As Grey waited for Miss Ellis to emerge from the room in which she had spent the previous night, he peered out the window at the quaint little village with its half-timbered houses and snow-lined streets. Wreaths tied with red and green ribbons hung on the streetlights, and shoppers were filling the streets in pursuit of the ingredients for holiday feasts.
Grey had enjoyed the journey thus far, and he was dreading its end. Miss Ellis had kept up an amusing and interesting conversation all the previous afternoon as the coach wound its way north. She fascinated him with her friendly banter and amusing colloquialisms. Moreover, she was as beautiful a creature as he’d ever seen. Masses of dark curls framed a pair of sparkling green eyes, clear white skin, and a smile so dazzling it fairly radiated. Star Ellis, he’d learned, was quick to laugh and was not the least abashed when it came to defending her opinions.
Grey admired her godly spirit and her desire to help the less fortunate. But her underlying sadness disturbed him. He would like to give that baron of hers a swift kick in the backside. The least the man could have done was send a family carriage to London for the girl. Obviously, he didn’t know what a treasure awaited him. Although she’d spent the evening in her room, Grey was looking forward to seeing the young American again this morning.
“No wonder Nottingham is the center of England’s lace industry,” a familiar voice said beside him. Grey glanced over to find the woman herself tugging on a pair of bright red gloves. “Look at the frost on all the windows, the icy tree branches, and the patterned cobblestones. The village reminds me of a fancy piece of lacework.”
Grey studied the scene, trying to see it through her eyes. “I believe you’re right, Miss Ellis. It does look rather lacy.”
“You know, if my future didn’t look as dark as midnight under a skillet, I’d be tempted to slip right into the Christmas spirit.”
“That dark, is it?” Grey realized a grin was already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Surely not. It’s a fine morning—lots of snow, a comfy coach, and a dashing traveling companion.”
She shot him a look that arched her dark eyebrows and set her eyes to sparkling. “Dashing? A little vain, I’d say. I hope you’re not one of those roosters who thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow.”
Lifting her chin, she set out through the door. Chuckling, Grey joined Star near the coach as an elderly couple boarded. They had joined the party, the driver informed him, intending to go to Yorkshire to visit their daughter for the holidays.
This would be his first Christmas at home in many years, Grey realized. Not a particularly warm thought. A large tree always graced the ballroom at Brackenhurst Manor, but it was the servants who decorated it and laid the family gifts beneath. No doubt his parents had already issued invitations for the Christmas Eve party, a festive occasion with dancing, charades, and a charity auction. Good fun, if you didn’t mind sharing your Christmas with two hundred people.
His hands shoved deep into the pockets of his greatcoat, Grey watched the snowflakes falling like autumn leaves in a strong wind. “Cold?” he asked Star.
“As the legs of an amphibian,” she said, flashing that brilliant smile. “I didn’t sleep worth beans last night. If I can just thaw out my toes, I might be able to take a little siesta.”
“Sí, señorita.”
Her pink lips parted. “You’ve been to Mexico?”
“Spain. I’ve only a smattering of Spanish, I’m afraid, and not much more German or Italian. But I’m rather good at French, and I can count all the way to ten in Hindi.”
“Hindi!” She laughed, a musical sound like the ringing of Christmas bells.
Grey couldn’t hold in a returning chuckle. “May I help you into the carriage, Miss Ellis?”
“Star,” she said, holding out her hand. “You’re the only friend I have on this side of the Atlantic. You might as well call me Star.”
He took her slender gloved fingers in his and slipped his free hand beneath her elbow. Miss Ellis was every bit the proper lady in her polished button boots, black velvet-trimmed coat with long, pleated peplum, and elegantly draped red dress and bustle. Her hat, trimmed in feathers and ribbons, had been purchased in New York, she had informed him the previous afternoon. As she tipped her head to step into the coach, a cascade of loose snowflakes tumbled onto his arm.
“Mercy,” she said, turning toward him and brushing away the snow. “I’m sorry about that. A lady never knows what she’ll find in her hats these days. When I was packing my trunks, I discovered a nest of baby mice hiding in the brim of my summer straw bonnet. They were the cutest things, so tiny and white and nestled down in among the silk ribbons. I just left that bonnet right there, figuring if I’m going to marry a baron, he can just buy me another summer bonnet. Don’t you reckon?”
Grey sucked in a breath to keep from laughing. Mice in her bonnet? What would this intriguing woman say next?
“Indeed,” he managed. “By rights your baron ought to buy you a new summer bonnet for every day of the week.”
“And two for Sundays!”
Her smile sent a ray of blinding sunlight straight through Grey. His heart slammed into his rib cage with all the force of a cannonball as he helped her up the steps. The warmth of the woman’s light seemed to shine all around him, above him, inside him, and he frowned in confusion at its unexpected brilliance.
As Star’s tiny waist disappeared into the depths of the coach, Grey took off his top hat and ran his fingers through his hair. True, he had opened his soul willingly to God. But he’d always kept himself guarded against humans, whom he’d experienced as a faithless, scheming, and generally selfish lot.
So what was this softness inside him, this gently aching warmth? He’d climbed the Alps, boated on the Nile, and hunted tigers in India. How could a woman with mice in her bonnet threaten the insurmountable walls he’d built around his heart?
“Getting in, milord?” The coachman looked up at him and gave a snaggletoothed grin. Then he leaned over and whispered, “I couldn’t ’elp but notice at the inn that you and the American miss are gettin’ along famously. A pretty lass she is, eh?”
Grey shrugged. He didn’t intend to discuss such matters with a curious coachman. It pained him to realize that his fascination with Miss Ellis was so apparent.
“The young lady is to be married to a Yorkshire baron, my good man,” Grey said. “And I should thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”
“As you wish, milord,” he said. “But I can tell you this, Lord Cholmondeley is a lucky fellow.”
“Cholmondeley?” Grey grabbed the man by his sleeve.“Rupert Cholmondeley, younger son of the earl of Brackenhurst?”
“The very same, sir. Miss Ellis ’anded me the direction on this piece of paper, and I knew the family straightaway.” He held out the carefully printed address. “She says they’re to be married in the new year.”
Grey stared at the inked letters, trying to recall the name of the Yorkshire baron Star Ellis had said she was to marry. Cholmon-deley, she’d pronounced it. Of course she had. And why not? The young Texan had likely never heard an Englishman say the surname, which was rightly pronounced Chumley.
Brushing aside the coachman, Grey stormed into the coach and took the only empty seat—right beside the young woman herself. He jerked off his top hat, gave it a whack, and sent snowflakes in a shower over the carriage floor. Blast.
The prodigal son was on his way home to make peace with his family. And the woman who had captured his imagination, his fancy, his very heart, it seemed, was Star Ellis. Grey Cholmondeley, the viscount Stratton, had managed to trip head over heels on the radiant smile of his younger brother’s intended wife.
CHAPTER TWO
“On your way to Yorkshire, are you?” The elderly gentleman who had joined the traveling party at the inn addressed the viscount through an enormous white walrus mustache. “Staying at the country house for the holidays?”
Star waited for the man seated beside her
in the coach to answer. When the viscount said nothing, she took out her scrap bag. “We’re both traveling to Yorkshire,” she replied, laying her piecework in her lap. “The viscount Stratton is returning home from India. I’m on my way from Texas to marry a baron.”
“Lord Stratton, are you?” The gentleman continued to address Grey as though Star hadn’t spoken. “India? Rather hot, what? Any sign of another mutiny? Terrible business, don’t you think?”
Unwinding a length of thread, Star wondered whether the old fellow could speak in anything but questions. And why wasn’t Grey responding? Surely a viscount knew the rules of etiquette. Polite conversation required mutual inquiries as to health and welfare, genteel statements about current events, and the relation of anecdotes and humorous stories. It was all detailed in the fourth chapter of her New York City etiquette book. Star Ellis might be a country bumpkin, but she had learned about manners.
“The viscount was ill in Calicut,” she said, answering for the man beside her. “He had a very high fever.”
“Does Brackenhurst know you’re coming, then?” The gentleman stroked his stubby fingers down the length of his mustache. “Bit of a shock for him, what?”
Brackenhurst. Star threaded her needle as she pondered the name. The earl of Brackenhurst was her intended husband’s father. Although the old fellow continually failed to look her in the eye, she felt this question must be directed at her.
“The earl of Brackenhurst knows I’m coming,” she said. “He wasn’t expecting me at this particular time of year, but my father has written to prepare him for my arrival. I was planning to leave Texas next spring and marry in the summer, you see, but Daddy decided the wedding ought to be held right away in order to seal our family’s connection with the earl. This is our second terrible winter in a row, and Daddy is counting on the earl’s support. A rancher can see his spread through some mighty rough times, but not if he loses his backing. And a backer has to hang in there through all the ups and downs if he wants to turn a profit. Sometimes that takes a few years, if you know what I mean.”
She deftly knotted her thread and awaited the gentleman’s response. When he harrumphed and looked out the window, Star wasn’t too surprised. Thus far in her long journey, almost no one but the viscount had bothered to converse with her. She didn’t know if her Texas accent was too difficult to understand, if her topic choices were too boring, or if she was just plain irritating to listen to. Maybe no one she’d met knew about ranching, and maybe they didn’t care to learn. All the same, if people wouldn’t talk to her, she was going to have a lonelier life than she’d imagined. Maybe she ought to stick to topics anyone could discuss.
“Marriage,” she said, poking her needle into a blue diamond. “I reckon running a ranch is kind of like marriage. There are good times and hard times—and a whole lot of regular old boring times. But through it all, you keep on going and try to make the best of it. Last winter when my daddy was hauling all those frozen carcasses, he just broke right down and cried. But he told me, ‘Star, I ain’t givin’ up no matter what.’ That’s how marriage ought to be.”
“Frozen carcasses?” The elderly lady in the coach slid a monocle from her chatelaine bag, held it to her eye, and peered at Star. “May I be so bold as to ask the subject of your discourse? Are you referring to the earl of Brackenhurst as a frozen carcass?”
“Now then, Mildred,” her husband spoke up, “you’ve caught the wrong end of the stick on that one, haven’t you? The young lady was speaking of marriage. Says her father cries over it.”
“Did I not hear her mention frozen carcasses? I’m quite certain I did. Sure of it.”
The woman stared at Star through her monocle. Her husband heaved a loud sigh. Star stitched to the end of her thread and began searching for her swan-neck scissors. This whole conversation was a disaster.
The viscount would be no help. Staring out the pine-trimmed window, he was completely ignoring the discussion inside the coach. Gone were his dimpled smiles and interesting observations. The moment the travelers had entered the carriage that morning, his light mood had evaporated. Star thought it was probably her fault for telling him about the mice in her summer bonnet. These days a gal never knew what would turn a man against her.
“Many of the cattle on my father’s ranch in Texas froze to death last winter,” she said to the elderly couple. She spoke slowly and enunciated each word as though addressing a pair of five-year-olds. “He is in partnership with the earl of Brackenhurst. I was trying to tell you that I believe a marriage is like running a ranch with a partner. Not a love marriage, but a business marriage. Which is why I’m marrying the earl of Brackenhurst’s son.”
“Brackenhurst’s son?” the lady burst out, dropping her monocle. “I say, Lord Stratton, but that’s—”
“It’s Rupert,” the viscount said evenly, straightening away from the window. “This young woman is to marry the earl’s second son. And now, Miss Ellis, would you mind explaining this quilt in greater detail? I’m intrigued by the craftsmanship.”
Star looked up into Grey’s blue eyes. “You want to learn to quilt?”
“Well . . . you could demonstrate your techniques.”
“Oh, Grey, don’t you know you can’t learn to quilt except by quilting?” Her heart flooded with warmth. “You can’t learn to do except by doing. That’s what my mama always told us young’uns, and I’ve come to believe she’s right. Now you take this needle and put these two diamonds front to front.”
“But I didn’t mean . . . I don’t really . . .”
“Hold the needle.” She took his large hand and slipped her biggest thimble on his middle finger. Then she covered his hands with hers and showed him how to work the needle in and out of the fabric in tiny, even stitches.
“Daddy and Mama love to quilt together in the evenings,” she said softly. “Especially in winter. Daddy worries that his friends might find out what he’s doing and call him a sissy. The minute we hear the hounds barking down at the end of the road, Daddy knows a horse is coming up to the ranch house. He lights out of that chair by the quilt frame as fast as a cat with its tail afire. He heads for the kitchen to make himself a cup of java, just as innocent as you please. Well, let me tell you, my daddy likes coffee strong enough to haul a wagon, and by the time the visitor leaves, Daddy’s usually so high-strung, he’ll take up his quilting and outdo Mama by three patches to one.”
She leaned back against the seat and laughed at the memory. Grey chuckled as he pierced the needle into the fabric. The silver lance went through the cloth, glanced off the thimble, and slid straight into his fingertip.
“Blast!” He jerked upright and grabbed the wounded finger. “Look, Miss Ellis, I’m not—”
“Now don’t have a hissy fit, Grey. Everybody makes mistakes at first. Learning how to sew is a tricky business.” She took his hand and spread it open. His fingers were long and tanned, hardened by some unexplained work he must have been doing in India. She bent over and pressed her lips to the tiny red spot on the tip of his finger.
“Better?” she asked.
He sucked in a breath, his focus lingering on her mouth. “Not . . . not entirely.”
Star smiled. “All right then. One more kiss and back to work.”
As she held his hand to her lips, their eyes met, and his thumb grazed across her cheek, touching her earlobe. A ripple of surprise ran down Star’s spine and settled in the base of her stomach. How many men had touched her cheek in her years of courting? And not one of them had ever sent curls of delight across her skin as this Englishman did with just the brush of his thumb.
“Much better,” he said in a low voice. “Very much better.”
Star swallowed. “Needles can be dangerous,” she managed. “Please use your thimble.”
“As you wish, madam.”
Grey picked up the diamonds and the fallen needle and went back to work. As she pieced her own patches, Star covertly observed the man. She was more than a little disma
yed at his inability to create straight, regular stitches. In fact, his thread leapt and danced across the fabric in long, crooked strokes that looked like the tracks of a half-drunk chicken in search of grain.
At one point he stopped to stare out the window, as if pondering some earth-shattering dilemma. When he resumed sewing, he looped the thread over to the wrong side of the patch and made three stitches that didn’t know whether they were coming or going. Good heavens, Star thought.
Her dear mother would have jerked away that piecework and ripped out those pitiful stitches. A person ought to do things right, or not at all, Mama always said. But Star had made enough mistakes in her own life to allow the viscount to keep right on sewing to his heart’s content. Later, she would iron the diamonds he’d pieced and work them into the pattern of her quilt—and no one but her mother would know the difference. Of course, her mother might never see this quilt. . . .
“Gold,” she said, when the viscount’s big hand reached for another blue diamond. “We’re working a pattern, you see. Blue, white, gold, burgundy, green—and blue, white, gold, burgundy, green. If you put two blues together, the quilt will look all whomper-jawed.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’ll be a mess.” She spread sections of the pieced fabric across her lap. “This is called Lone Star. It’s a four-patch quilt pattern. I’m making it to help me remember Texas. Some women call the design Star of Bethlehem, which is a pretty name for this time of year. Later, I’ll join these strips together to form patches, and then I’ll join the patches into huge diamonds, like this.”
She illustrated by extending the piecework onto his lap.“Then I’ll sew all the large diamonds together,” she continued. “Can you see how the diamonds will work outward into the points of a star? My Lone Star quilt will have eight points and nearly a thousand patches. After I’ve finished piecing the diamonds, I’ll put a soft cotton batting between the top and a length of blue calico. And then I’ll quilt it all together.”
A Victorian Christmas Page 9
