Yuletide Treasure

by Andrea Kane

  “Keeping that in mind, I heard your sister out, then gathered up the skirts of my less-than-acceptable gown and marched off. I held my chin high, not because I felt defiant, but because I refused to cry in Liza’s presence. Nor did I—until I reached my home and my bed. There, I wept and wept until my tears and my dream had washed away.”

  “Brigitte …” It wasn’t until Eric said her name that Brigitte realized he was holding her face, his thumbs capturing her tears.

  “That confrontation didn’t change anything, you know,” she whispered. “Not really. Liza destroyed my hope, but not my love. I never stopped loving you, Eric. I never will. Especially since that afternoon in your chambers.” Brigitte smiled softly. “Regardless of how little our physical joining meant to you—to me, it meant everything.”

  Squeezing his eyes shut, Eric groaned, stark emotion slashing his features. Then, he enfolded Brigitte against him, pressing her cheek to his heart. For long moments he said nothing, just held her, stroking her hair with a shaking hand.

  At last he spoke.

  “Everything you’ve said about Liza is true. With one exception. Who she was, what she became—was my fault. I was the one who molded her character. I catered to her every whim, purchased the world for her in order to compensate for our parents’ deaths, devoted my entire life to her happiness.”

  “What about your life?” Brigitte asked the question that had plagued her for years. “Friends? Acquaintances?” A pause. “Women?”

  “I was thirteen when my mother and father died. In truth, I never missed them; most likely because I scarcely knew them. I was raised by a governess and sent off to school the instant I could read. Even during holidays, my parents weren’t home. They were far too restless to remain at Farrington; they were always dashing off on one adventure or another. I thought Liza’s birth would encourage them to settle down. It didn’t. When she was four months old, they sailed on an expedition to India. There was a horrible storm. Their ship sank. Suddenly, I was the Earl of Farrington—overseer of a neglected estate, faltering businesses, and a newborn babe. My childhood—whatever there was of it—came to an abrupt end. Thus, to answer your question, I had no time for diversions, no time for anything but work and Liza. Acquaintances? I had scores of them through my business dealings. Friends? I had none. Women?” Roughly, Eric cleared his throat. “When I needed one, I sought one out.”

  If Brigitte loved her husband before, she loved him all the more now—now that she understood the magnitude of his sacrifice. “So Liza was unused to sharing you with anyone.”

  “Indeed. She was also unused to sharing my money.” Eric inhaled sharply. “Shall I tell you why she ran off?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Because I lost my fortune. It was that simple. When Liza was sixteen, I made one immense, unwise investment, and suddenly my wealth vanished. I waited until I had no choice but to tell her—although, fool that I was, I assumed her sisterly allegiance would prevail. I explained that we were far from destitute, but that luxuries would have to be forfeited, at least for a time. Instead of compassion, she looked at me with an expression that proclaimed me the Devil himself. She accused me of intentionally squandering her inheritance, and of being a brutal and unfeeling brother. Then, she locked herself in her room. The next morning she was gone. No note, no message, nothing. I didn’t hear from her for months. Until, one day, she reappeared on my doorstep, begging for my help.”

  “She was with child,” Brigitte inserted quietly.

  A bitter nod. “She’d met a superbly wealthy Italian aristocrat who’d promised her the world. Instead, he filled her with his seed, then discarded her to return to his home … and his wife. Throughout her confession, Liza wept and wept, swearing to me that she’d learned her lesson, that she’d changed. God help me, I allowed myself to believe her.” Eric swallowed, his arms tightening reflexively about Brigitte. “Evidently, Liza inherited my parents’ restlessness. Three weeks after Noelle’s birth, she announced she had no patience for motherhood and no tolerance for my unexciting, frugal existence. In short, she was bored and, thus, had decided to leave England and travel abroad. When I brought up the subject of Noelle, she shrugged, repeating that she hadn’t the patience for an infant, nor had she a clue about child-rearing or an inclination to learn. She suggested I raise Noelle myself or, if my poverty precluded that choice, I farm Noelle out to some barren woman who would rejoice in the chance to nurture a child of her own. Quite frankly, Liza didn’t really care who reared Noelle, so long as she herself didn’t have to do it. I was jolted into a heinous reality I’d tried desperately to deny: that the sister I’d raised from infancy was a shallow woman with an empty heart and a hollow soul. I went insane. I bellowed until the walls shook, smashed Liza’s room to bits, threatened to lock her in whatever remained of its confines until she came to her senses. I did everything short of striking her—and, God help me, sometimes I thought myself capable even of that. Nothing worked. When Noelle was six weeks old, I was summoned to London on urgent business. I was gone one night. When I returned, Liza had vanished, leaving behind a newborn babe and a staff that cringed the instant I walked through the door.”

  “Lord only knows what lies Liza told them,” Brigitte inserted furiously.

  Eric shrugged. “At that point it didn’t matter. I didn’t blame them for their fear. All they’d heard for weeks was Liza’s sobbing and my savagery. I’m sure she had little trouble convincing them I was a madman. And, as I had no desire to amend their misconceptions, I dismissed them. They were weak with relief and lost no time in fleeing. Within hours, Farrington was deserted—except for Noelle. I packed her things into my phaeton and drove her to the home of the closest decent family I knew: the Gonerhams. I scarcely recall what I said when I thrust her into their arms; something about Liza being frightened and running away. They were too stunned, and too terrorized by my precarious state of mind, to turn Noelle away. I retreated to Farrington, intending never to emerge.” A shudder ran through him. “I did precisely what I’d denounced Liza for doing: abandoned Noelle. But, Lord help me, I had nothing left to give her—no love, no tenderness. Nothing but bitterness and resentment. And, how could I risk creating another Liza? Making all those irreparable mistakes again?” He shook his head. “I couldn’t.

  “Some three months later, I received word that Liza had contracted influenza and died. I felt nothing. It was as if she’d died already—and taken me with her.” Eric gave a hollow laugh. “The irony was that the urgent business that summoned me away and gave Liza the opportunity to escape turned out to be an announcement from my solicitor. One of my ventures had reaped an enormous profit. I’d recouped my fortune, plus some. Had Liza waited one day longer, she’d have been a rich woman again, and Noelle would have had a mother.”

  “Yes, but what kind of mother?” Brigitte demanded. “One who would forsake her own child? Eric, consider what you’re saying. Your reasons for relinquishing Noelle were entirely different from Liza’s. Yours were selfless; you were recoiling in pain and thought yourself incapable of giving Noelle what she needed. Liza’s were not merely selfish but downright cold-blooded; she chose to sever all ties with her newborn babe in pursuit of an unencumbered and exciting life. How can you compare the two?” Saying a silent prayer, Brigitte fought to recapture all her husband had lost. “Eric, you said I was wrong, that if I truly knew who you were I’d feel differently than I do. Well, I wasn’t and I don’t. You didn’t create Liza’s character; she was born with it. Your only sin was to love her—which is no sin at all. You’ve condemned yourself to an undeserved hell and, in the process, deprived yourself of the one true treasure Liza did create.”

  “Noelle,” Eric supplied, the lines of tension about his mouth easing ever so slightly. “She is quite a character, isn’t she?”

  “She’s rare and special. I know it—and so do you. What’s more, other than their physical resemblance, she’s as unlike Liza as day and night. Noelle is sensitive and exuberant, bursting with life an
d laughter. And love. Love she’s aching to give—and to receive. She needs a real parent, Eric, one? whose heart is worthy enough to embrace her. She needs you. What’s more, you need her.” Brigitte reached up, her fingertips gently stroking his lips. “It’s time, Eric,” she stated softly. “The past is gone. And the future could be filled with such wonder.”

  “Brigitte.” Eric’s breath warmed her skin. “You almost make me believe miracles are possible.”

  “They are—if you allow them to be.”

  He captured her palm, pressed it to his lips. “Have you any idea how precious you are?”

  Gazing up at her husband, Brigitte abruptly realized that, in the end, Liza had lost. For there in Eric’s eyes was a rekindling of the very blessing Brigitte believed had been wrested away five years ago.

  Hope.

  “I love you,” she breathed, somehow needing to say the words again.

  Eric exhaled sharply, his hand trembling over Brigitte’s. “You said earlier that our physical joining meant everything to you,” he said, his voice hoarse with feeling. “It meant everything to me as well.”

  Brigitte gave him a small, tremulous smile. “Not merely lust then?”

  “Not lust at all. Love. I love you, Brigitte—more than I can say. More than I ever believed possible.” Profound emotion slashed across his face, echoing in Brigitte’s heart. “When you fell sick—Christ, I was terrified. Then I couldn’t seem to bring down the fever. Not until tonight. It’s been three days, and you’ve done nothing but fade in and out of sleep, rambling on about being in heaven.”

  “I was. Because you were beside me.”

  A muscle worked in Eric’s jaw. “I was frantic. I paced. I swore. I even prayed.” His fingers tightened around hers. “I’d only just found you. I couldn’t—can’t—lose you.”

  “Nor will you.” Brigitte wanted to shout her joy to the skies. “Not now. Not ever.”

  “Even Noelle was alarmed, and you know she’s practically fearless. That first night she had a gruesome nightmare. She dreamed you’d died. I could scarcely stop her sobs. She loves you so bloody much …”

  “You went to Noelle,” Brigitte interrupted, her pupils dilating with joy. “When she awakened from her nightmare, you went in to comfort her.”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “Oh, Eric.” Brigitte flung her arms about his neck. “You see? There are miracles.” She closed her eyes. “Thank God.”

  Eric tangled his hands in her hair. “If God is to be thanked, it’s for bringing you into our lives. Perhaps He finds me deserving after all.”

  “Oh, He does,” Brigitte concurred fiercely. Leaning back, she caressed her husband’s bearded jaw. “God sees you as I do. As I always have. As the man you truly are. A knight in a fairy tale: honorable, protective … extraordinary.”

  “But sadly in need of a princess to rescue.” Eric brushed his wife’s lips with his. “Would you know of someone who might fill that role?”

  “Have you forgotten? It’s already been filled—by your wife. You saved my life, remember?”

  “I remember.” Sweeping Brigitte off the floor and into his arms, Eric made his way through the debris—crossing the past’s threshold and never looking back. “And in return, you gave me mine.”

  —

  “Uncle?”

  The hushed summons tickled Eric’s ear.

  “H-m-m?”

  “Is Brigitte better? Is that why you’re hugging her? Were you celebrating?”

  Eric cracked open an eye, his arms tightening reflexively about his wife, now curved gently against him, the slow rise and fall of her back telling him she was asleep. Smiling, he recalled the exquisite hours preceding that slumber. “Yes, Noelle,” he returned in a whisper, grateful that he’d heeded Brigitte’s advice and donned his trousers while she’d scrambled into her nightdress—just in the event of such a predawn intrusion. “Brigitte’s much better. And we were celebrating.”

  Noelle’s sigh of relief was buried in Fuzzy’s fur. “Then everything will be better, won’t it, Uncle?”

  “Yes, Noelle, everything will be better. Now go back to sleep; it’s still night.”

  “All right.” She hesitated. “Uncle? Remember what I said about how much Brigitte likes you?”

  “Um-hum.”

  “Well, I know a way she’d like you even better.”

  Both Eric’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

  Noelle pressed her lips closer to his ear, her whisper loud enough to be heard across the room. “She thinks you’re really handsome. She stares at you an awful lot. I think you should make it easier for her to see you.”

  Eric’s lips twitched. “What do you suggest?”

  “Shaving your face and cutting your hair. It would make you look ever so much nicer. Look how splendid Fuzzy looks since his bath. And I saw what a fuss Brigitte made over him. She’d probably make a fuss like that over you, too.” A pause. “Well, maybe not as big a fuss, but then Fuzzy was a lot dirtier than you are.”

  “Thank you.” Eric bit back his laughter. “That’s excellent advice. I’ll put it to use this very day.”

  “Good.” A satisfied nod. “Uncle, are we a family?”

  Eric’s amusement faded, emotion knotting his chest. “Yes, Noelle. Thanks to Brigitte, that’s precisely what we are.”

  “I thought so.” She kissed his cheek with a loud smack. “G’night, Uncle.”

  “Sweet dreams.” Eric reached up and tugged one tangled dark tress. “By the way,” he said, “it’s gotten quite cold these past few days. I think it might snow. Perhaps we should plan to move your birthday party indoors. My chambers are more than large enough to accommodate even the grandest of puppet shows.”

  Noelle’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Really. Now get some rest. We have a busy morning ahead of us.”

  The bright blue gaze narrowed questioningly. “We do?”

  “Certainly. Didn’t you hear me? It feels like snow. Therefore, we’d best fetch those numerous boughs of holly Brigitte so painstakingly collected—then abandoned when she dashed into the pond to save you. By tomorrow, they could be buried under layers of snow. If that should happen, and if the ground remains covered, we won’t be able to retrieve them in time for Christmas. Nor are there enough boughs left on the trees to replace them.”

  The significance of Eric’s words sank in, and Noelle flung her arms about his neck, hugging him fiercely. “Oh, Uncle, I’m so glad you learned how to celebrate.”

  “So am I, Noelle,” Eric managed. “Very, very glad.”

  Lying quietly beside him, Brigitte smiled through her tears, giving silent thanks to the heavens.

  In reply, a decision was made somewhere far above.

  And the first snowflake deferred its descent one day longer.

  Epilogue

  “BRIGITTE, DID YOU SEE ANNE COREWELL’S EXPRESSION WHEN Uncle gave her the Christmas shillings?”

  “Yes, Noelle, I did,” Brigitte affirmed, cheerfully warming her hands by the sitting room fire. “I saw all the children’s faces. They were elated.”

  “Are some of them truly coming to Farrington this afternoon?” Noelle demanded, prancing about their gloriously decorated Christmas tree—the very fir Brigitte had selected scant weeks ago when Christmas seemed naught but an inconceivable dream. “Just for my party?”

  “Actually, quite a few of them accepted our invitation.” Brigitte’s heart swelled with gratitude as she recalled the generous response of the villagers, many of whom were postponing their own Christmas festivities in order to grant one precious four-year-old the first real celebration of her life. “And not only the children,” she added. “Their families as well. After all, sharing Christmas with those you love is what makes the day so special—right?”

  “Right!” Noelle’s head bobbed up and down, pausing as another thought struck. “Brigitte, what about your grandfather? Is he coming? He’s family—and he’s really special. It’s ’cause of him that so m
any people like Uncle again. I heard Anne’s parents talking—they said the vicar’s been come-mending Uncle and saying everyone should welcome him, not fear him.” A tiny pucker formed between Noelle’s brows. “What’s ‘come-mending’? Does that mean Uncle was broken and the vicar fixed him?”

  “No, love.” Brigitte grinned at Noelle’s customarily inventive reasoning. “Your Uncle wasn’t broken. Commending someone is praising them; the opposite of chest-izing them.”

  “Oh! No wonder so many people are coming to my party. The vicar must have explained how Uncle saved our lives. Now they all know he’s a hero, too.”

  “Indeed they do. And, to answer your question, yes, Grandfather will be here.”

  Noelle chewed her lip. “Do you think he’ll be too tired to run the puppet show? His Christmas sermon was awfully long. I know ’cause, even though I stayed awake through the whole thing, Fuzzy nodded off twice.”