by Nina Milne
A glance at Etta showed her with her head discreetly bent over the mistletoe decoration as she deftly threaded red beads into place. Brain whirring, he walked across the room, re-seated himself and picked up his own creation.
‘Kaitlin is coming to the fair,’ he said. ‘I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention your role in researching the new family tree to her.’
His sister knew as well as he did that his parents had no interest in their ancestors, and he didn’t want Etta’s suspicions to be aroused. Especially now she had served her purpose.
Emotions seethed in his gut—emotions he had in lockdown even though the name of the man who might found a new Fairfax dynasty reverberated in his brain. Matteas John Coleridge.
Enough.
A small frown creased her brow and he could sense her curiosity.
‘OK. I won’t say a word.’
‘Appreciated.’
‘No problem.’ Another bead was threaded, and with the air of breaching a conversational chasm Etta said, ‘So, you never got round to telling me why you are so Bah humbug about Christmas.’
Reprieve over.
‘I’m not Bah humbug. I’m just indifferent. Christmas hasn’t ever been a big deal in our family. When I was a child I thought the best bit was the Church service in the morning—I loved the ritual of it...the words...the tradition. But after that it was always business as usual. The staff all used to have the day off, but Sarah always left us something to heat up.’
The awkwardness of those childhood Christmas lunches would live with him for ever.
‘You must have enjoyed the presents? All children love to open their stockings.’
‘My parents didn’t do stockings. Their view was that presents should be functional, and we all understood that it was more important to put money back into the estate rather than accumulate useless clutter. They forbade us from giving them presents or giving each other gifts as well—they always said the best present we could give them was the forfeiture of our pocket money.’
Etta looked as though she were picking her words carefully. ‘I get that the estate is important, but presents don’t have to be expensive...’
‘Inexpensive gifts came under the “useless clutter” umbrella, I guess.’
In all honesty the lack of presents hadn’t been an issue. What he’d hated was the lack of any enjoyment. There had been no sitting down to watch a film or play board games, no laughter, nor much conversation, even. Though he knew he had little to complain about—he’d been fed, clothed, warm and safe.
‘It’s no big deal. There were times when we entertained over Christmas—that was much more festive.’
Although soon enough Gabe had understood that each occasion served a purpose, or forged an alliance, all with the idea of furthering the House of Derwent. So he and Kaitlin had learnt how to perform, how to charm and behave as befitted a Derwent, and that way he’d finally won his parents’ approval—the holy grail that all three children had always craved.
‘Tell me about your childhood Christmases.’
‘There’s not much to say. I was an only child for years, and Christmas was always quiet. I vowed that one day I’d have loads of kids—that I’d marry someone with an enormous family and Christmas would be packed with frivolity and fun and festivities.’
The look on her face was wistful, as if she could see that dream Christmas before her.
‘That didn’t pan out, but Cathy and I always have a fab day. We get up at dawn and open our stockings—lots of fun gifts, like mugs, chocolates, jewellery... Then we have a pancake breakfast and a long walk before we cook Christmas dinner with Christmas music turned up high. We eat, open more presents, watch films, play games, eat chocolate... It’s a great day. I do my best to make up for the lack of family.’
He threaded another bead onto the wire ring and eyed her. Curiosity percolated through him as to why she’d given up on her dream. ‘It’s not too late for you to marry and have more kids. Not because you want a suitable dad for Cathy, but because it’s what you want.’
‘I told you—marriage is not for me. As for more kids...I have considered adoption, but I know what a big step that is to take.’
It was a step he would never take; because it wouldn’t be fair. The law stated that an adopted child could not inherit his title. So no way could he adopt a son and bring him up on an estate he could never inherit. And somehow to adopt a girl just because her gender meant she couldn’t inherit seemed wrong.
For a second, desolation touched him, but he pushed it away, focused instead on Etta. There was no reason why she couldn’t have the future she’d once envisaged. ‘Perhaps it’s the right step for you? But what about the other part of that dream? The husband and the in-laws and the whole big family Christmas?’
‘It’s not going to happen. I think I’m missing the necessary gene.’
Her voice was light but it masked sadness, and now the air felt awhirl with dreams that had bitten the dust. Both his and hers. Dreams of families seated around dining tables, children opening presents under the Christmas tree... His dreams couldn’t be resurrected, but maybe hers could.
‘Rubbish.’
‘No, it’s not! I told you. I’ve tried dating and it...it doesn’t work out.’
‘And I told you you’re dating the wrong men.’ He surveyed her. ‘I bet you’re going for nice, average men with nice, respectable jobs and—’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Colour climbed her cheekbones and she narrowed her eyes.
‘Physical attraction is important too.’
‘I don’t see why that can’t grow with time.’
Gabe raised his eyebrows. ‘For real? Has that worked for you so far? Sheesh! You told me you’ve ended up dancing at your dates’ weddings to other women. Not the best track record.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘That you date someone you feel attracted to in a physical way—where there’s a spark.’
‘Maybe that gene is missing too.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
The last berry slipped onto the ring and he stood and held up the mistletoe circle, attached it to the waiting ring.
‘Look up.’
A hesitation and then she did as he asked, her face tipped up towards him, her delicate angled features bathed in the flicker of light.
‘Kiss me and I’ll show you,’ he said. ‘The ball’s in your court. Literally.’
His throat constricted, his breath massed in his lungs, and then slowly Etta rose to her feet and stepped forward until she was flush against him. Hesitantly her hands came up and looped around his neck. Her fingers touched his nape and desire shuddered through his body. And then she stood on tiptoe and touched her lips against his in sweet hesitation.
Her lips parted in a sigh of pleasure and he deepened the kiss. For a heartbeat she hesitated, and then her body relaxed, melted against his, and he pulled her closer, inhaled her vanilla scent, tasted a tang of peppermint. Then sweetness morphed into more—into a fierce intensity of sheer sensation as need grew.
Until she pulled away and stood with eyes wide as their ragged breaths mingled.
‘I...’
Panic filled the tawny brown eyes and her lips twisted into a line that spelled mortification.
Gabe tried to pull his frazzled brain cells together—knew he had to stop her before she ran.
‘It’s OK, Etta.’
‘No. It isn’t. That was unprofessional and wrong...’
‘It wasn’t. It was a kiss. Between two consenting adults who are attracted to each other. It wasn’t wrong. It was a kiss to show you that you aren’t missing a gene.’
Etta shook her head, swiped her hand across her mouth. ‘I want to forget this ever happened.’
* * *
The day of the fair dawned cold and crisp. Etta woke up and assessed the weather with relief. The sky was clear—a bright blue studded with the cotton wisp of a few clouds. It would be cold, but there would be no need to move everything inside.
Swinging her legs out of bed, she let her brain list her extensive to-do list.
On the list was meeting Kaitlin Derwent. Gabe’s sister would fly in early the next day. Curiosity resurfaced as to why Gabe wanted to keep the new family tree secret from his sister. Surely that took the idea of a surprise present a step too far? Not that Etta would ask him—she had gone out of her way to avoid any non-work-related conversation with him since The Kiss.
Mortification still roiled through her tummy at the memory—how could she have kissed him like that? A sheer cascade of desire had overwhelmed every iota of sense and she had given in, lost perspective and thrown self-respect aside. Stupid. And worse was the fact that for Gabe it had been nothing more than an object lesson, to show her that she could feel passion. Well, Etta didn’t want to feel passion—or at least not on that scale. It was too much, too dizzying, too everything.
Thank goodness that in two days she’d be out of here—away from Gabe and his ability to unsettle her. Instead she’d be on board a cruise ship, reunited with Cathy.
Excitement fizzed inside her, but like it or not it was underlain with a soupçon of sadness. A sadness she always felt at the end of a project. The second she saw her daughter again all thoughts of Derwent Manor, family trees and especially Gabe Derwent would flee her brain. She knew it. It had to be like that. She couldn’t let passion overcome family bonds ever again. Especially now. Because once the euphoria of seeing Cathy faded she needed to explain the relocation plan to her daughter.
Fifteen minutes later there was the familiar knock on the door that heralded Gabe.
‘Morning. You all set for the day?’
As ever, no sign of tension was on display, and not for the first time she envied his ability to surf over all circumstances with unshakable confidence. The same confidence that meant he appeared to have had no problem whitewashing The Kiss from his memory banks. Not that it had been a capital letter event in his opinion—and that thought intensified her humiliation a hundred fold.
‘Ready and looking forward to it.’
* * *
A few hours later and the fair was in full swing; Etta gazed round at the incredible display on offer. It was easy to believe that she’d stepped back in time.
Inside the manor, the staff were kitted out as Victorian servants. Parlour maids in simple black dresses, chambermaids in print dresses, both complete with frilled apron and cap, bustled about, engaged in their household tasks, and they were all able to discuss the duties expected of servants in the Victorian era.
Sarah reigned supreme in the hustle and bustle of the kitchen, in the throes of the preparation of a lavish Christmas dinner. The scents were evocative of Christmas—cranberries bubbling over the fire, the aroma of chestnut, sugar and candied fruit mingling with the savoury scent of roast turkey and freshwater smelt. Families watched and asked eager questions.
Etta glanced round and saw the lengthening queue for Christmas punch. It looked as if they needed some help.
As she approached the table Eileen, a teenage girl from the village school who’d volunteered her services, smiled in relief. ‘It’s manic! I’m not allowed to handle the rum, and my mum came over all faint, and...and...’
‘You’re doing a grand job. Hand over a spare pinny and a hat and I’ll get mixing.’
Soon enough the good-natured jostle of the queue became manageable, with everyone happy to hand over the cost for a plastic cup of Roman Punch—a judicious mix of rum and lemon and near frozen dissolved sugar.
‘I’d better move on,’ Etta said as she saw Gabe gesturing to her to follow him.
‘Thank you for that,’ he said as they exited the kitchen.
He smiled down at her and the world seemed to shrink. The sounds of the fair faded and his smile warmed her, curled her toes, and that wretched kiss sprang to the forefront of her mind. His eyes darkened, the same way they had when they’d locked lips, and a stupid feeling of gratification streamed through her veins at the knowledge that just maybe he did remember those magical moments.
Hold it together. Even if Gabe had been affected it would not be a smart move to grab the man and have a replay.
‘No problem. It’s the least I can do.’
As they stepped outside into the crisp air she gestured around.
‘You must be thrilled—the place is packed and people are having an amazing time.’
The outside area buzzed with noise and laughter overlaid with the exquisite sound of the local choir, whose pure voices filled the air with Christmas carols. Children raced around a designated part of the lawn with hoops and sticks, and in another part a boisterous game of quoits was underway. The smell of roasting chestnuts tantalised her tastebuds, and everywhere Victorian re-enactors roamed chatting to the visitors.
‘It’s a true extravaganza! A day everyone will remember.’
There was that smile again, and she would swear her hair had frizzed. Time for a breather.
‘I’ll go check out the stalls. I want to find extra gifts for Cathy and Martha and Steph.’
He frowned.
‘I’ll be fine, Gabe. In two days’ time I’ll have to fend for myself.’
The words were a timely reminder as she headed off.
Authentic-looking Victorian toys glinted in the light of the December sun, and delight filled her as she browsed the beautifully crafted spinning tops and Victorian dolls. Her gaze landed on a stunning jewellery box that Steph would adore. As she ran her finger over the glossy wood, with its inlay of mother-of-pearl and gold leaf, she could picture her friend’s appreciation of the two-tier box.
But before she could ask the price her neck prickled and she spun round.
‘Hello, Etta.’
Tommy stood there, dark hair slicked back, a leather jacket over a white T-shirt, a swagger in his stance.
‘Fancy seeing you here. I knew I’d get you alone if I was patient. I’ve been watching you.’
His voice was low—friendly, even—but Etta recognised the underlying menace. Tommy was at his cruellest when he sounded his most pleasant, and a cold drop of fear ran down her spine.
‘Hardly alone,’ she reminded him, her hand darting to the panic button round her neck. No. She would not cause a scene—would not cast a shadow over the success of the fair.
‘But minus Sir Toff. I wanted another chat.’
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘But I want to talk to you. In person. I like the personal touch, Etta. You know that. You remember my personal touch, don’t you?’
Now fear burned cold and she stepped back, unable to help the instinctive movement. ‘This is getting old, Tommy. Please leave.’ Brave words, given that her insides were roiling.
‘But this is a new message—a Christmas greeting. I’ve decided that this Christmas should be a nice family affair—you and me and our daughter, sitting down to a nice roast dinner, cooked the way I like it.’
‘You’ve lost the plot, because that is not happening. You’re not family.’
‘I think Cathy might disagree. That’s why you’ve hidden her away isn’t it? But I know you’ll be spending Christmas with her.’ Then his expression altered. ‘Ah, here comes Mr Toff now.’
Relief doused her in a wave as Gabe arrived, the warmth of his muscular body next to her shielding her. ‘Get off my land. Now.’
‘It’s a public event, Toff. My money is as good as anyone’s. And I’m sure you don’t want to cause a scene.’
‘I have no problem with a scene. You’re leaving now. Either of your own volition or with my
assistance...’
Malevolence lit Tommy’s eyes and Etta tensed, braced herself in that old familiar response.
His dark eyes rested on her for a second and then he stepped back, his hands in the air. ‘Nice try. But I don’t brawl any more. I’m a nice, peaceable man who has seen the error of my ways. All I want is the chance to be a father.’
He winked at Etta and bile rose in her throat.
‘I’ll be on my way...but I’ll be seeing you. Happy Christmas!’
With that he vanished into the crowd.
The whole confrontation had taken no more than a few moments, but those minutes had left her encased in a mesh of terror.
Gabe was on his phone, giving a description of Tommy and asking for confirmation that he’d left the grounds.
He dropped his phone into his pocket. ‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ Aware that a few spectators were nudging each other, Etta forced a smile to her face. ‘Absolutely fine. Isn’t it time to judge the Victorian Christmas reindeer?’
Gabe hesitated.
‘It’s OK, Gabe. This is my problem now. Our deal is nearly done.’
CHAPTER TEN
GABE EXHALED HEAVILY. His muscles ached, but the clear-down was finally finished, with everything set in place for a rerun the following day.
‘Thank you, everyone. The day was an outstanding success. You have my heartfelt thanks and I’ve put my wallet behind the bar in the pub. Drinks on me tonight. Go and enjoy.’
There was a cheer and the staff filed out, leaving just Etta and himself in the enormous marquee that held the restaurant. Exhaustion smudged her features and dust smeared the jeans she had changed into for the clear-down. She’d worked like the proverbial trooper—she’d served food, played games, and done more than her share of lugging crates and boxes. But he was pretty sure her pallor had zip to do with work and everything to do with Tommy.
‘Come on. We definitely deserve a drink.’
