A Midnight Clear

by Lynn Kerstan

  It was a mistake to look into his eyes, she knew a fraction of a second after she’d done it. Torquemada himself would pardon this man for heresy and likely propose him as a candidate for pope, were he to judge Lord Fallon’s nature by those saintly amber eyes.

  “I am impossible, you know,” he said. “I don’t mean to be, but I cannot seem to help it.”

  Oh dear. With all her might, she quelled a misbegotten urge to wrap her arms around him and confess that she would forgive him anything, anything at all. As if he really cared, she chided herself. When they returned to London, there was little chance she would ever see him again.

  “Do light the candles, sir,” she said crisply, returning to the hearth. As she dished up the rest of the stew, she stole a glance at him.

  Mouth set in a taut line, he was touching a kitchen candle to the tapers on the centerpiece. She thought he looked rather dejected, but that was probably a trick of the wavery light.

  She was convinced of it when he smilingly took the tureen from her hands. Thank the Lord, she had not offended him. But truly, what was a servant to say when a marquess apologized for his behavior, especially when he’d done nothing more reprehensible than purloin a handful of currants?

  And dear heavens, she’d had the audacity to slap his hand! Heat flooded her cheeks at the very thought of it. Worst of all, it had felt perfectly natural at the time, as if the two of them were longtime friends. Or more than friends.

  He had kissed her, after all.

  And she had slapped him.

  It might make a hair of sense, she supposed, if she’d slapped him because he kissed her.

  She carried the platter of hardtack to the table and sat across from him, waving her hand when he politely began to stand. He had already polished off a healthy portion of stew.

  “I was famished,” he said around a mouthful of pickled cabbage. “Sorry. I should have waited for you.”

  “Not at all.” She unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. “But I believe we ought to say grace, my lord. This is Christmas Eve.”

  “Yes. Assuredly.” He put down his fork. “Go ahead.”

  “Not I, sir. As the ranking person at this table, you must do it.”

  “Who the devil made that rule?” he objected with a scowl. “Besides, I don’t know how.”

  “Then it is past time you learned,” she replied, wondering why she persisted when it was of little consequence who offered the prayer. But she was curious to know what he would say to God if compelled to address Him, even under these contrived circumstances. “A simple expression of gratitude for salted pork and turnips will do, you know. Unless I am mistaken, the Lord is not particular about the words we say, so long as they come from the heart.”

  She folded her hands and bowed her head, watching him through her lashes. Following her example, he folded his hands and closed his eyes.

  “Th-thank you, God,” he said, stumbling over the words. “Thank you for leading us to this house through the storm and stocking the kitchen so we’d have something to eat. And . . . ah, for Miss Ryder, who has been a trouper through it all. Take care she comes to no harm, will you? Oh, and it would help greatly if you could direct us back to the inn tomorrow. Otherwise, that’s about it for now. Unless Miss Ryder has something to add.”

  When she looked up, he was gazing back with a disconcerted expression.

  “Have you?” he asked. “Something to add?”

  She lifted her water glass. “Only this. Happy birthday, Lord Jesus.”

  Fallon lifted his glass and clinked it against hers in a toast. “Do you know, Miss Ryder, that half the people on this earth have never even heard of Christmas? And many of those who have, like me, generally let the day go by like any other.” His brow knitted in a puzzled frown. “But this afternoon, when I was riding alone through the snowfields, I felt the air quivering as if in anticipation of some great event. Why is that?”

  Why indeed? How she had longed for someone to talk with her about such things. The mysteries of the universe, yes, and why nations went to war, and how it was that innocent children suffered while villains prospered.

  She set her glass on the table with a quivering hand. “I often wonder, too. In the end, I can only accept that God knows what He is about. Christmas is one of His special gifts, I think, but I’m sure He has other gifts for the people who know nothing of it, like the ones you met in India.”

  “Just so,” he said, nodding. “One day, we shall speak of this again. I find myself strangely curious to know what you are thinking, Miss Ryder, about all manner of subjects. But for now, your supper is getting cold.”

  A comfortable silence fell over the table as they ate. The stew, Jane realized after a spoonful or two, was overly salty from the pork and otherwise devoid of flavor. The hardtack tasted exactly like what it was—baked flour and water. After one bite of pickled cabbage, she passed her dish to Lord Fallon, who made quick work of it.

  All in all, she had never enjoyed a meal so much as this one. Which proved, she thought, that the company of a handsome man could spice up even the worst of dinners.

  “Had I left you peacefully in London where you belong,” Fallon said as he launched into his third helping of stew, “what would you be doing tonight?”

  “Christmas services at Saint Martin-in-the-Fields, I suppose. I went there last year. The music was glorious. And you?”

  “Working. Perhaps reading.” He dunked a piece of hardtack into the gravy. “Certainly nothing I would enjoy nearly so much as sharing this supper with you.”

  “Nonsense.” She knew she was blushing furiously. “Lies drip from your tongue like honey, Lord Fallon. I expect you even taradiddled your way out of that predicament you never finished telling me about last night.”

  He raised a questioning brow.

  “You remember,” she said. “The one with the maharaja.”

  “What maharaja?”

  “He was going to slit your throat if you failed to please his wife and disembowel you if you did.”

  “Ah.” He propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his folded hands. “That maharaja.”

  Light dawned. “Oh, infamous!” She jabbed her spoon in his direction. “You made up that entire story? It’s a wonder someone has not long since hung you up by your tongue, sir. But why would you tell me such a clanker?”

  “To convince you to tell me about yourself, of course. You were making me do all the talking, until I cast out a bribe.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, horse-thieving currant filcher that you are. Was everything else you told me equally untrue?”

  “Are you angry?” He regarded her uncertainly. “Much of last night is fairly hazy in my mind, to be sure, but I am generally honest.”

  “When it suits you,” she fired back.

  “Because I am a practical man, Miss Ryder. But all the same, I value integrity. I even aspire to it. Perhaps I should employ you as a reserve conscience, delegated to set me back on the path of righteousness when my own conscience fails me.”

  “Given our sorry performance together thus far,” she advised him scornfully, “we’ll be lucky to find the path to the Black Dove Inn.”

  “You are mistaken. I am persuaded we make an excellent team. All the credit is yours, of course, but I am gradually learning the art of compromise. And sometimes,” he added with a grin, “I can be positively obliging. For example, you will note that I have managed to choke down your detestable peas without a single complaint.”

  “You have managed, sir, to slip them into your napkin when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

  Color flamed in his cheeks as he set the rolled-up napkin, green with mushed peas, on the table. “Does nothing escape your eyes, Miss Ryder?”

  “I expect the applesauce is heated through
by now,” she said, rushing away from the table. Again she had made a cake of herself. Who was she to reprove Lord Fallon, even in jest?

  In his presence, she forgot who she was. She lost herself. It scared her, this unaccustomed failure to control her tongue, not to mention her feelings. Always she had made herself into what people expected her to be. Even with Eudora, who encouraged her to express her opinions openly, she maintained her self-control.

  But not with Fallon. Not with him.

  She knelt before the hearth, stirring the bubbling applesauce as if it were a witch’s brew, wishing she could evaporate in the steam.

  Two warm hands settled on her shoulders. “I think we must talk about what happened last night,” he said quietly. “Ever since, you have been on knife-edge, and so have I.”

  She could not mistake his meaning. Letting go the spoon, she came to her feet and turned to face him. “You must think me exceedingly foolish,” she said, determined to be sophisticated in spite of her quaking knees. “I refine too much over . . . well, over a matter of no consequence.”

  “I kissed you, and you kissed me back,” he clarified.

  “Y-yes. But you had drunk a good deal of brandy. And suffered a blow to the head.”

  “Not enough brandy to render me witless, my dear. And while I confess to a hellish headache, the fact remains that I knew exactly what I was doing. And so did you, once the initial shock had passed. Am I wrong?”

  Despite her frantic prayer, the earth did not open and swallow her up. Unable to speak, she shook her head.

  “I thought not,” he said. “Well, I hoped not. The fact is, Miss Jane Ryder, I had been wondering how it would feel to kiss you since the afternoon I saw you sitting all prim and proper behind your desk in Lady Swann’s parlor. I wanted to kiss you when you came to my house with that blackmailing letter. I wanted to kiss you when I tasted your burnt gingerbread biscuit. And on from there, when I met you in the snow outside the Black Dove Inn, and when you sat in front of me on my horse—”

  He took a deep breath. “I never meant to offend you. But I had wanted, very much and for a long time, to kiss you. And last night, I did. I’ll not apologize for that, but I wish you would explain why it has put such a distance between us. Please. I have been honest with you. Tell me why you shy away whenever we look at each other.”

  “Probably b-because no one has ever kissed me before,” she murmured.

  “I know.” He lifted her chin with the back of his hand. “I could tell. I felt honored.”

  “I felt honored, too,” she admitted. “At first. And a great many other things I had no right to feel. But if you want the truth, Lord Fallon, I shall give it to you.”

  Stepping beyond the reach of his hands, she studied the worn grooves in the graystone kitchen floor. “You tricked me into telling you what I’ve never told anyone, sir. My mother lay with Lord Ryder for reasons she never explained to me, but that does not mean her daughter is easy prey for any man who thinks it perfectly acceptable to . . . to . . .” Her voice faded.

  “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I see now. Will you believe me if I tell you such a notion never entered my mind? Dear God, Jane, if children were judged only by their parents, there would be no hope whatever for me. As it is, I have a legion of flaws that owe nothing to my disreputable father. I am a man. I am drawn, quite irresistibly, to kiss lovely, intelligent, gallant women. Sometimes I do more than that, if they are willing. But I never imagined that you would give me more than a kiss. I may have wished it—hell, I’m wishing it right now. But even more, I want to wipe the fear from your eyes.”

  “I am not afraid of you,” she said. “Never that. But other men have assumed certain things about me, and I did fear you had leapt to similar conclusions. I gave you reason enough last night, I suppose. It seems I am irresistibly drawn to kiss handsome, intelligent, gallant gentlemen.”

  “Shall we simply remember our kisses as the nicest part of our adventure together?” he asked softly. “I know we cannot be lovers, Jane Ryder, but can we not be friends? I have precious few of those, and none I value so much as you.”

  This once, she knew from the open pleading in his eyes, he was speaking the truth. When she offered her hand, he enveloped it in a warm, gentle grasp. “Friends,” she said.

  As if to seal the moment, bells began to ring in her head.

  “What the devil is that?” he swore, rushing to the window and towing her with him. “Did you hear that bell?”

  Before she could answer, it sounded again.

  He flung open the kitchen door. “Where is it coming from? I can’t tell.”

  Together they listened for several moments, but the ringing had ceased. Jane drew him back into the kitchen. “I expect there is a church not far away, pealing the bells for midnight services.”

  “Nonsense. There isn’t a church within miles of the estate. I’m going to have a look around.”

  “I’ll come with you, then.” She went to the chair where she’d left the folded opera cape. “Wear this, my lord. It’s very cold outside.”

  He swung it over his shoulders and was gone before she could finish donning her gloves and cloak. With a sigh, she secured the clasp at her throat and followed him into the star-spun night.

  Chapter 12

  JANE FOLLOWED Lord Fallon’s footprints in the snow until she passed beyond the light from the kitchen window. Then, pausing in the quiet, trembling darkness, she drew in a breath of cold air and gazed up at the sky.

  Directly overhead, a thin crescent moon nestled against Orion’s sword. She picked out the constellations she recognized—Perseus and Aries, Pegasus and Gemini and Cassiopeia.

  On the first Christmas, a special star had blazed through the night, guiding shepherds to the stable where Mary and Joseph watched over a newborn babe. It must have been a night very like this one, she thought, clear and peaceful and shimmering with hope.

  Starshine glistened on the snow all around her, as if she were standing in a field of diamonds. She imagined angel song, and Glorias ringing in the air.

  Ringing as that bell had rung . . . if they had really heard it.

  She set off again, picking out Fallon’s trail by starlight, humming a carol. “Loo-lee loo-lay, thou little tiny child—”

  “Jane!” Fallon’s shout pierced the silence. “This way. Hurry!”

  Following the sound of his voice, she came over a rise and saw the outline of a low building. The stable, she guessed, wondering at a small circle of light directly in front of it. She recognized his tall figure nearby and rushed to join him. As she drew closer, she could distinguish a ring of candles set in the snow with a mound of evergreen branches at its center.

  Fallon came to meet her. “You will not believe this,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to the circle of candles.

  She gasped.

  Atop the cradle of evergreen boughs was a willow basket. And inside the basket was a child.

  Two mittened hands waved in the air. “Ga. Ga ga!”

  “Oh, my word!” Jane quickly moved a few of the candles out of the way, pulled aside a homespun blanket, and lifted the babe in her arms.

  Delighted, the infant pawed at her face. “Ga!” Wide eyes gazed up at her. “Ga ga ga!”

  Jane looked to where Fallon had been, but he had disappeared. “Never mind him,” she told the child, who gave her a happy grin in reply. “What a sweet thing you are, my darling. Wherever did you come from?”

  “Goo ga.”

  “That far away? Well, you must be very tired indeed after such a journey.” Still murmuring nonsense, smiling when the babe replied, she noted the clean muslin gown, the knitted mittens and booties, and the bonnet edged with simple lace. They bespoke loving care but little money to spend. The child’s plump, rosy cheeks glowed with health.

  Fall
on emerged from behind the stable, frowning murderously. He paused a moment, looking over at her and the babe. Then, with obvious reluctance, he came to a point several arm-lengths away and planted his boots in the snow. “I . . . you . . .” He pointed to the babe. “Is it all right?”

  She took a deep breath for patience. “If you are referring to the infant, yes. So far as I can tell, anyway. But we should take it inside, because it is undoubtedly cold.”

  His frown became a scowl. “Pardon me. Should I have said he or she?”

  Jane had no idea. But the look on Fallon’s expressive face had roused every protective instinct in her body. The child had been abandoned once, poor little mite, and his lordship was already thinking “it.” She knew how casually an “it” was cast aside.

  “We’ll soon find out,” she said with an apologetic smile. She’d have gone on her knees to placate him, if necessary, but soon realized his thoughts were already elsewhere. He wanted only to know how the child got here in the first place. To his mind, the sudden appearance of a babe in the snow was a problem to be solved. And so it was, she supposed, when a hundred other problems were dealt with first. “Did you find anything?” she asked, feigning interest for his sake.

  “Hoofprints, bootprints, and the tracks of what might be a sled. Something on runners, anyway. I can’t tell how many people were here, but one set of prints is considerably smaller than the others. The one who stayed behind to ring the bell hasn’t much of a start, so if I head out now, I should be able to run him down within the hour.”

  “Are you mad, sir? You cannot leave us here alone.”

  Fallon came a few steps closer, eyeing the babe warily. “I fail to see why not. The house is warm enough, and you are more than capable of dealing with any problems that may arise.”

  “Lord Fallon,” she said firmly, “the very last thing that matters right now is finding the people who abandoned this child. You simply cannot go haring after them until we contrive some way to feed the poor thing. Infants require nourishment every few hours, you know.”