“Agatha, I do not think you nasty, nor mad.”
“Thank you,” she replied, swiping at tears.
When had he ever seen her cry? Never, he answered himself. Hope surged in his heart.
“While I feel free of the yoke of foolishness and pride, society’s yoke of propriety still exists, so I must do something that I hope you will accept and see with possibilities.”
He felt a thin sheet of perspiration spread over him. After all of this, was she going to fire him?
“I must ask you to step down from your position.” She paused, as if searching for the right words before rushing on. “We have feelings for each other, and we must set an example in our household. So, I am hoping you will accept a residence in the summer cottage and allow us to sort this out between us,” she finished, regarding him closely.
He did not miss that she said our household. Relief and anticipation flooded him, and he allowed himself to breathe.
“I accept, on one condition,” he said. “You allow me to court you.”
A smile as wide as he had ever seen filled her face, and unchecked tears rolled down both her cheeks. “I will do that.”
No longer compelled to ask, he leaned over and kissed her, reveling in her closeness. “I will do my best not to disappoint you. I love you, Agatha.”
“You love me?” she asked, her eyes full of wonderment.
“I do.” He lifted her chin and stared into her eyes. “All I ask is that you allow me to show myself as worthy of your heart.”
“If you promise me something,” she replied.
“And that would be?” he asked.
“I wish to take a carriage ride . . . and continue that conversation . . . the one from earlier.” She smiled seductively.
“Ahh…that sounds delightful, and very doable,” he said, before taking her into his arms.
Epilogue
Christmas Day
One Year Later
“Mama, wake up!” Tiny hands patted her face until Agatha finally opened her eyes. Henry, their two-year-old adopted son, stood in front of her, his eyes bright and his face stretched into a smile. Her husband and son stood dressed in front of her, smiling. “Good morning, Charles. You let me sleep too late again.” She smiled.
“Mama,” Henry said, tugging her hand as she sat up and reached for her robe.
“He has been up for a while, judging from the voices in the hall. I heard Mrs. Stone offer to take him to the kitchen—possibly for some biscuits,” Charles said, grinning.
“That sounds lovely,” Agatha said, cinching her robe. “I am quite ready for breakfast,” she added.
“Merry Chwithsmas!” Henry exclaimed, clapping his hands.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Please, come in,” Agatha called.
Miss Miles, Henry’s nurse, nervously stuck her head into the room. “I apologize, my lady. We have been playing games, and Henry took hide and seek a little too seriously. It will not happen, again.”
“It is quite all right, Miss Miles. It seems he is most eager to go downstairs,” Charles inserted.
The nurse’s face lit up with a smile. “You are right about that, sir!”
“We will be down in a thrice,” Agatha said, ringing for her maid.
Charles reached over and gave his wife a kiss and picked up his son. “I will take him back to the nursery for a few minutes until Lady Bentley is ready. We shall be right down. In the meantime, take time to break your fast and relax the rest of the day. We will take care of this little man.”
“I appreciate this so much. Thank you, Mr. Bentley. Thank you, my lady.”
As Miss Miles left the room, Mary, her lady’s maid entered. “We must ’ave you ready to face the day, my lady,” the older plump woman said, cheerfully.
“Yes! I think the burgundy velvet with the gold ribbon would be perfect for today.” Mrs. Spencer had delivered her new dresses only this week, and Agatha loved them all. “There is nothing like a new frock to help cheer a body.” She had also commissioned dresses and new trousers for the orphanage children. They should have been delivered yesterday, she thought. I will send a note and check on them, she decided, holding onto the bedpost as Mary cinched the back of her dress.
“Mary, can we make the curls loose? I had a slight megrim yesterday and want to make sure it does not return today.”
“Yes. I have a lovely style in mind, my lady,” she said, with a grin. Less than twenty minutes later, Mary handed her a looking glass and stepped back, encouraging her to look. “’Tis lovely.”
Agatha angled the back of her head and the looking glass in order to see the larger mirror behind her. Charles had shown her the trick. “It is beautiful. Thank you. I need one more thing and I will feel ready to venture downstairs.” She opened the drawer to her vanity and withdrew the silver locket and turned so Mary could fasten the chain about her neck.
“Aye, that is a beautiful locket. Yer ’usband has good taste,” the retainer said, admiring the necklace.
Noise from downstairs, in the front of the house, drew their attention.
“My goodness! It sounds like we have been invaded. Are we expecting anyone?” she asked her maid, not really expecting an answer. The maid shrugged and smiled.
Sounds of giggling and laughter beckoned her to move more quickly. When Agatha rounded the corner at the foot of the stairs, her pulse quickened. Sitting and standing in various places around the festively decorated rooms was her family! All of them.
Seeing her arrive, Walters quickly walked up and announced them. “Lord and Lady Clarendon, their son, Mr. George Thomas, and Lady Romney and her son, Mr. Edward Collins have arrived, my lady,” he announced.
“Thank you, Walters.”
“Hello, Agatha,” Alice said, hugging her sister-in-law.
“Merry Christmas, Alice. I do not know what to say. We had not expected you . . .”
Her husband cleared his throat. “Actually, we have. We all wanted this to be a surprise and have been planning this for weeks.
“I hope everyone plans to stay. I will have Mrs. Stone prepare rooms.”
“Already done,” Charles grinned. “They have moved everything into the rooms.”
“My goodness! It seems that I slept a lot longer than I thought, if you were all able to get that done this morning,” she laughed. “This is perfect! I am thrilled that you are all here. We have gifts for everyone. They are arranged in the . . .”
“Ahem,” Charles cleared his throat and pointed towards the decorated table piled high with gifts. It looked like a much larger mound than she remembered.
“I hope those are all for the children,” she gently chided.
“We have gifts,” Alice spoke up.
“As do we,” Charlotte added.
“There are gifts for everyone,” he chuckled. “It is our first Christmas as husband and wife, and Henry’s first Christmas with us as a family. We all wanted to make sure it was perfect for you.”
Agatha stood there for a moment, feeling a little overwhelmed, before walking over to niece and hugging her. “I do not know what to say, except that I love you all,” she choked out.
“Merry Chrwithsmas!” Henry cried. He had been practicing this for days, it seemed. It was perfect.
Before she could say another word, a knock sounded at the door. Walters opened it and singing started.
“Lady Bentley, you have company awaiting you on the front door,” he said, passing out the pelisses and coats.
As her family emerged through the front door, singing erupted with the sweetest rendition of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” she could remember hearing. Under the sprinkling of soft snowflakes, Mr. Hanson, his wife, and the orphanage children stood dressed in their holiday finery and sang each verse of the song.
When the song ended, Charles herded everyone into the room. “Come! Cook has prepared a special Christmas breakfast for all of us. I fear that she will come and get us if I do not send you her way.”
>
As the group moved towards the dining room, Charles pulled his wife aside. “Thank you for this life, Agatha,” he said, pointing up at the mistletoe ball above him.
“Thank you, Charles, for believing in me when no one else even liked me,” she said.
“Shush! That was someone else,” he sighed, covering her lips with his. “I love you, Agatha.”
“I love you, my dearest husband. I never thought I would have this . . . not ever! Thank you.”
“I am glad you are wearing your locket. It makes my gift easy to give you. Go ahead, open it,” he encouraged.
Unable to hold back her excitement, she opened her locket and found a picture of the three of them. He had had it crafted in oils when they had had their picture made a month ago. “I love it. I cannot believe you did all of this without my knowledge. But I am happy you did. This is the best Christmas I can ever remember. I have everything.” She pulled him close and kissed him.
“We deserve happiness, Agatha. You are a wonderful mother to Henry and everything I could ever want in a wife.”
A loud meow sounded as Pretty sauntered past them on her way to the kitchen, followed by her three kittens, all walking single file. Laughter erupted from the two of them. “It seems that Pretty is also a wonderful mother. She takes after you,” he added, smiling.
Unable to contain her tears of joy, Agatha dabbed furiously at the corners of her eyes. It had been a wonderful year since her brother’s visit, those many months ago. She missed him and wished she could thank him and tell him how much she loved him, one more time.
As if in answer, a bell tolled in the background. Glancing around, she realized it rang for her alone, which made her smile. “Thank you, Thomas. I love you,” she mouthed. Her brother had given her the very best gift of all—the life she had always wanted.
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Anna St. Claire
The Lyon’s Den Connected World
Lyon’s Prey
About the Author
Anna St. Claire is a big believer that nothing is impossible if you believe in yourself. She sprinkles her stories with laughter, romance, mystery and lots of possibilities, adhering to the belief that goodness and love will win the day.
Anna is both an avid reader author of American and British historical romance. She and her husband live in Charlotte, North Carolina with their two dogs and often, their two beautiful granddaughters, who live nearby. Daughter, sister, wife, mother, and Mimi—all life roles that Anna St. Claire relishes and feels blessed to still enjoy. And she loves her pets – dogs and cats alike, and often inserts them into her books as secondary characters. And she loves chocolate and popcorn, a definite nod to her need for sweet followed by salty…but not together—a tasty weakness!
Anna relocated from New York to the Carolinas as a child. Her mother, a retired English and History teacher, always encouraged Anna’s interest in writing, after discovering short stories she would write in her spare time.
As a child, she loved mysteries and checked out every Encyclopedia Brown story that came into the school library. Before too long, her fascination with history and reading led her to her first historical romance—Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind, now a treasured, but weathered book from being read multiple times. The day she discovered Kathleen Woodiwiss,’ books, Shanna and Ashes In The Wind, Anna became hooked. She read every historical romance that came her way and dreams of writing her own historical romances took seed.
Today, her focus is primarily the Regency and Civil War eras, although Anna enjoys almost any period in American and British history. She would love to connect with any of her readers on her website – www.annastclaire.com, through email – [email protected], Instagram – annastclaire_author, BookBub – bookbub.com/profile/anna-st-claire, Twitter – @1AnnaStClaire, Facebook – facebook.com/authorannastclaire or on Amazon – amazon.com/Anna-St-Claire/e/B078WMRHHF.
The Heart is Never Silent
Bedlam and Bliss Prequel
Aubrey Wynne
Miss Etta Rose Comden is desperate to protect her younger sister, Horatia, after the death of their father. When the heir—and Tia’s new guardian—finds out his ward is deaf, he makes plans to send her away and marry Etta. With no one to turn to, the sisters flee in the middle of the night.
Dr. Gus Wharren, disillusioned with his practice in London, retreats to his late grandmother’s estate. Instead of a much-needed respite, he finds two lovely females stranded along the road.
Two sisters on the run. A London physician who has given up on humanity. The spirit of a loving grandmother. The stage is set for a holiday full of coincidence, a little Christmas magic, and a happy ever after.
“For it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself.”
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
Chapter One
December 1813
Northumberland, England
Etta crumpled the letter in her fist. “Oh, Tia. He arrives in a few days.” Her younger sister sat across from her with her nose in a book. Etta reached for Papa’s cane, still leaning against the hearth in its accustomed place. She pushed back a corner of the Turkish carpet and rapped it on the floor planks.
Tia looked up with a scowl, one soft leather shoe dangling from beneath her Devonshire brown wool dress. She leaned her head back against the oversized leather chair and sighed. An exaggerated, martyred sigh that made her long, blonde curls sway against her pale cheeks.
“He comes this week,” Etta repeated, waving the wrinkled vellum, then fingerspelling “this week.”
“This week?” Tia echoed with a nod. Her brows furrowed in a feigned expression of concern, but irritation glittered in her clear blue eyes. Then she promptly returned to her romance novel, mumbling, “Stop fretting.”
Tia prided herself on her lipreading abilities. She had not been born deaf, so except for the lingering childhood lisp, her speech had remained relatively unaffected. Her volume and pitch control varied if she became excited or her temper flared.
It was comprehension that often presented the problem. There were so many similar words and hard to “read” sounds that the sisters often resorted to fingerspelling in private. Tia could fool strangers for a short time, but her new guardian would have to be informed if he did not already know.
Etta sighed and wished she could be so cheerfully oblivious to their circumstances. Their fate rested in the hands of a stranger. A second cousin, but a stranger nonetheless.
“Why, Papa? Why did you leave us so soon?” Etta’s eyes settled on her father’s portrait above the hearth.
The painting had been commissioned before her mother had died giving birth to Tia, a second girl. Before that same little girl had been ravaged by scarlet fever at the age of ten. Once recovered, the physician had diagnosed Tia with profound hearing loss. It had been the final blow for Lord Comden. Melancholia had besieged him. Etta had watched her father’s zeal for life trickle away like the grains of a sand clock.
This likeness, always looking down over them, was how she would remember him. His hair still a thick umber, no lines creasing the handsome face, and his tawny eyes shining with jovial optimism. The same humor and confidence that brightened Tia’s demeanor. MacIntyre, their butler, always said Etta looked like her father, but Tia had his spirit.
It could have been worse, she’d thought a month ago. Papa had not left them in debt. Then she’d met with the solicitor. It seemed her father’s will had been vague in the instructions concerning his daughters. The poor man had been almost apologetic, his faded brown eyes squinting behind his wire-rimmed glasses as they darted from her face to the document in his gnarled hands.
“If no male heir is found, the estate will return to the Crown. His remaining children, Miss Comden”—he paused and nodded at Etta—“and Miss Horatia will receive all cash assets.”
“I will administer your trust until you wed or reach twenty-
five years of age. The funds will be more than sufficient to ensure a comfortable living and provide a decent dowry. And if Miss Horatia does not marry…” The elderly man stopped to clean his spectacles with a small square handkerchief, the sunlight shining off his bald pate. Then he’d looked her in the eye. “The dowry portion set aside may be enough to keep her in modest circumstances.”
“Of course she will marry. Tia is a lovely, intelligent girl.”
But Lord Comden had shunned society after his wife died. Several tutors had been hired over the years. The last governess had taught them natural gestures and the one-handed alphabet for the deaf and mute. But she left and wasn’t replaced. Still, the girls had been educated in the basic skills every female must know to be a proper lady. Though their playmates had been the village children, they had socialized with the families of two country squires. Their father had followed well-meaning advice, but keeping Tia isolated from the world had inadvertently kept both sisters hidden away on their northern estate.
“Will we continue any of our holiday traditions this year?” Tia interrupted her thoughts, her pale brows drawn together.
Etta sighed, torn between wanting the echo of laughter between these walls again and maintaining proper mourning for their father. December had always been a magical time for their family. When her mother was alive, preparations had begun in the kitchen the first day of the month. Though the memories were a bit hazy, she’d convinced her father to continue the customs once Tia had been old enough to enjoy them.
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 41
