“Much obliged,” she said. As she looped the ornament’s gold cord over the tip of a branch, Star summoned her courage to put forth the question that had kept her awake most of the night.“Did my leaving the table early last night cause much of a ruction, Mr. Massey?”
“A ruction?”
“Was the earl angry that I went to my room before dinner was over? I tried to see the meal through, but I got to feeling like a throw-out from a footsore remuda, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t figure out what I was eating until Polly Smythe mentioned how good the jellied tongue was tasting, and that about threw me for a loop. I was tired, and everything I said seemed to come out wrong. When I told the story about the time I was helping Daddy brand cattle and I nearly stepped on a coiled rattlesnake, I thought the earl was going to drop his teeth right into the soup. Rupert just stared at me, and the Smythe gals started giggling like there was no tomorrow. If it hadn’t been for Grey . . . for Lord Stratton telling about the cobra that crawled across his foot while he was drinking tea in India, I would have just about died of mortification.”
As she spoke, Star tied a length of red satin ribbon into a luxurious bow and arranged it on the branch beside the golden angel. The truth was, she hadn’t left the dinner because of exhaustion or jellied tongue or embarrassment. She had left because of Grey. After his story about the Indian cobra, Star had followed up with a tale about a bear that wandered into the cowhands’ bunkhouse. Then he had laughed and told about the time a tiger chased him straight up a tree—only Grey wasn’t telling his story to the whole family. He was telling it to Star. He looked into her eyes and leaned across the table, and before she knew it, she had forgotten all about the jellied tongue and was hanging on to every fascinating word that came out of the man’s mouth.
Only when Rupert chimed in with an anecdote about a recent fox hunt had Star realized that she and Grey had been the only two talking for at least half an hour. As in the carriage, they had chuckled and teased and told their most hair-raising tales, oblivious to the rest of the gathering. Worse, Star knew she’d been riveted to the viscount’s sparkling blue eyes and mesmerizing mouth. Surely the others had noticed.
“The earl of Brackenhurst does not wear artificial teeth, Miss Ellis,” the butler said from the floor beneath the Christmas tree. “Therefore he could not have dropped them into his soup.”
Star glanced down at the butler. “I didn’t mean it that way, Mr. Massey. It’s kind of an expression like . . .” She tried to remember the wording Grey had used on their journey. “Like tying your britches together in a bundle.”
“My breeches?” The butler looked down at the starched blue wool trousers of his livery.
“Has our charming American visitor got your knickers in a knot, Massey?” Grey said, stepping into the parlor. “Good morning, Miss Ellis.”
Star nearly dropped the paper fan she was holding. Mercy, that man could make a white shirt, green vest, and black pants look fine. He drew his gold watch from his pocket, flipped open the lid, and checked the time. When he looked up at her again, his familiar smile made her heart flop around until she thought she was going to fall right off the ladder.
“You’ve missed breakfast, Miss Ellis,” he said. “I was hoping to speak with you.”
“Really?” She set the fan on a branch and wiped her damp palm on her skirt. “Betsy brought some tea and rolls to my bedroom this morning. I could barely eat anyhow.”
“Are you feeling all right, Miss Ellis? You left the table rather abruptly last night.”
“I’m fine.” She fumbled with the fan until it slipped from her fingers and landed three branches below. “Lord Stratton, don’t you have a little viscounting or something to do this morning?”
“Viscounting.” He retrieved the fan and stepped onto the bottom rung of the ladder to pass it up to her. “Hmm . . . yes, I suppose I could join my father in the library. Viscounts and earls do a good bit of sitting about the library, I’ve discovered. Viscounting normally doesn’t require much ability to brand cattle or string bob wire.”
Star gave him a scowl. “Barbed wire. And if you intend to keep the tigers out of your tea estate in India, you’d better learn how to string it, buster.”
“Tigers are carnivores, are they not? I don’t suppose they’ll be in hungry pursuit of my tea bushes.” He grinned, taking another two rungs. “I say, is this your cherub, Miss Ellis?”
Before she could react, he was halfway up the ladder. As he handed her the papier-mâché ornament, Star clung to the swaying tree. “You’d better get down before somebody sees you,” she said through clenched teeth, eyeing the two housemaids who stood by the window unrolling spools of red and green ribbon. “And don’t tease me anymore, either. Or talk to me. Or look at me.”
“Listen, Star, I spent most of the night pacing the corridors,” he said in a low voice, “and I couldn’t stop thinking. I was thinking about the two days in the carriage and about Doncaster—”
“Hush about that!” She covered his mouth with her hand. “Mercy, you’re going to get us both into trouble.”
He took her hand and gave her palm a light kiss. “I’m already in trouble.”
For a moment he said nothing, his eyes shut and his breath labored. Star gripped the rung of the ladder until her fingers turned white. Praying for all she was worth, she could hear nothing in return but the sound of her heartbeat hammering in her ears.
“Why did God put us together in the same carriage?” Grey demanded, his eyes suddenly lit with a hot blue light. “You told me He was the Master Quilter. You said He had a plan. What’s the plan, Star? Why has this happened?”
“Nothing’s happened.”
“Yes, it has. I saw it in your face last night at dinner.” His voice was low but intense. “I know why you left the room. I nearly left myself. All night I paced the west wing, and all morning I waited at breakfast, praying you’d come. Praying—that’s what I’ve been doing for hours, and I’m no closer to understanding this chaos than I was when I first saw you in the carriage. Is there a plan, Star? Does this infuriating quilt have a pattern?”
Trembling, she drew her hand from his and hung the cherub on a branch.“Every quilt has a pattern,” she managed.“Even a crazy quilt has a kind of order to it. The patches fit together, and they make a whole blanket—something complete and beautiful and useful.” She met his eyes again.“Yes, there’s a plan, Grey, but God never promised to tell us what it is. He asked us to follow Him, trust Him, put the patches of our lives in His hands. Let Him sew. Let Him work His plan, and don’t try to control things ourselves. He sent you home to England to make peace with your father. Now you need to do that.”
“And you?”
“I’ve come to marry Rupert.”
“No.”
“Yes, Grey. That’s all the plan I can see, and I aim to follow it.”
“Strat?” Rupert’s voice carried a note of surprise. “Are you in the Christmas tree?”
“I was bringing Miss Ellis a cherub,” Grey said, tearing his focus from her eyes and starting down the ladder. “Our young American visitor has even had poor old Massey scampering about delivering angels on his silver tray.”
Rupert gave a bark of laughter as he came into view beneath the tree. “Good show, Miss Ellis. Keep us all hopping, what?” He selected an ornament from the box. “I say, Strat, here’s a Father Christmas you made of paper and paints when you were but a wee chappie. What were you, four or five?”
“Five, I think. Do you remember what the governess said?” Grey stepped down from the ladder. “She said I’d made him far too fat, and I should have followed the pattern. And I told her I was going to make Father Christmas the way I wanted him, pattern or not. So she boxed my ears.”
Rupert laughed. “You always were a cheeky little brat, weren’t you?”
“Still am, I should think. Never much good at following plans I haven’t made myself.”
Star clung to the ladder as Grey glanced at her
. Chuckling over the handmade ornament, Rupert hung Father Christmas on the tip of a branch. When he lifted his head to Star, he was still grinning.
“I say, Miss Ellis,” he called. “After you’ve finished with your frippery here, I should be most appreciative if you’d join the family in the library for a spot of morning tea. We’ll introduce you to the famed Brackenhurst scones. Mummy’s all in a kerfuffle about this wedding of ours, so we might as well sit down and have it out—set the date, write the invitation list, that sort of rot.”
“All right,” Star said softly.
“Come on, Strat, I want to show you my new riding boots.” Rupert clapped his brother on the back as the two made their way out of the room. “What do you think of those Smythe girls? Aren’t they a pair of glorious birds?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“She’s been here two weeks, Rupe, and you haven’t had a single conversation with her.” Grey walked to the fire in the parlor and set his tea book on the mantel. He was tired of reading, tired of sitting about, tired of the aimlessness in the genteel life he’d once embraced. “Our mother arranged the engagement party for Christmas Eve. Father set the wedding date for the end of January. You’ve done nothing but mince about with the Smythe sisters. You’re dodging your duty, man.”
“Cheese off, Strat.” Rupert shuffled a deck of cards and began laying out a game of solitaire. “I’ll do my duty by the girl. I’ll give her my name, the title, and the connection between the two families—for what that’s worth. Father’s had a letter from Mr. Ellis in Texas telling of the deplorable winter conditions. Cattle dropping like flies, but the land is still valuable. As you know, the moment I marry, the yearly allowance left to me by Uncle William will be mine for the asking. Father has advised me to send a good bit of that money off to Texas to restock the ranch. So, thanks to my new wife, I’ll have a herd of livestock and maybe a couple of heirs. That’s how it’s done. You can’t expect me to relish this, can you? It’s an arrangement, and I’m obeying our father’s wishes—which is more than you can say.”
“I’ve come home, haven’t I?”
“Don’t think that’s all it takes to please the old man. You’ve got your titular responsibilities. The viscount Stratton ought to be married off to the daughter of a duke—or at the very least a marquess. After all, you’ll be earl one of these days, and heaven knows the family can use the money you’d come into with a profitable marriage. I overheard Massey telling my valet the cottagers are practically starving this winter.”
Grey studied the vast expanse of snowy fields outside the manor. He had no idea the cottagers in the village at the bottom of the hill were experiencing such difficulties. He was well aware that although Brackenhurst once had been a wealthy earldom, its lands were no longer turning a great profit. Mills in Leeds and York had lured many young people from the villages. The draw of city life, cash in a man’s pockets, and freedom from the feudal land tenancy system had proven all but irresistible. Vast agricultural manors like Brackenhurst were paying the price for the resulting drop in productivity.
“I’m planning to do my part for the family by building a profitable tea export business,” Grey said. “I’ve purchased significant acreage near Darjeeling—”
“India? Oh, please, Strat, it’s marriage our father expects from you. You’ll see what I mean at the Christmas Eve party. Mummy will introduce you to one uppish young thing after another, and, if you’re wise, you’ll ask the richest of them to marry you on the spot. That’s all I’m doing with Miss Ellis—assuring future income. Her father owns land in America and more cattle than he can count. You want to make the earl happy? Marry well.”
Grey snatched his tea book off the mantel and tucked it under his arm. “I shall bring in money with my Indian estate, Rupert, and I should thank you to consider Miss Ellis as something more than a monetary asset. She’s a remarkable young lady, and she’s spent the past two weeks alone in the drawing room doing nothing but stitching her blasted quilt.”
Rupert looked up from his cards. “I say, Stratton, what do you care about Miss Ellis?”
“Nothing, of course. It’s just that . . . well, she’s a guest here at Brackenhurst. She’s to be your wife. Don’t you give a twig about her?”
“I suppose she’s pretty enough.” He shrugged. “But honestly, Strat. The woman is odd.”
“She’s not odd, she’s interesting. I find her amusing. And she’s quite intelligent.”
“Then why don’t you marry her?” Rupert swept up his cards. “Of course, that would never pass muster with our dear father, the earl. Miss Ellis might be the richest girl in America, but the viscount Stratton will have to marry someone titled.” He rose and tossed the cards in a heap on the table. “You should hear Father ranting about the Misses Smythe. Their father’s not even a baronet, you know. He’s nothing at all.”
“He’s filthy rich, I hear,” Grey said.
Rupert gave a snort of disgust. “To the earl of Brackenhurst, a rich but untitled American girl is perfectly acceptable. She’s American, he says. They haven’t got titles in America. But an untitled, rich English girl—heaven forbid.”
Grey studied the scattered cards, realizing his brother spoke the truth. Rupert would have to marry Star Ellis. And if the viscount Stratton ever hoped to make himself acceptable to his father, he ought to find the wealthiest young noblewoman in London and marry her straightaway. A tea plantation in India would not assuage the earl of Brackenhurst. An honest reputation would not do it. Nor would a conversion to a new life of piety and devotion to God. Grey needed to find someone to marry.
The face that leapt instantly into his thoughts had a pair of sparkling green eyes and a mouth that could erupt into easy amusement over a nest of mice in a summer bonnet. If he were ever to erase that face from his thoughts, Grey knew he would need to surrender the woman herself to his brother.
“Come with me, Rupert,” he said firmly. “We shall go to the drawing room, and you shall make the acquaintance of Miss Ellis, your fiancée. And you shall realize that she is beautiful and witty and utterly delightful, and you shall understand why it is that you should want very much to marry her.”
Rupert gave a mock howl of dismay as his brother marched him down the corridor toward the east wing of Brackenhurst Manor.
Star worked her needle through the final five stitches of her quilt, knotted her thread, and leaned back on the settee. Done. She had joined the green, white, blue, gold, and burgundy diamonds together, patch by patch, until they formed a magnificent eight-pointed star centered on a field of pale yellow. The glorious riot of colors spread across Star’s lap, draped down the side of the settee, and rippled over the carpeted floor. She could not have been more pleased with her handiwork.
Not unless she were sitting in her Texas ranch house with the scent of mesquite smoke drifting up from the logs on the fire and the busy hubbub of her family all around her. At this very moment in Texas, candles would be burning on the mantel, and the tree would be wreathed in popcorn strings and hung with nuts and candy canes. Star’s brother Jake would play his violin while Bess and the other girls sang Christmas carols. Mama would be stirring taffy on the stove, and Papa would be whistling along with the music as he whittled a train set for little Eddie. As it was, Star sat alone in one of Brackenhurst Manor’s expansive drawing rooms, staring at the falling snow outside the window and wondering how she was going to survive.
God had been more than her anchor through this ordeal. Her heavenly Father had been her only friend. She had relied on the comfort of silent prayer and Scripture reading as she came to realize the whole Cholmondeley family seemed destined to ignore her. The countess went about her daily activity of taking callers and sipping tea in one parlor or another. The coming wedding kept the kindly woman employed selecting flowers, menus, and garments for the trousseau. Only on rare occasion did she pause to consult the bride-to-be, who began to feel she was all but extraneous to the event. The earl paid Star no heed at all as he
rode out to survey his holdings every morning and conducted business in his study in the afternoons.
Rupert treated his fiancée as some sort of curious museum piece to be ogled from a distance. The few times she attempted to speak with the man, he mumbled something unintelligible and then hurried off to hunt foxes or ride around in his carriage calling on the neighbors. Star had tried everything she could think of to make herself prettier or more interesting to him. She read her etiquette book backward and forward. But nothing she did earned her more than the slightest nod from her future husband.
Grey was worse. When meeting her along a corridor, the viscount would look into her eyes as if he wanted to say a hundred things. Then, saying nothing at all, he would stride past her into the nearest room. During meals she would catch him staring at her, and she couldn’t suppress the heat that crept into her cheeks at the memory of their kiss in Doncaster. It was a torment to be so near the man, yet never speak together or even acknowledge the other’s presence.
That very morning Grey had inadvertently walked into the parlor where she was quilting. Trying to be casual about the moment, Star pointed out to him the section of patches he had stitched while on the carriage journey from London. She had integrated his work into the pattern in such a way that only the most careful observer would note that a different hand had stitched it.
Instead of making polite observations about the quilt, Grey had clenched his jaw, muttered, “Blast,” and stalked away—as if looking at a quilt were the most frustrating experience in his life.
Star ran her hand down the expanse of patched fabric. The only two people in England who enjoyed her company and appreciated her handiwork were Betsy and Nell. The housemaids had welcomed her into their humble cottage when she ventured down to the village one afternoon. Even though they lived in a far worse condition than the cowhands on her daddy’s ranch, Star gladly would have moved in with them just to have someone to talk to.
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