by Erica Nyden
“Do you know this song?” he asked, his lips brushing her ear.
“I don’t.”
“What do you think of it?” His whispered breath was warm, and the stale smell of alcohol threatened to overpower his aftershave.
“I like it. You dance very well, Major.”
“Thank you. Despite other disabilities, I hope I will always be able to dance.”
As the tempo intensified, his hand moved to her hip and set them both swaying. Their feet lifted in a sort of dance she’d never have practiced with her father. Occasionally the major stretched out his arms, causing her to do the same, before twirling her back to him, his hand securing her at the small of her back.
After two more cozy bends, he stopped and pulled his face far enough away that if he’d had his sight, he could’ve looked at her squarely. “Would you call me William?”
“William. Yes.” She’d call him whatever he liked. “I—”
“And may I call you Olivia?”
Her name on his lips sounded as smooth as sweet cream, a treat denied since the war started but one she swore she tasted now. She bent her head with a girlish grin she was glad he couldn’t see.
“Of course.”
The irritable dictator she’d met weeks ago faded from memory whilst the music and his arms continued to carry her.
“Lavender oil,” he murmured. “Do you wear it on your neck too?”
Her accomplished dance partner left her too entranced to respond. Rocking gently, she repositioned her left hand more snugly to his shoulder and laid her head on him, the fabric of his shirt a soft pillow for her cheek.
Chapter 9
Dancing with Nurse Talbot had rekindled feelings William had gone too long without—and in recent months, feelings he thought he’d never have again. It’d been a week since his hand smoothed the slight curve of her hip, pulling her toward him as he had so many other women so long ago. Dancing had been the talent that landed him in the beds of the women whose bodies he held on the dance floor. When the lights were out, restraint was never a concern; he wanted them, and they wanted him.
But with Nurse Talbot, restraint was a must. He couldn’t crush her to him, though twice he’d come close. Three times he’d brushed her backside with his hand, hoping she’d think his blindness caused the fumble. There was no fumble. Every move had been intentional, and if Peder had been in the room, he’d have recognized William’s misbehavior.
Olivia’s velvety skin reminded him of Paula, a woman he’d met at a cocktail party in London back in ’35. Cynthia had soft skin too, especially her neck and face, where her dimples deepened alongside her dazzling smile. Did Olivia have dimples? Or Marie, who had dimples and the fullest lips; even when she grinned, they pouted, luscious and heavenly to kiss. What were Olivia’s lips like? Would he ever know?
Olivia’s scent drifted into his memory as strongly as if she stood beside him. The slightest whiff of lavender made him think of her, and thinking of her brought sanity to his perpetual madness. If it weren’t for the pall still corrupting his mind, he’d tell her so. Instead, he remained a negative, depressed, and most unworthy companion, as he’d proven again this evening.
At suppertime, Olivia had been ruminating on the upcoming Christmas holiday and hoping that at least part of her family would be together despite the war.
“The holiday can go hang for all I care.” He’d reeled with regret as soon as his words took flight.
“Sorry?” she asked, surely outraged, though her voice remained tempered. He couldn’t understand how she stayed so even-keeled whilst dodging his mood swings.
“Terrible time of year, truly. Never could abide it.”
“Even when you were a boy? I don’t believe you.”
He considered taking her hands in hopes that her touch would somehow remove the pain from his forthcoming words, but he didn’t dare. “The war ended when I was ten. I was in my fourth year at Blundell’s, and my father was to be home in time for Christmas. It had been close to a year since the three of us had been together. I especially couldn’t wait see my mother. Even at age ten, young boys miss their mums when away at boarding school.”
“Of course they do.”
“When I arrived home, as soon as James brought me through the front door, my father told me Mother had died a day earlier. But I’d no idea she was even ill.”
His voice cracked, and he wished he hadn’t broached the subject, until Olivia took his hands. Little by little, her gentle pressure coaxed open his clenched fists, allowing his fingers to link with hers.
“I’m terribly sorry, William.”
“I remember nothing else about that time save the disbelief and the hollowness. I can’t even recall crying for her.” He tilted his head back. “Strange how the brain blocks events from our lives we’d rather forget. I have several recent events I wish it would bloody well block. Someday, perhaps.”
“What do you remember about your mother besides her love of gardening?”
“Her beauty and compassion. My mother’s upbringing differed greatly from my father’s, and the struggles she endured as a child left an indelible mark. She was charitable. The village folk adored her. Everyone did.” His voice had finally returned to some version of normal. “My father, a cold person by nature, was as malleable as clay where my mother was concerned. No one else held such esteem in his eyes, not even his son. Not even close. He doted upon her, and she in turn doted upon me.”
Abruptly he took his hands from the comfort of Olivia’s and rubbed his eyes. His lack of embarrassment at this emotional disclosure astounded him. Was it because he couldn’t see her criticism? Or was she truly an angel come to rescue him?
“How hard it must have been to lose the person closest to you when so young. You’re incredibly brave for telling me. Her portrait in the sitting room is stunning. You look like her, you know. I’m sure you’ve heard that before.”
The smile in her voice made him smile, too.
She’d stood then. The dishes had clanked together; utensils tinkled. “I’d love to hear more about her some time, William, if you’d be willing to share. More wine?”
Like that, Olivia had taken a painful moment and turned it into something sweet: stories for another day, ones he longed to tell. She’d brightened a dark memory.
Thinking on that—and her—made the loneliness of his bedroom at this hour a little less gloomy.
Since the death of his mother, the major and his father had preferred to be alone at Christmastime. As a result, the staff at Keldor was used to considering the Christmas holidays as time off. William said those who still had families should spend time with them. He encouraged Olivia to take days off opposite Mrs. Pollard, but she refused and so did her parents. Once she told him she could cook and even enjoyed it, it was settled: James, Annie, and Mrs. Pollard would take the entire week, all the way to New Year’s Day, as a proper holiday.
Olivia was excited at the prospect of carrying the reins for Mrs. Pollard in her absence. She welcomed the new responsibilities, and since she had only to cook and clean for two, the assignment would be easy.
“I’ve changed the linens and dusted the open rooms. And remember to hang the blackout before sunset,” Mrs. Pollard told her, gripping an extensive list. “I know times have changed, but I’m not sure how I feel about you cooking and keeping house, like.”
“Do you think me incapable?” Olivia asked teasingly.
Mrs. Pollard patted Olivia’s cheek. “Oh no, my bird, I know you’re more than capable. But you already have your hands full with Mr. William. I don’t feel comfortable adding to your workload.”
“Not to worry. The major’s overall health has improved immensely these past two months. We’ll be fine.”
Mrs. Pollard called attention to William’s favorite recipes, which she left on the counter. In the larder, she identified specific food supplies and where to find them. For dinner, she’d prepared a hearty lamb stew; any leftovers would make for perfect lu
ncheons over the next several days. She’d gathered enough ingredients to whip up a small Christmas pudding, to be accompanied by her special brandy sauce.
“Now don’t tell Mr. William I’ve made a Christmas pudding. Let it be a surprise. If he knows, he’ll sneak in here and search it out. His eyes may not work, but he has a wicked sense of smell. Not only will he find the pudding and the coin hidden inside, but the brandy sauce will disappear as well.”
After finally dropping Annie and Mrs. Pollard at the train station, Olivia drove James to his brother’s small cottage outside Charlestown. From there she headed to Fore Street in the village, armed with Mrs. Pollard’s list of victuals and ration cards.
At the family-run grocer’s, evergreen boughs swathed the handwritten adverts and timeworn baubles twirled idly above the heads of the bustling shoppers. In between animated voices and the din of bells from the main entrance, Bing Crosby crooned “Silent Night.” The scents of cinnamon and cedar filled the air. For a few blissful moments, it was easy to pretend there wasn’t a war on.
The fantasy didn’t last long. After gathering extra goodies like Christmas surprises for William bought with her own money, Olivia longed to visit the shop next door to buy a new scarf or brooch. Reason chased away the notion as quickly as Mrs. Pollard after a housefly. The world was a different place now. She should be happy she had enough money to purchase some overpriced dried fruit and nuts. They weren’t always available, and few could afford them—a cruel reminder, like National Margarine and the absence of bacon at the butcher’s, that this Christmas would be unlike any other.
Olivia untangled herself from her negative thoughts. She needed to quit thinking of herself. William detested this time of year, and somehow she’d have to make it better for them both. She’d knitted him a scarf and found treats to share, and Mrs. Pollard had made a Christmas pudding, for heaven’s sake. Perhaps he’d be willing to play his gramophone. Maybe they’d dance.
The idea of his arms around her propelled a familiar tingle through her lower abdomen. Since their first dance, quelling these feelings had proven impossible. Sometimes when he listened to the wireless and most likely forgot she was in the room, she’d stare at his broad shoulders and the minor creases in his face. His eyes were her favorite—his eyes and his mouth, for when he smiled, they twinkled like stars at twilight. In deep thought, his pensive face reminded her not so much of Daphne du Maurier’s Maxim de Winter but certainly of Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy: handsome, discerning, mysterious. When he laughed, delight shook his entire body the same way Jasper’s tail wagged his.
Amidst the holiday decor and faint Christmas carols, a seed of optimism grew inside her. War or no war, she and her employer, having become fast friends, would generate their own peace in this turbulent world. They’d celebrate it.
Eager to get back to Keldor, she rose on her tiptoes to see ahead in the long queue. Movement beyond the scrim-covered shop windows caught her eye, and her heart leapt.
It was snowing.
On Christmas Eve, William waited as Olivia’s feet scurried from dining room to kitchen to library and back again.
“Why didn’t I dismiss the staff one at a time?”
“It’s not so bad,” she said, her voice breathless. She finally settled somewhere across from him. “I enjoy doing something different, preparing meals and such.”
He sounded like a child, and he didn’t care. “But you’re always cooking or cleaning up or preparing a fire, for God’s sake, and I’m left to sit here alone and wait. At least before, we were waiting together and I had someone to talk to.”
“You’re right. A horrible thing to sit and wait for someone else to serve you.”
The smile in her voice gratified him, as usual. But still, he sulked.
She splashed wine into his glass. “Happy Christmas, William. Cheers.”
He lifted it, drank, and promptly began to eat.
“Shouldn’t we pray first?” she asked. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Pray? Pray to whom?” He bounced his fork above his waiting meal. He hadn’t prayed in over a decade.
“Tomorrow is the birthday of Jesus. To whom do you think we should pray?”
How young she was, and so terribly naïve. “So we should pray, then, thanking him for the limited food on our table and for the family members we no longer have with us? Perhaps we should give thanks for our peaceful world as well? Do as you like. I’ll respect it, but I’ll take no part.”
He found a morsel he could stab and popped it into his mouth.
“I never thought about it like that before. But God must have a purpose somewhere in his grand scheme of things.”
“Well, I’m not interested in the plan. I confess I’m a tad bitter and have been since my mother died. Do you know she went to church every Sunday? She helped people. They often didn’t have the chance to ask because she already knew of their plight. And she didn’t give people what they required. She opened up opportunities for them, finding work or creating exchanges between neighbors for goods or services. Simply put, my mother was a selfless angel.”
He took another bite and chewed a moment. Fairly certain he was ruining her meal, he went on anyway. “My father continued attending church after Mum’s death, doing his best to accept her passing as a part of God’s plan. He said God needed her in heaven more than we needed her here. What’s that scripture, something about ours being a jealous God? So he took my mother; he’d shared her long enough. And now my father.” Emotion he’d rather not reveal filled his eyes. “I’m sorry, Olivia.”
“You needn’t apologize.”
“No, no, I’m ruining your holiday with this ridiculous talk. That wasn’t my intent.” He thumped the table, his heart as cold as her meal was becoming. “Pray if you like. Your food’s getting cold.”
Chapter 10
Fixed on getting the dining room tidied as quickly as possible, Olivia extinguished the pillar candles on the buffet before clearing the plates from the table.
“Cleanup can wait, can’t it?” William asked, standing. “Let’s go into the library.”
With arms waving like Frankenstein, he searched until she caught his left hand. Once in her grasp, though, he resisted her pull.
She turned, confused. “What’s the matter?”
His pursed lips twitched somewhere between a frown and a smile. He plunged his right hand into his trousers pocket and retrieved a small black box.
“I know it’s not Christmas yet, but I couldn’t wait to give this to you.”
Dried fruit and a lopsided scarf would barely compare to whatever was in that black box. She cleared her throat and hopefully, the dismay from her voice. “A Christmas gift? William, you didn’t—”
“You’re a light in my darkness, Olivia. I appreciate your being here and tolerating my insolence these past months. Happy Christmas.”
Hesitantly, she took the box. It was heavier than she expected, and covered in velvet. In one hand she secured its bottom whilst the other slowly creaked open the lid. Inside, cradled in black satin, lay an oval moonstone set in a simple pendant of scored white gold. She plucked it from its hold, freeing the thick chain behind it.
“It’s beautiful.”
His eyes fluttered for a moment, like he didn’t know what to say. But then he lifted his chin and spoke. “It was my mother’s, a gift from my father on their first wedding anniversary. I remember her wearing it when I was young. Mrs. Pollard helped me find it before she left. Will you wear it?”
“Of course I will! It’s lovely. I’ve never owned anything so elegant. Are you sure?”
He scoffed. “Don’t insult me. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Can I help you put it on?”
She placed the necklace into his waiting hands, hook and eye first. He linked the heavy chain easily under her lifted hair, as though familiar with the task. Her neck sizzled where his fingers had touched her.
She faced him. “Thank you. It goes perfectly with what
I’m wearing tonight, exactly the pick-me-up this tired old dress needed. I love it.”
Quickly, she took him by the shoulders and swept her lips across his cheek. She dared not look at his face. Rather, she gripped his hand and gave a small tug.
“Shall we?”
At the entrance to the library, she left him at the door and scuttled to her poor excuse of a fire.
“Damn,” she whispered, “I forgot all about it.”
“Thank heavens, or I would’ve eaten alone.” William made himself comfortable on the settee, which had been repositioned close to the hearth both to keep its occupants comfortable during the winter months and to allow for more dancing. If he didn’t suggest it tonight, she would. It was Christmas Eve, after all.
“Would you like a brandy?” she asked, adding more kindling to her dying fire.
“Of course, thank you.”
The fire sputtered back to life. She crossed to the sideboard under the cloth-covered windows, where Mrs. Pollard’s festive pine cones and sprays of various evergreens lay amidst crystal glasses and a large, twinkling decanter. Olivia poured two snifters half-full, then lit a few candles. The small spruce tree James had found on the property came just to her shoulders. Bright red holly berries tucked amongst the boughs reflected the fire’s glow. Underneath lay William’s meagerly wrapped gifts.
“Sit by me, will you?” he asked, taking his drink. “I prefer you much more as my companion than my servant.”
“I know. How about music first? What would you like to hear?” She flitted across the room, her free hand clasping the pendent at her neck. Her insides were melting. What else would the night bring?
“I presume holiday music would be appropriate. See what you can find over there.” He stood, brandy in hand. “In fact, I shall come help you.”
Perplexed at how he would help, she met him with an outstretched arm. “What would you recommend? Shall I read the titles?”
