“Cecilia!”
That was Mr. Brooks, but it could just as easily have been Nick. Things were going to be very awkward if Caro turned him down.
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She didn’t look angry or embarrassed. She looked, if anything, stunned.
“Er, thank you,” Nick began—and was fortunately interrupted by a shout from one of the maids who’d been looking out the window.
“Mr. Pearson, the sun is close to setting!”
“Ah, then there’s no time to lose. Here, my lord.” Pearson handed Nick a long, thin splinter of wood. “From last year’s Yule log, as is the kindling.” He gestured at the fireplace.
“Ah.” Nick took the sliver of wood from the man and looked for the first time at the enormous log Thomas had helped them find when they’d been out in the frigid cold earlier. Nick probably should have stayed and watched the men of the estate cut it down and haul it in here, but he’d already been out in the beastly cold far longer than he’d wanted.
Well, five minutes was longer than he wanted.
“That’s a very large log,” he said, stating the obvious.
Mr. Pearson nodded, kindly not rolling his eyes. “Yes, it is. Now, if you don’t mind, my lord, as time is of the essence—tradition has it that both the Yule log and candle must be lit by sunset—I will say the blessings. I’ve said them for years, so I have them by heart.”
“Yes. Of course. That’s fine.” Nick, recognizing his complete ignorance and not wishing to disappoint his servants or otherwise take a wrong step, was more than willing to go along with whatever Pearson said.
Pearson turned to the long wooden table nearest the hearth. On it were three shallow dishes; a short, lighted candle; and a large, unlit white candle—the Yule candle, Nick surmised.
Pearson reached into each of the dishes in turn as he recited the blessings. “May the new year bring all who live here wisdom.” He sprinkled salt on the log. “Life and strength.” Wine came next. “And”—he grinned at Nick before sprinkling the last, oil—“fertility.”
Oh, God. Things were going to be very awkward if Caro decided she couldn’t marry him.
“And now, my lord,” Pearson said, “if you will light the splinter of last year’s Yule log and then light the new log.” A slight frown creased his brow. “And do keep hold of the splinter as you’ll need it to light the Yule candle.”
That Nick could manage. He had lit a fire before, just not one so impressive. The kindling caught, burned hotter. . . .
Everyone cheered as the flame licked up around the Yule log.
“How are we doing, Margaret?” Mr. Pearson asked the maid at the window as Nick straightened.
“It’s time,” she called back. “The sun is just going down.”
“Splendid.”
Nick thought it splendid, too, as the burning splinter was getting shorter and shorter.
Pearson gestured to the large candle on the table. “Now, if you’ll light the Yule candle, my lord, we will have completed tonight’s ceremonies.”
Nick set the splinter to the wick, which caught quickly, to more cheers. Then he threw the burning bit of wood onto the Yule log before his fingers got singed.
“And now,” Mrs. Brooks said, “it’s time to eat.”
* * *
Nick had taken the seat at the head of the table, of course, and had put Caro in the place of honor on his right. He’d kept her close to his side for the lighting of the Yule log and the Yule candle, too. She’d thought he’d needed—or at least wanted—her support, and she’d been happy to give it.
And it wasn’t as if there was a woman of higher—or of any—rank present to take offense.
Mrs. Brooks sat on Nick’s left, her husband next to her. Mr. Pearson took the seat on Caro’s right.
At the Home, they made no distinction between nobility, gentry, and lower class, but that was not the usual way of things in England. Not that Caro had any extensive experience with the behavior of the nobility. She’d eaten in the nursery during her brief stay in Dervington’s house.
She glanced down the table to see how Bertram and Archie and Oliver were taking the arrangement.
They were taking it very well—and she was reminded again how much more freedom Society men had than their female counterparts. Bertram was in close conversation with Fanny, Oliver was flirting with Polly, and Archie was saying something to one of the maids that caused the girl to blush.
Hmm. That would never do.
She glanced at Mrs. Brooks to see if she had noticed. Nick was talking to her, so she might not have.
Mrs. Brooks had noticed all right. She was an excellent housekeeper, awake on all suits. She was sending someone a very significant look. Who?
Caro followed her gaze. Ah. Mrs. Potty. Mrs. Potty nodded and gestured to another servant—an older woman with graying hair and a bit of a squint—who went over and changed places with the younger girl.
Archie looked rather annoyed, but there was nothing he could do besides appeal to Nick—and fortunately he had more sense than to do that.
Also fortunately Livy decided to help out. As Caro watched, she turned her attention from the handsome, but clearly overawed footman on her one side to Archie on her other.
Livy might be the proprietress of her business, more a manager than a worker these days, but she hadn’t lost her touch. In a matter of seconds, she had Archie eating out of her hand, the young maid forgotten.
Caro turned her attention back to her immediate companions—and caught Mrs. Brooks beaming at her.
Oh, blast, this was bad. Unless she’d completely misunderstood or imagined the exchange earlier, the housekeeper thought Nick planned to marry Caro—and, inexplicably, approved of that plan.
How could that be? As a respectable, God-fearing woman, Mrs. Brooks should be thoroughly repulsed by the notion that Caro might one day be her mistress. Mrs. Brooks didn’t even need to know about Caro’s past indiscretions to form that opinion; she had the evidence of her own eyes—or, rather, ears. She must have heard the chambermaid’s story—everyone else had—and must know Caro had been in Nick’s bed.
Mrs. Brooks should think Caro little better than a whore.
Lud! Her “brilliant” scheme to save Nick’s pride and herself from Mr. Woods’s attentions had misfired spectacularly. What were those lines of poetry Jo had read aloud one night a few weeks ago? Ah, yes.
Oh! what a tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive!
Sir Walter Scott definitely knew what he was writing about.
And Nick’s problem was all a hum anyway. There was nothing wrong with his—
A cheer went up, and she looked over to see Mr. and Mrs. Parker walking in beside a huge Yorkshire Christmas pie, carried on a tray by two footmen. The pie was at least a foot high and as big around as the tun she used for brewing test batches of new ale recipes.
Now she knew what the couple had been so busy doing since the stagecoach had landed in the ditch.
The men carefully put their burden down on the table in front of Nick.
“Mr. Parker, Mrs. Parker,” Nick said, looking sincerely impressed, “this is magnificent. I’ve never seen such a splendid Christmas pie.”
Neither had Caro. Mr. and Mrs. Parker might be annoying travelers, but they appeared to be extremely skilled bakers.
“It is even more beautiful inside, milord,” Mrs. Parker said, “and tastes like heaven. Humphrey here is a wizard in the kitchen.”
Humphrey blushed at his wife’s praise. “I couldn’t have done it without Muriel, milord.” He glanced around the room, smiling. “And Mrs. Potty and her staff helped, too, of course.”
“Here, milord,” Mrs. Parker said, handing him a large knife. “Do cut the first slice.”
Nick took the knife and then looked at the pie again. “Oh, I don’t know, Mrs. Parker. I hate to disturb such perfection.”
“It’s meant to be eaten, milord,” Mr. Parker said
.
“And if ye don’t cut it, everyone will go hungry.” Mrs. Parker gave Nick an encouraging smile. “Go on.”
“Very well, since, as you point out, everyone’s stomach is depending on me.”
That provoked general merriment.
Nick stood, rested the knife on the pie, took a deep, theatrical breath—and bore down once, twice. Then Mrs. Parker plated the resulting slice, holding it up so everyone could see the neat layers of pigeon and goose, partridge and turkey, and likely several other types of fowl.
“Huzzah!” Archie shouted—Livy might have encouraged him to drink a bit more wine than was sensible on an empty stomach—and then everyone else joined in.
“Huzzah! Huzzah!”
Mrs. Parker put the slice in front of Nick. “There ye go, milord—the first one’s for you. Now we’ll cut the rest.” She gestured to the footmen to transfer the pie over to the sideboard.
“Do I understand you’re a brewer, Miss Anderson?” Mr. Pearson asked as they watched the pie being cut and distributed.
Ah, a safe topic. “Yes, indeed. I run a small brewhouse at the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children in Little Puddledon.”
Mr. Pearson blinked at the Home’s name as a footman put their slices of Christmas pie in front of them.
“I make and market Widow’s Brew to earn money to defray the Home’s expenses. We do have two noble patrons—the Duke of Grainger and the Earl of Darrow—but we want to be as self-sufficient as possible.” She smiled. “The ale’s quite good—though I will admit I’m more than a little prejudiced. I was on my way home from London after trying to interest a tavern keeper there in carrying it, when the coaching accident occurred.”
Mr. Pearson nodded. He could probably understand her concerns better than most people. An estate manager had to be aware of costs and economies.
“Caro was asking about our brewhouse, Pearson,” Nick said, leaning toward them. “I told her I thought it was used for storage now, since my uncle Leon disapproved of alcohol so strongly, but that she should ask you if she wanted to be certain.”
Mrs. Brooks had leaned forward, too, her eyes darting between Caro and Nick, no doubt hoping to spot the slightest sign of romance.
Caro looked back at the estate manager. He was a far safer focus for her attention than Nick or Mrs. Brooks. “Has it been turned to storage, Mr. Pearson?”
The man nodded. “I’m afraid it has, Miss Anderson.”
“Oh.” That was what she’d expected, but it was still painful to hear. “And was all the equipment sold off, then?”
What a terrible waste, but she supposed she could understand. If you didn’t have a brewer or anyone interested in learning the trade and you had the means to purchase your ale elsewhere, why bother with a brewhouse?
But Mr. Pearson was shaking his head!
“I don’t think so.” He smiled. “Would you like to have a look? Not tomorrow, of course, since it’s Christmas Day, but sometime later in the week?”
When I’ll be gone . . .
She glanced at Nick, but luckily, he was having a word with Mr. Parker and so wouldn’t hear her answer.
She turned back to Mr. Pearson and opened her mouth, expecting to decline regretfully, but for some reason her lips formed entirely different words. “Yes, thank you.”
She froze, appalled. Why did I say that?
Perhaps she wouldn’t be gone. The snow might not have melted enough for the coach to get through. Or perhaps it would have melted too much, turning the roads to ribbons of wheel-sucking mud.
Her spirits rose—and then she took herself to task.
No, the sooner the roads were passable, the better. She should not want this visit prolonged another moment, let alone another day.
Certainly not another night.
But she did.
Anticipation hummed through her, centering on a very embarrassing part of her body.
She prayed she wasn’t blushing.
Mr. Pearson leaned closer. “I hope I’m not getting ahead of matters, Miss Anderson, but I must tell you I’m very happy Lord Oakland is finally settling down. We all are.”
Aiee! Her inner self screamed and spun around in frantic circles, looking for some way to escape this conversation.
“Oh?” Her outward self remained calm.
She’d experienced this dichotomy between her thoughts and her words in the past, but usually only when negotiating a deal, when she didn’t want to tip her hand. This was different. This felt as if she had somehow trapped a wild animal inside her—or as if she were the wild animal.
Well, she was trapped—in this seat next to Nick’s estate manager.
She looked at her wineglass and contemplated spilling it on herself.
But it’s red wine, and I have so very few clothes with me. . . .
Which was why she’d consented to remove her shift last night.
No, it wasn’t. She’d taken her shift off so Nick could show her pleasure, wonderful, soul-shaking, name-screaming pleasure.
Don’t think about last night!
Or what might happen tonight. In just a few hours.
The hum of anticipation grew to a full-throated chorus with orchestra.
Stop it!
She was afraid to look at Nick—and afraid of what Mrs. Brooks’s eagle eyes might see.
She should just tell Mr. Pearson that there had been some misunderstanding. She’d never had any difficulty being blunt before.
She was having enormous difficulty today. She sat tongue-tied as Mr. Pearson swept on down this dangerous conversational path.
“Lord Oakland had a very unfortunate childhood, Miss Anderson, as I’m sure you know. Mrs. Brooks was quite right in that. His uncle had turned into a hard, bitter man by the time Master Nick came to live with us.” Mr. Pearson took a sip of wine and shook his head slowly.
She couldn’t help herself; her curiosity was piqued.
No, it was more than curiosity—at least of the idle variety. Mrs. Potty had told her some of the story, but she wanted—needed—to know more about Nick’s history.
“Did you know Lord Oakland’s uncle as a boy, Mr. Pearson?”
He nodded. “Aye. My father was estate manager before me. I used to play with Leon and his younger brother, David—Nick’s father.” He sighed and gazed into his wineglass.
“Leon was never as happy-go-lucky as David. Well, of course he wasn’t. He knew from the time he was in leading strings that he would inherit the viscountcy, and he took that responsibility very seriously indeed. David was free to go off painting and traveling, to fall in love with an Italian girl and never come home, but Leon had to stay at Oakland and learn about crops and drainage and roofs and rents. He had to marry and get an heir.”
Mr. Pearson looked at her as if asking whether she understood.
She thought she did. She certainly knew what it was like to feel fierce loyalty to a place—or an enterprise, like the Home. She and Jo and Pen had worked so hard to get it started, to manage it, to keep it afloat financially. That was why she’d felt so betrayed when Pen had chosen the Earl of Darrow over them.
No, that wasn’t fair. Pen had had her daughter to think of—Caro had always known Harriet came first in Pen’s hierarchy of values.
But I have no children. I would never choose a man over the Benevolent Home.
Her eyes strayed to Nick—and she pulled them back, unsettled by a flutter of uncertainty. And need.
Remember, Nick should marry a young woman from a good family.
Who likely wouldn’t know the first practical thing about running Oakland.
I’m needed at the Home.
The Home was only a place.
Yes, but Oakland is only a place, too. Nick can’t leave it—leave his responsibilities. He should understand why I can’t leave mine.
That argument seemed reasonable on its face, but it wasn’t persuasive—or, at least, she
had to admit she wasn’t feeling persuaded.
I owe Jo my loyalty. She gave me a refuge when I most needed one.
Just as Jo had given Pen a refuge when she’d needed one, and yet Jo had seemed to understand—and be happy for—Pen when she married.
I have to go back to Little Puddledon. I just have to.
It would be easier—and far less risky—to go back to the Home. Caro worked hard there, but she understood her duties. She was comfortable. She was in control of things. She certainly didn’t suffer from all this . . . emotional upheaval.
“Yes. Of course he had to marry,” she said. “He was the viscount. He did just as he ought.”
Just as Nick ought ...
She jerked her thoughts away from Nick again and his viscount-ish responsibilities.
Mr. Pearson nodded. “Not that Leon viewed his marriage to Lady Oakland as just another duty, you understand. Not at all. She was beautiful, well-bred, charming. I think they truly loved each other when they married.”
Mr. Pearson paused, as if remembering pleasanter times. Caro tried to—discreetly—glance Nick’s way.
Oh, dear. Mrs. Brooks had seen her.
Her eyes scurried back to focus on Mr. Pearson.
“They were very happy,” he said, “until that dreadful fall.” His breath whooshed out in a long, heavy sigh.
No point in making the man repeat the sad story. “Yes, I know. Mrs. Potty told us—that is, Lord Oakland and me—about the accident.”
Mr. Pearson nodded and took another swallow of wine. “The fall was the beginning of the end. Oh, at first it seemed that everything would be all right. Lady Oakland recovered, at least physically. Lord Oakland was very solicitous of her.”
He shook his head. “But then she lost the next baby and the next. With each failed pregnancy, Leon grew more bitter. He would shout at poor Lady Oakland, saying terrible things, blaming her for the miscarriages, for his lack of an heir.”
“Oh!” Mr. Pearson’s words hit Caro like a punch to her heart. How cruel. To attack a woman who’d lost a baby—several babies—that way . . .
The Merry Viscount Page 26
