Christmas Belles

by Susan Carroll

  The captain acknowledged her compliment with a fleeting smile. Chloe could not imagine why, but she had the distinct impression that she made him a trifle nervous. Perhaps he thought her quite mad after that business about the fairies.

  She could try to offer some better explanation of her game with Peggety. The child lived in a tumbledown cottage at the edge of the village. She already knew too much of the grim realities of poverty. Let Emma knit her wool caps and Old Meg fill the babe with hot soup. Sometimes a child like that needed a good dose of peppermint drops and fairies as well. Chloe thought it her duty to provide it.

  Yet as she stole a glance into the captain's wintery gray eyes, she doubted he would understand that. And if he could not understand about Peggety, how was Chloe ever to make him understand Emma's being in love with a poor clergyman?

  Even though Trent's civilized appearance had proved a relief, Chloe was as determined as ever to rescue her sister from a loveless match. But it was one thing to resolve such a thing, another to find a way to go about it.

  Perhaps she could simply appeal to the captain's better nature. He looked like a reasonable man, and yet… He might not be the cutlass-bearing villain of her imaginings, but he didn't seem especially approachable either.

  As he waited for her sister, he stood before the fire, one fist held rigidly against the small of his back. After a time, he said, "I don't mean to trouble you, Miss Chloe, but I would appreciate it if you would go and inform Miss Waverly of my arrival."

  "Certainly, Captain Trent." But Chloe felt reluctant to do so. It was foolish, she knew. As if she thought that by dallying she could postpone the inevitable meeting forever. In any case, matters were taken out of her hands, for Emma appeared at the door of the drawing room herself.

  "Chloe, Polly told me that a carriage has just been pulled into the stable yard. Is it possible that Captain Trent has. . ." When Emma saw the captain, her words trailed away. One hand fluttered first to her hair, and then down to wrench off the soiled apron she wore. A deep blush stained her cheeks, and her lashes fluttered modestly downward. Despite her disheveled state, Emma had never looked prettier. The captain would never be persuaded to give Emma up now, Chloe thought gloomily.

  However, Trent did not seem particularly bowled over by the sight of Emma. He summoned his stiff smile. "Miss Waverly, I believe?'

  Emma nodded, taking a few hesitant steps into the room, but Captain Trent was already crossing to her side He made a smart bow and then took Emma's hand. After a slight hesitation, he carried it brusquely to his lips.

  Chloe felt quite forgotten and miserably out of place. Perhaps she should leave the two of them alone, but she wasn't about to do so, not for all the fairy gold in the world.

  Emma blushed more deeply and nervously retrieved her hand from him. "Captain Trent, welcome to Windhaven. I am so sorry I was not on hand to greet you."

  "My fault entirely, ma'am, for being ahead of schedule. I hope my untimely arrival will not cause you any great inconvenience?"

  "No, not at all. Such a delightful surprise. Now you will be here to share our Christmas Eve festivities. I have been up since daybreak helping our cook with the mince pies and currant jellies."

  A look of dismay crossed the captain's imperturbable features. "You have been working in the kitchen, ma'am?"

  "Well, yes. You see, our cook is getting on in years, and we have but the one parlor maid."

  "This is intolerable. I gave Mr. Martin strict instructions that this house should be run in ship-shape fashion, all your comforts attended to."

  Chloe piped up indignantly, "Our house is well run, Captain. Emma is an excellent housekeeper."

  "I am sure she is, Miss Chloe. I did not mean to criticize. My point is that she should not have to be." He turned to Emma, saying earnestly, "Forgive me, my dear. I had no notion you had been turned into a galley slave."

  "Hardly that, Captain," Emma protested with a laugh. "And, indeed, I have not minded the work. In fact, I rather enjoy—"

  But clearly the captain was not listening to her. He paced off a few steps, his hands locked behind his back, his brow furrowed in concentration. "A house this size needs a proper staff. You should have a housekeeper, at least, a cook, several kitchen maids, a lady's maid for you, Miss Waverly, and another for your sisters, a butler, and several footmen."

  Chloe bristled. Perhaps it would have been nice to have a few more servants, but none of them wanted to see their cozy Windhaven run on the formal lines of other great houses. She said, "It has always been our way, Captain, to manage just as we are."

  "Some ways must change, Miss Chloe," Trent said. "I am deeply mortified. I fear that I owe all of you a great apology." He directed his gaze toward Emma. "I have neglected my responsibilities, leaving you and your sisters to struggle on alone in this vast barracks of a house."

  Chloe stiffened. For someone who said he didn't mean to criticize, the captain had a habit of doing a good deal of it.

  "What, pray, is wrong with our home?" Chloe asked.

  "The captain's home, now," Emma gently told her.

  Chloe was deeply chagrined at the reminder, the captain scarce appearing less so.

  "No, none of that, ma'am. Without question, this is still your home as long as you wish."

  For the first time, Chloe felt a little in charity with the captain.

  "That is, if it is still fit to be anyone's home," he finished. "Perhaps you and your sisters would care to live closer to London."

  Chloe's good feelings vanished.

  "No, we wouldn't," she cried.

  "Chloe!" Emma murmured, giving her a warning nudge. Then she said to the captain in accents of appalling meekness, "Of course, we shall do what you think best, Captain."

  "Well, there is no need to decide anything immediately," Trent said. "I won't know the true extent of the disrepair at Windhaven until I have subjected the house to a thorough inspection myself."

  To Chloe's horror, Emma replied, "Oh, Chloe can help you with that. No one is more familiar with all of Windhaven's little nooks and crannies."

  The captain did not seem much more delighted with the suggestion than Chloe did, but he said with a polite nod, "I should be vastly obliged to Miss Chloe."

  That seemed to be settled, then, although Chloe felt sick at heart. What would the captain say when he had a look at those sagging timbers in the west wing? It would likely be all up with her beloved Windhaven. Captain Trent was proving to be even more of a threat to all their happiness than she had first imagined.

  "Well," he said, briskly rubbing his hands. "It would seem we have a great deal to attend to, Miss Waverly. We must fix the exact time of our wedding. Then send your groom to fetch Mr. Martin to me. Sit down with your sisters and compose me a list of your more immediate needs. Miss Chloe, you will arrange a time at your earliest convenience for my house inspection."

  "Aye, aye, Captain," Chloe said, snapping to attention, whipping off a sharp salute.

  Captain Trent looked a little taken aback, and Emma was aghast at this impertinence. "Chloe!"

  Chloe shrugged. "I am sorry. There is just something about Captain Trent that gives one an uncontrollable urge to salute."

  "I seem to have that effect on a good many people," the captain said gravely but with a twinkle in his eye. It was the first glimmering of a sense of humor that Chloe had detected in the man, but she was in no mood to appreciate it.

  "I fear I am too accustomed to rapping out my orders. You will have to be a little patient with me, Miss Chloe." He smiled at her then, but Chloe maintained a stony front.

  "You must be tired from your journey, Captain," Emma said, stepping uneasily into the breach. "Do let me have Polly show you to your room."

  In rather hasty fashion for the placid Emma, she fairly shooed the captain out of the parlor. When he was out of earshot, she turned back long enough to regard Chloe with mild reproof.

  "Chloe, whatever has gotten into you? You were quite rude to Captain T
rent, not like yourself at all."

  But she had no opportunity to scold further, for Lucy's voice could be heard in the distance, calling out for Emma. She slipped out of the room, leaving Chloe torn between indignation and misery.

  What had gotten into her? Chloe thought bitterly. Oh, nothing much. Only that Papa was gone, Windhaven was no longer theirs but owned by this scornful captain, and Emma was preparing to marry this stiff-necked stranger.

  She fled the parlor and escaped to the sanctuary of her room. She sat brooding on the window seat, her knees tucked up to her chin. She turned over the little wooden statue of Saint Nicholas in her hands, frowning into the figure's solemn eyes.

  "The patron and protector of all unmarried ladies," she grumbled. "Isn't it about time you started doing your job?"

  Burying her head against her knees, Chloe wished for nothing except to be left alone, but it was not long before Agnes and Lucy came bursting in upon her.

  Lucy was bubbling with excitement. "Oh, Chloe, what are you doing moping up here? Don't you know that Captain Trent has arrived and a friend of his has just turned up as well?"

  Lucy gave Chloe no chance to reply, continuing in a breathless rush. "He is a Mr. Charles Lathrop, only an Honorable, but very charming. And the captain is quite handsome and so dashing in his uniform, those epaulets real gold. Not in the least the dunderheaded boor Agnes led us to expect."

  "I was only describing a hypothetical captain," Agnes said. "You girls really ought to learn the difference between theory and fact."

  "Bah," Lucy said. "You just can never admit when you are wrong."

  "Well, I will say this much. I was astonished to find that the captain seemed possessed of much good sense." Agnes always sounded agreeably surprised to find that virtue present in any man.

  "Good sense!" Chloe cried, unable to endure any more of this foolish chatter. "That shows all the more that you know. Captain Trent has not been in this house five minutes and he is already plotting to board up Windhaven and pack us all off to London."

  But this dire announcement did not produce the effect Chloe had hoped.

  "London." Lucy sighed ecstatically, and even Agnes looked thoughtful.

  "The city does have a good many circulating libraries," she remarked. "And only think of the bookshops!"

  "Books!" Chloe nearly choked. She had just told Agnes they might be exiled from Windhaven, and her sister talked of books!

  "Anyway," Lucy interrupted, "we are having tea early, Chloe, so Emma says you are to come down at once. We are planning quite a party for tonight. Now that we have some gentlemen present, we might even manage a little dancing."

  And with that, Chloe's two sisters rushed out again, oblivious to the fact that she had not moved a muscle to follow them.

  As the door closed, she could hear Lucy teasing Agnes, "It is such a relief to discover that Captain Trent is not the Blackbeard you said he would be."

  "I never said anything like that!"

  The sound of their quarrel faded down the hall. Chloe still made no move to bestir herself. Her two sisters' good spirits and unqualified approval of Captain Trent left her feeling alone and isolated. She might have known Lucy would be so silly as to be dazzled by a handsome man in a uniform, but Agnes! Chloe's most sensible of sisters! Even Agnes was singularly lacking in perception, unable to see the threat the captain posed to their happiness.

  Maybe he wasn't any coarse, swearing brute, but as Chloe recalled his hard gray eyes, she thought darkly that soon they would all find out.

  Blackbeard could come in many guises, even with a handsome profile and bright gold epaulets.

  Chapter Four

  Trent parted the draperies of wine-colored brocade that adorned his bedchamber window and watched the sun set. The bleak gardens and orchard below and the trees shorn of their foliage by winter looked all the better for having the mantle of night drawn over them.

  The captain gave a restless sigh, the floorboards of the room seeming too solid. It usually took him several days to accustom himself to the absence of a deck rolling beneath his feet, to not constantly being obliged to make decisions, rap out commands.

  He was not a man framed for leisure, and he already longed to be doing something. Going over accounts with the bailiff, inspecting the house, interviewing prospective servants—anything. But, of course, none of that was possible. It was Christmas Eve, with whatever sort of revelry that entailed.

  Despite his disapproval, his bride-to-be was even now down in the kitchen, supervising the preparation of the evening mea.l Until more help could be engaged, Trent conceded the necessity of it. Perhaps later, he could sit down with Emma and plan out the final arrangements for their wedding. That much, at least, could be accomplished today.

  Letting the curtain fall, Trent stepped away from the window. With the fading of daylight, the bedchamber had descended into darkness despite the fire kindled on the hearth. Trent lit several of the tapers in a candelabra, the light casting flickering shadows about the room.

  The simplicity of the guest chamber pleased Trent. The furnishing consisted of the old-fashioned bed hung with heavy curtains, a single wardrobe, and one wing-back chair drawn up near a tripod table laden with an oil lamp and several books. A dressing table stood near the door, a pier glass mounted above it in a plain wood frame.

  Emma had selected this particular chamber for Trent's use. It was as though she already understood his tastes. He felt altogether satisfied with his choice of a bride. Emma was all that her letters had led him to believe: sensible, gentle, modest. And to add to that, she had turned out to be quite pretty as well.

  Her sisters also met with his approval—at least, two of them did. He had been rather amused by the scholarly one, Agnes. At sixteen, one often imagined that one knew everything. Agnes was positively certain of it.

  As for Miss Lucy, she was charming after the fashion of the reigning beauties Trent had met during his infrequent leaves in London. By the time they had finished afternoon tea, Charles already seemed quite smitten with her, and Lucy appeared nothing loath to encourage his admiration. As her guardian, Trent supposed he should frown upon such forwardness. But Charles was ever the gentleman, and for all her assumed sophistication, Miss Lucy had an innocence about her as well. Trent meant to keep an eye upon the situation, but a little mild flirtation was not going to break the heart of either one of them.

  The only sister who seemed calculated to give Trent any difficulty was Miss Chloe. As Trent set the candelabra atop the dressing table, his brow knit in a puzzled frown. He didn't expect to meet with universal acclaim or even liking, yet this was the only time he could recollect anyone taking a pointed dislike to him on first sight.

  As soon as she had realized who he was, Chloe had regarded him with a wariness and reproach that he sensed were unusual for her. It appeared far more natural for her eyes to sparkle the way they did when she had been hunting for fairies in the bushes.

  Perhaps she held him responsible for her father dying upon his ship. It was not a comfortable supposition but one he was forced to entertain. Trent would not have blamed her or any of her sisters if they had harbored such a resentment. Yet somehow he did not fancy that was the cause of Chloe's hostility. Sir Phineas's name had never even been mentioned.

  Trent was certain it was something else about him that offended Chloe's sensibilities. He stared into the mirror, subjecting himself to a critical examination. He hoped that he was not vain, but he thought his features regular enough to please a lady. Maybe it was the uniform, and the fact he had been too heavy handed earlier, rapping out his orders.

  He had to remember he was no longer commanding the deck of his ship. Perhaps shedding the uniform would help. Rapidly he undid the row of gold buttons and began to shrug out of the blue broadcloth jacket. He was wondering whether Miss Chloe might be more partial to tan or his gray-colored frock coat, when he brought himself up short

  What the deuce did it matter which she preferred? After all,
he wasn't marrying her. Since when did he allow himself to become so unsettled by the disapproval of a mere slip of a girl? And yet in his own defense, he argued that Emma was obviously close to all her sisters, and so his future marital relations might be much more comfortable if he could coax Chloe into tolerating him.

  With this view in mind, he finished stripping off his uniform coat. The silk waistcoat and cravat followed, but before he began undoing the white duck-cloth breeches, Trent made an annoying discovery. His trunk stood perched in one corner, never unlocked, and Mr. Doughty was in possession of the key.

  Scowling, Trent strode across the room and yanked open the door to send for his steward. But, alas, there was no sentry ready at hand to be sent scurrying at Trent's command. Nor could Trent bellow for Doughty at the top of his lungs as he would have liked to do.

  He would be obliged to descend belowstairs and find the rogue for himself, likely out in the kitchen, impeding the cook's progress while he flirted with that pretty parlor maid. Smothering an oath, Trent stalked out of his bedchamber. He was halfway down the stairs when it occurred to him he was clad only in his breeches and shirt.

  But hopefully the ladies were all closeted in their own rooms, busy with their toilettes. And Doughty, it seemed, was nearer at hand than he had supposed. Trent could hear that infernal whistling, and it was coming from the direction of the drawing room. What the blazes could Doughty be doing in there?

  The drawing-room door had been left ajar, and as soon as Trent pushed it fully open, he spied his truant steward. Mr. Doughty stood before the fireplace, his burly arms stretched upward as he struggled to festoon some sort of greenery along the mantel.

  "Mr. Doughty!" Trent snapped.

  Doughty's whistled tune petered out in a startled squawk. The seaman whipped around, attempting to salute, and nearly poked his eye out with a sprig of holly.

  "Oh, Cap'n Trent, sir!"

  "What the devil do you think you are doing there, man?"