after, to worry over... to love. But would they want his broken self on a more permanent basis?

  Chapter Eleven

  December 20, 1814

  Sarah hated to admit it to herself, but she was slowly starting to become enchanted by the magic of the Christmastide season. She worked on secret projects while Cecil and Simon were out of pocket; the males in her life also had secrets of their own, for they would go about the property with expressions full of mischief and fun.

  Beyond that, Cecil’s solicitous concern for both her and their son had her heart fluttering. And he was all too charming in his bid to help her with chores about the place or ordered her to rest when she’d taken on too many tasks. He’d made a few more forays into the village, and each time he returned, he was laden with packages, some of which he spirited away for later. There was also news of a holiday fair that would start on Christmas Eve after services at the local church. With a wink, he had hinted that perhaps they should attend, for it seemed like something the boy might enjoy.

  Letting herself become accustomed to domestic contentment wasn’t as bad as she once thought. As she checked on the roasted pheasant they’d eat for dinner—Cecil had been overjoyed to bring her home such bounty—she smiled into the flames of the fire. He’d even fashioned a spit that went over the flames on which she could cook the bird if she didn’t want to use the old-fashioned coal oven in the kitchen.

  Why had she kissed him two days ago? Her cheeks heated and it had nothing to do with being so near to the fire as she slid the two pans of risen bread dough closer to the flames. Why, then? He’d been adorable in his vulnerability, and she couldn’t resist him as he’d sat there in nothing but a towel. That kiss had come from genuine feeling. After all he’d been through on the battlefield,his treatment once back in England had tugged at her heart. All she’d wanted to do in that moment was make him forget the horrible and concentrate on something good.

  Did that mean she wanted a courtship from him? Perhaps. More thought was needed, but he certainly set her to sea with a myriad of emotions each time she saw him.

  Most would think I’m a candidate for Bedlam. Indeed, she shuddered to think what the village women thought of her, keeping him here under the same roof, not that he’d ever given away his name or where he resided. According to Simon, during the times he accompanied the Major, everyone knew him as Cecil only. Never once had he offered a surname, but he did say he was close by and did some work for her. There’s no reason to worry over a reputation I don’t really need. Then she rolled her eyes. It’s not as if we’re sharing a bed. Add to that the fact he’d not once angled for a kiss or had done anything else inappropriate, and it was as if she’d taken on a boarder.

  Her grin faded. Was that what he thought their situation was then? Free room and board? Of course, it was his cottage... Her heartbeat kicked up a notch. Dear heavens, perhaps he was only tolerating their presence here through Christmas, just as he’d said days ago.

  To say interacting with Cecil was confusing would be an understatement. He’d gotten into the habit of walking with her and Simon in the evenings, either before or after dinner. Every night she looked forward to the outing, and yesterday, she thought he might find her alone and try to return her kiss, but he’d merely kept up a steady stream of conversation. Yes, there’d been a glint of admiration in his lake-blue eyes, and at times a trace of interest as well as a joviality that hadn’t been there before, yet he’d not tried to strike up a romance with her.

  Perhaps she didn’t appeal to him in that way, and she’d do better than fill her head with nonsense like romance where there wasn’t any. As if a cold, wet blanket had descended upon her, she shivered. A tiny thread of disappointment wound through her gut.

  It was a silly, far-fetched dream at best.

  As the shadows of late afternoon lengthened, Sarah pulled the bread from the fireplace and gave each loaf a peck with a fingernail. The hollow sound was a sure indicator they were cooked, so she left them to cool and then gave the pot of creamed potatoes a final stir.

  “Simon, call the Major in for dinner. The last I saw of him, he was repairing the broken latch on the lane gate.”

  Poor Cecil. He deserved to stand with pride for everything that he was.

  “Yes, Mama. I hope he hurries. I’m properly hungry tonight,” the boy said as he pulled on his little coat.

  Sarah smiled. “You’re always hungry.”

  “That’s because Major Stapleton says I’m growing.” Then he dashed out of the room. The front door slammed behind him. Several minutes later, he raced back into the common room, his face pinched with worry. “I couldn’t find him.”

  “Well, that’s odd.” Sarah wiped her hands on her apron. Perhaps he snuck upstairs when she’d been busy. “Go check to see if he’s napping.” Though, he’d never done such a thing since he’d arrived. He wasn’t the lay about type.

  Simon returned with a crestfallen expression. “He’s gone.” His lower lip trembled. “Do you think he doesn’t like us anymore?”

  Flutters of panic erupted in her belly, for she, too, had thought they’d meant more to him. “I’m sure he’s merely gone out somewhere.” But the cloud of worry wouldn’t lift. Cecil was nothing if not faithful.

  “But where, Mama, and why?”

  “I don’t know.” She swiftly put some potatoes in a bowl for him and laid a slice of bread with butter atop it. “Come, sit on the rug and eat. Be a good boy while I search for the Major. Then we’ll all share his pheasant and I’m quite certain he’ll have stories to tell.” Her throat was tight. “He always does.”

  “I hope so.” With a frown, the boy settled on the fur in front of the hearth. He propped a stuffed bear beside
him. “I like it now the Major has come. We’re a family.”

  Dear Lord. Sarah bit her bottom lip and blinked rapidly to stave off the urge to cry. If only he knew. “It certainly feels like it, doesn’t it?” she managed to whisper as she fled to the sofa and grabbed a heavy shawl of gray wool. Then she pulled out a pair of matching gloves from a catch-all basket near the windows. “I shall return presently.”

  “Bring him home, Mama. Life is better with him,” Simon said as he shoveled a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth.

  “I’ll try.” Snatching a lantern from a hook on the wall, she left the cottage. Her son’s words rang in her head, and she couldn’t help agree with his sentiment. The Major certainly had the knack of leaving his stamp on everything he touched, and when he smiled, she all but forgot the surly man he was upon arrival.

  He wasn’t in the garden, so she continued into the wooded area that surrounded the cottage. “Cecil?” There was no trace of the man. How was it possible he’d vanished?

  With no recourse, Sarah moved deeper into the trees. A thudding noise reached her ears, and she followed it, and then stumbled to an abrupt halt. Cecil wielded his axe without reason, hacking into trunks of trees, not to fell them, just to hit them. Perhaps taking out frustration? His cane lay abandoned—thrown? —five feet away. When he yelled at one particular tree with a fair amount of rage in his voice, she gawked at him. He’d seemed so happy in recent days. What had happened to send him into this downward spiral?

  Please, God, tell me it wasn’t my bold kiss...

  She remained frozen in place, unwilling to say his name lest it startle him and unable to move toward him lest he do something rash. Instead, she stood, one hand clutching her shawl while she tightened her fingers around the handle of the lantern. She clenched her teeth when he tossed the axe away with a disgusted cry.