by Anna Bradley
He smelled the faint aroma of oranges. When he turned around, Lady Rose stood several feet away, gazing out of one of the tall bare windows.
“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” she said, her eyes on the scenery outside.
“It is.” He came to stand beside her, his gaze also on the parkland covered with snow. Noting the dejected slump of her shoulders, he asked, “Have you spoken to my sister?”
“I have. My aunt asked me to. She told me Emma was very upset. Inconsolable.”
Her tone was matter of fact. He waited for her to rail at him. She didn’t. She continued to gaze out of the window.
“My mother is not a good person,” he said softly. “Perhaps I should have told Emma the truth when Mother left us to live in Paris.”
“Perhaps,” she replied. “It is all water under the bridge. Now that Emma knows everything, she can come to terms with it. She will forgive you, and life will go on.”
Her voice sounded strange. He’d never known Rose to speak so gravely or to look so forlorn.
He took a deep breath. “Do you think she will forgive me?”
“Of course, she always does. Tomorrow morning Emma will tell us what she has decided to do about the festivities on Christmas Day.” She looked at him then, her eyes sad. “I will stay for Christmas if she wants me to. The day after, I return to my brother’s house.”
The news she would leave his home very soon was like a punch to the stomach. He reminded himself that he’d promised to no longer take advantage of her sympathy for his sister. If Rose wanted to go, she must go.
“Thank you, Rose.” Her continued stillness, the gravity of her voice was unnerving. She looked so remote. So cold.
“Goodnight, Thomas. I will not be downstairs for dinner this evening.” Rose didn’t wait for a reply. She turned away from him and was gone.
He felt torn. His primary concern must be Emma, but he wanted to run after Rose and ask her to stay at Wickling Manor. The house would feel empty without her.
Emma had been right: part of the reason he stayed away from Wickling Manor was because he’d come to care very deeply for Lady Rose. It wasn’t just gratitude or friendship he felt for the lady. Her strength, her intelligence, her love of family drew him to her as much as her beauty.
He’d never been in love before. He was exhilarated and afraid of the feelings coursing through him. Rose wanted to be alone this evening just as Emma did. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. Emma would tell him her plans for Christmas Day. He had another two days with Rose before she returned to Marcourt. Anything could happen in two days.
Thomas dressed for dinner although he imagined he would be eating alone. When he entered the drawing room, he was surprised to see Rose’s aunt waiting for him.
“Good evening, Lady Markham,” he said and walked to take up a place by the fire, one hand on the mantelpiece, his gaze on the flames before him. Livingston was nowhere to be seen. It felt strange for the dog not to be underfoot.
“Good evening, Sir Thomas.” She looked at him with her brows raised, a habit he’d come to realize foreshadowed the lady sharing her opinion on a subject. “I always thought you had as much sense as you have looks. Telling Emma the truth was difficult but necessary.”
He sighed. “I hope you’re right, Lady Markham.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself, are you?” She clicked her tongue. “I thought the man my niece has been in love with for so long was surely made of sterner stuff.”
“She’s not in love with me,” he replied gruffly. Would Rose want to leave Wickling Manor if she loved him?
Lady Markham made a most unladylike noise in response. “The girl has loved you since she was twelve years old. All the swooning over other young men was merely to salvage her pride. Why she would want to be stuck here in this gloomy house, I have no idea.”
He turned his head and looked at Lady Markham. She sat patiently waiting for a response. “Why are you telling me all of this?”
“Because tonight when my niece advised me she would eat in her bedchamber, my kind, sweet Rose looked defeated. She looked like she had given enough. If she leaves this house without your telling her how you feel, I doubt she will ever return.”
There was no need to ask what she spoke of. Lady Markham’s piercing eyes had uncovered one last secret. A secret he’d only recently become aware of himself. He was in love with Rose.
They finished supper in relative silence. After the meal the lady excused herself. He felt relief. If they had sat together in the drawing room the rest of the evening, he didn’t know what they would speak of. As he enjoyed a brandy in his study, Livingston wandered into the room. Rose’s pet paced around the room, seemingly unable to settle.
“I feel the same way,” he said to the dog. “Let us go into the kitchen and see if we can find some scraps of linen. I shall make you a toy like the one your mistress made for you.”
Thomas swallowed the last of the brandy in his glass and made his way to the kitchen, the dog behind him. A kitchen maid found him some clean scraps of linen used for drying dishes. He exited the kitchen and hurriedly tied the rags together. Outerwear retrieved from the entry hall, he and the dog went out the front door of the manor into the melting snow.
There were torches lit in several places around the forecourt, providing enough light for their game. He threw the ball of rags to the end of the forecourt and the dog retrieved it. He repeated the activity with Livingston until he was too cold to stay outside any longer.
“Did you enjoy yourself, Livingston?” he asked the dog as they walked to the front door of the manor.
The dog barked a few times, his tail wagging furiously.
“If only people were so easy to please.” They reentered the house and a footman dried the dog off with a long piece of toweling linen.
He mounted the stairs to go to his bedchamber although he wasn’t tired. The dog followed him. Evidently Thomas was now his best friend. A little time and effort had made the dog very happy.
“You’ve given me an idea, Livingston.” He turned and proceeded to go back down the staircase. “Come along, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
After Rose left Thomas in the gallery she went upstairs to her aunt’s room. She knocked at the bedchamber door.
“Come!”
Aunt Abigail reclined on a settee in her room, the embodiment of a lady at her leisure. Rose smelled only a trace of her aunt’s perfume.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Aunt Abigail,” she said from where she stood just inside the doorway to the room.
“Not at all, my dear,” her aunt replied and waved a hand at the only other place to sit in the room, a stuffed chair near the window. “Do sit down. I was merely thinking about the past.”
Rose took a seat. She didn’t know how to reply to her aunt’s statement, so she didn’t.
“Don’t look alarmed so, my dear.” Aunt Abigail chuckled. “Or is something else bothering you?”
“I don’t feel up to having supper downstairs this evening,” she replied. “I’m worn out.”
“Tsk. Tsk. You’re young and resilient, my dear. Both you and Emma will be right as rain in the morning.”
Her aunt’s mention of Emma brought a question to mind. How could she ask her aunt about her empathy for Emma without suggesting she thought her aunt was often unsympathetic to those who were not her family?
She tentatively said, “Aunt Abigail, you seem very solicitous of Emma’s feelings.”
“Got you a bit curious, does it?” Her aunt winked. “Perhaps I will tell you what I know about Emma’s parentage.”
She took a breath. “Auntie! If you know something, you must tell me.”
Abigail looked to be mulling the idea over. Rose held her breath.
“Well, I believe there are two candidates for Emma’s father. One is my late husband.” Her aunt said the words casually and did not look distressed by the idea. “The other, a groom who no longer works on this
estate.”
Rose thought one of the candidates was only slightly more disturbing than the other.
“I see I’ve shocked, you. My dearest Rose, my marriage was not a love match as my sister’s was. Lord Norfolk loved my sister very much and they had four beautiful children.” Her smile was a trifle sad. “We will never know who Emma’s real father is. I confronted Lady Childs years ago and she isn’t sure herself. Emma is not to blame for her parent’s shortcomings. And neither is Sir Thomas.”
Emma could be related to Rose. She couldn’t take it in. Right now, there was enough unrest in the house. “Will you share what you’ve told me with Emma and Thomas?”
“I can’t be completely sure Lady Childs wasn’t lying when she told me about her affair with my husband,” Abigail replied. “She didn’t tell me until after Lord Markham died. She is a nasty piece of work. You were too young to remember her when she went to India. When Lady Childs returned to Norfolk your brother would not allow you in this house until she’d vacated it for Paris.”
Rose had never heard Lady Childs discussed at Marcourt. How strange that she never realized she hadn’t been to Wickling Manor while the family was in mourning for the previous baronet.
The day had been full of too many revelations. She didn’t want to think about any of it. She would ask her maid to fetch a sleeping draught from the housekeeper. She would eat her supper in her room and hopefully soon after fall asleep.
“Thank you for talking with me, Aunt Abigail.” Rose stood up. “I’m going to retire now.”
Abigail looked at her intently. “Goodnight, my dear. Remember, you’re young and resilient. Sleep well.”
The next morning Rose awoke to the sound of excited whispers. She sat up in bed to see her maid murmuring something to a chambermaid. When the two women noticed her, the chambermaid curtsied and scurried from the room.
“Pardon, my lady,” Mary said. “I did not mean to wake you.”
“Did it snow again?” she asked, wondering at the broad smile on Mary’s face.
“No, my lady.” The maid pulled clothing from a drawer in the armoire. “I’m merely happy it is Christmas Eve. The servants have a half day tomorrow in addition to the whole day after Christmas.”
“That is splendid. I hope you enjoy yourself, Mary.” She would keep her gifts to Mary as a surprise until Christmas Box day. They were well hidden in a cupboard downstairs.
Her maid dressed Rose quickly in her prettiest day dress. The girl took extra care with Rose’s hair, winding green ribbon that matched the dress through her mistress’s russet curls.
She briefly wondered where Livingston had gotten to, although he’d been known to wander the house at night. Perhaps the dog was keeping Emma company.
Rose walked from her room to the first-floor landing, where she noticed a long piece of evergreen tied to the bannister with red ribbons. When she made her way down the staircase to the entry hall, there were more evergreen branches on the bannister. The arrangement she’d made for the entry hall was already on the round marble-topped rosewood table in the room. Emma must have been up early decorating the house.
There was a kissing bough hanging over the doorframe of the breakfast room. Small pieces of holly and ivy were on the sideboard. The delightful smells of Christmas greenery were all around her. Her mood lifted.
When she entered the breakfast room Emma was there along with Aunt Abigail. Her friend looked more herself that morning, the expression on her face was serene. Along with Livingston, Thomas was nowhere to be seen.
When Emma saw her she said, “Thank you, Rose. How did you manage it all?”
“Manage what?” she asked, puzzled at the question.
“Why, decorating the whole house!” Emma grinned. “There are several arrangements on display that we didn’t make together.”
“I didn’t do all of this,” she replied with a shrug. “I went to bed early and just woke up.” She glanced at her aunt.
“It wasn’t me,” Abigail said thoughtfully. She pursed her lips a moment. “I do recall hearing some noise last night that sounded like hammering.”
“Have you been in the dining room or drawing room?” she asked the two women, curious as to whether more rooms were decorated in the same fashion.
“Not yet,” Emma replied. “I think we should go see if those rooms are adorned in greenery.”
Rose pushed Emma’s chair back from the table and steered her to the doorway of the breakfast room.
“I’m coming as well,” Aunt Abigail said from behind them.
Back out in the entry hall, Rose pushed Emma’s chair down the corridor that held the drawing room and dining room. Along the way they passed a wall sconce decorated with ivy and red ribbons. In the drawing room an evergreen branch with holly and more ribbon was on the mantle. In the dining room the centerpiece Emma had made was on the table, the candelabra on the sideboard decorated in similar fashion to the wall sconce in the corridor.
Every doorway they entered had a kissing bough hung over it.
“You don’t think…” she said before she stopped herself.
“I think so.” Emma added, her voice filled with delight. “I think our phantom decorator is Thomas!”
They all trooped back to the breakfast room. The baronet was nowhere to be seen. Rose ate some toast, idly wondering if Thomas would join them.
She swallowed a bite of bread and asked Emma, “Does the future look brighter today?”
“Much brighter,” Emma replied. “Seeing the house ready for guests has reminded me what is important in life: The people that care about me and that I care about are what I’m thankful for.”
Aunt Abigail smiled and nodded. “What a blessing you understand that at such a young age.”
“So, you’ve made your decision about Christmas Day?” Rose asked Emma, her voice teasing.
“I think it would be a shame to not share this abundance of Christmas elegance with others,” Emma replied with a grin. “And Cook has gone to ever so much trouble creating an enormous Christmas Day feast.”
The previous night, while Emma sorted out her feelings about the things her brother had told her, Rose had taken the draught provided by the housekeeper and gone to sleep. She’d had enough introspection for one day.
She knew she loved Thomas. She loved Emma, but she could no longer continue to visit Wickling Manor hoping that someday Thomas would not look on her as his sister’s friend but see her as the woman he wanted to spend his life with.
It really wasn’t so hard to feel at least a little bit happy when she would soon see her brother and sisters on Christmas Day. The smile she wore wasn’t forced. “I think you’ve made the right decision, Emma. Now that the house has been decorated for us, what shall we do today?”
* * * * *
Thomas woke to sunlight pouring into his room. His valet was pulling back the curtains on one of the windows in the bedchamber.
“What time is it, James?” he asked with a yawn.
“After twelve of the o’clock, my lord.”
He sat up straight. “I can’t believe I slept so late.”
“You were up until the early hours,” his valet replied. “Your activities caused a lot of excitement in the house. The servants that helped you are quite looking forward to another half-day this week.”
He grinned. “That was the housekeeper’s idea. Thank goodness for her and the maids helping to make more kissing boughs. I would have never been able to do it all without their help.”
He could also thank Livingston for reminding him of the simple pleasures of life. He would decorate the house although it was supposedly bad luck to put up the decorations before Christmas Eve. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He didn’t want to keep the servants who volunteered to help him up too late. And some of the greenery was put up after midnight.
“Watch out for the dog, my lord,” his valet said.
He looked over the side of the bed. Livingston was asleep on the floor.
He shook his head but couldn’t help grinning at the large animal snoring on the floor next to his bed. “He followed me all over the house last night.”
His father had owned hunting dogs but neither Thomas nor Emma had been allowed a pet. Their mother didn’t want the mess of one in the house. He found he rather liked the companionship Rose’s dog had given him. Perhaps it was time to think about getting a pet. Only for Emma’s sake of course.
When he was dressed in gray-striped Cossack trousers, a white linen shirt, and a gray waistcoat, he made his way downstairs. Livingston followed him.
Thomas asked the lone footman in the entry hall, “Where is Miss Emma at present?”
“Miss Emma and the other ladies are in the drawing room, my lord.”
“Very good,” he replied. “Please let the dog out.”
He turned down a corridor that led away from the drawing room. On the way to the china room, he enlisted the aid of two footmen.
Once the item he needed was retrieved from the rug it rested on in the china room, the footmen followed him back through the entry hall and to the drawing room.
“What is going on?” Emma asked when she saw her brother followed by footmen carrying a large, heavy branch.
“I found a Yule log,” he replied with a wink, happy to see his sister smiling at something Rose had said. She didn’t look as if she was still angry with him.
“Are you sure it will fit in the fireplace?” Lady Markham asked worriedly.
“I dearly hope so.” He motioned for the two footmen to place the log on the fire. It fit. Barely.
After the servants departed, he admired the blazing Christmas fire for a moment. He asked the women collectively, “Does it pass muster?”
“Very nicely done,” Lady Markham replied.
Rose remained silent, merely nodding in agreement.
“It is wonderful!” Emma reached out her hands, “Come here, Thomas.”
He walked to his sister, not daring to look at Rose again. He was afraid the blank expression on her face might signal that she was still displeased with him.
