He could be so unbelievably obstinate, especially when he was convinced he was right. Sometimes he was so stuffed with common sense that he could not see beyond the end of his own nose.
But it was such a handsome nose, carved on the same strong lines as the rest of his face. And his eyes—they were what Chloe had come to think of as a deep-sea gray. She loved how they lightened those rare times when Will realized even a captain was permitted to laugh.
Resting one arm along the stonework of the house, Chloe buried her forehead against it, appalled by the direction of her thoughts but totally powerless to check them. This was all Lucy's fault, forever rattling on about being in love. It was as catching as a contagious disease.
But she was being most unfair to blame Lucy. Even if Lucy had never breathed a word of her own romance, Chloe knew the realization would have overtaken her eventually. She had simply been fighting it, but to no avail.
She had fallen in love with Will Trent.
There—she had admitted it, if not aloud, then most certainly to herself. Chloe held her breath, waiting. She had always imagined that the day she acknowledged such a thing, there would be birds singing, rainbows in the sky, springtime even in the midst of winter. But there was nothing but this horrid burning ache in her chest just as though she had been shot through the heart.
It was so disloyal to Emma, but Chloe could not help pondering how different things might have been if Emma and Mr. Henry had only set aside their scruples and eloped. Then when Will had come to Windhaven to do his duty, he would have had to select another sister. Perhaps then …
No, he would have likely picked Lucy or even Agnes, both more sensible creatures. Chloe knew she amused Trent sometimes, but never would he have wanted to wed the sister whose head was oft so far in the clouds, she tripped over her own two feet.
Tears stung her eyes, and she dashed them aside. The old longing for her father came back to her, strong and fierce. Never had she stood in such need of his comfort and advice. She could almost picture the sage way he would have shaken his gray head, how gently he would have patted her cheek. What was it he had once said to her?
Hearts can be broken, Chloe. But they do mend, and oftentimes one is a little wiser for the wear.
She didn't feel any wiser at the moment, only completely wretched. But she realized she could not spend the rest of her life moping by the kitchen door. One of the new housemaids had come out and already given her a very odd stare.
Her shoulders drooping, Chloe made her way into the kitchen. Something warm and fragrant was bubbling in a huge kettle over the fire, but Chloe had never had less of an appetite.
Mr. Doughty appeared in far different case. Hovering near the larder, he was scooping up an entire loaf of bread. Or so Chloe thought at first, then concluded she must be mistaken. Why on earth would Mr. Doughty shove a loaf of bread inside a canvas sack?
Whatever he was doing, he had his back to her and seemed far too absorbed to pay her any heed. Chloe heaved a deep sigh as she plunked down on a three-legged stool to pull off her boots. Mr. Doughty whipped around with a loud oath.
"Oh, Miss Chloe!"
"Sorry," she said, forcing a smile. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
"You didn't. I---I was just so intent on polishin' up the cap'n's boots, I fear I didn't notice ye come in "
That seemed an odd thing for Doughty to say. Will's high-top boots, looking much the worse for a layering of mud, stood perched upon the hearth untouched.
Doughty added with a sheepish grin, "I mean, I was just lookin' about for some champagne. I heard tell it does wonders when added to the blackin'."
"Well, you won't find any here. It has been a long time since we have seen any champagne at Windhaven."
"Suppose I'll just have to make do without it." Doughty rubbed his hands together in hearty fashion. "The cap'n's boots took quite a beatin' on yer last walk, Miss Chloe. He'll have my hide if I don't do something to salvage 'em."
As he strode to the hearth to begin, Chloe rose hastily, fearing the big seaman might want to engage her in one of their long, cozy chats. She was in no mood for conversation with anyone. But Doughty appeared just as somber as she felt. He commenced his task of polishing with a grim set to his lips, for once even forgetting to whistle.
Chloe slipped past him and had nearly reached the door when she heard him call, "Miss Chloe?"
Glancing back; she saw Doughty bending over the boots, the exertion making him red in the face. He muttered, "After supper tonight, ma'am, I'd be obliged if ye had a word with the cap'n for me. Tell him I said that I was real sorry."
"Of course," Chloe agreed with a slight frown. How strange that Doughty should want her to convey his apologies or that he should imagine that Will would be in any kind of fret. Even if the boots were ruined, they were only his second-best pair. Yet she was too consumed with her own unhappiness to puzzle over Doughty's words for long. By the time she left the kitchen, the odd conversation went right out of her head.
She was more worried about how she was ever going to face Will again. She feared he might read her folly in her eyes. She had never been good at the arts of concealment. If only she could somehow hide away in her room until it was time for Will to go back to his ship. A ridiculous notion, for there were five more days and the wedding itself to contend with.
For once, she simply must learn how to dissemble. Most of all, she had to avoid being alone with Will, to hold him at a distance. But it was one thing to form such a resolution, quite another to carry it out.
Chloe did not find it natural to turn a cold shoulder, to withhold her smiles from anyone that she loved. And she was rapidly discovering she had never loved anyone more than she did Will Trent.
She managed to scrape through supper by sitting at the opposite end of the table from him. But the evening ahead presented a far greater challenge, even more so because it was New Year's Eve. It was the one night of the year they kept late hours at Windhaven, stayed up to watch the old year fade, to welcome in the new.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the parlor, Will tried to approach Chloe on several occasions, but she was quick to skitter away. She conceived the happy notion of entertaining the others with a magic lantern show. At least in the semi-darkness, she might better conceal her feelings.
Agnes retired promptly, declaring herself too old for such childish entertainments. But the rest gathered round while Chloe brought forth the box of color transparencies and subjected them to an endless display of scenes upon the parlor wall.
The magic lantern always used to delight Chloe as a child, those light images of monarchs and maidens, knights and dragons, even a terrifying specter or two.
But tonight the scenes flashed before her in a dull blur, her hands moving almost mechanically to slide one transparency out, put another one in.
At some point after much whispering and giggling, Lucy and Lathrop escaped from the parlor. Chloe hardly noticed at first, only gradually becoming aware of the silence. Daring a glance behind her, she could make out Emma's form. Exhausted after a day of instructing the new laundry maid in her duties, Emma had slumped down on the settee, fast asleep. As for Trent, he, too, appeared to have vanished.
Chloe knew she should have been relieved at his absence, not continuing to look about for him with a wistful ache in her heart. Then she felt a light touch upon her hand. She jumped, realizing that Trent had stalked silently up beside her. He stood, his looming frame lost in shadow, the angular lines of his profile cast into sharp relief by the lantern's glow.
"That is an enchanting castle, Chloe," he said. "But I believe you have already shown it thrice."
"Have I? I am sorry." Chloe hastened to change the transparency. He checked her movement, his fingers gently but firmly banding about her wrist.
"Chloe, have I done something wrong?"
No, she wanted to cry. Unfortunately, he had done everything right, right enough to make her want to cast herself into his arms forever
. She squirmed to free her hand, fearing he would feel the way her pulse thundered beneath his touch.
"Nothing is wrong," she managed to say. "Why do you ask?"
"You are so quiet tonight, and I feel as if you are avoiding me. Did I offend you earlier when I suggested the decorations come down? That was only because when I touched up against the mantel, I came away with a handful of pine needles."
"No, I am not angry about that. I daresay you had forgotten what I said about the bad luck."
"Yes, ill fortune betide us if the holly is removed before Twelfth Night, and I would not wish for any more bad luck. Somehow I feel like the most misfortunate fellow alive because you have not smiled at me all evening."
She tried to force a smile, a casual friendly one, but found she couldn't. She busied herself changing the transparency even though she had lost her audience. Striving for a lighter tone, she said, "You should be especially careful about your omens, Captain. Doughty told me how you broke your statue of Saint Nicholas. I am glad mine is made of wood."
"Yours? You pay homage to the patron saint of sailors?"
"Not merely sailors." She told him of the legend of Saint Nicholas and the unmarried ladies.
"The protector of both maidens and sailors?" Trent said with a lift of his brow. "It would seem old Saint Nick spreads himself a little thin."
"Saints often must do double duty. There are not so many of them." Chloe scarce knew what nonsense she was talking. She was only aware of Trent standing far too near her. Her heart beat with desires wild and strange, and she felt overwhelmed with guilt, conscious as she was of Emma slumbering behind her, so innocent and trusting. How wicked I am, Chloe thought with despair. If she were to be boiled alive in one of Emma's puddings, it would be no more than she deserved.
Nervously, she snatched up another transparency. "Here's one we haven't seen yet. 'Tis one of my favorites, the wizard in his lair."
But Trent stepped in front of the lantern, the colored light spilling over the crisp white of his cravat and the lean contours of his face, bathing him in a rainbow array at odds with the sorrow in his eyes.
"Something is making you most unhappy," he said. "I almost thought I saw tears swimming in your eyes." He reached out to cup her chin, his fingers firm and warm against her skin. "Can you not tell me what troubles you? I thought we had become friends."
The tenderness in his voice almost proved her undoing. She longed to catch his hand, pillow her cheek against its masculine strength. She shied away, essaying an awkward laugh. "I am merely being foolish, just because it is New Year's Eve. It always makes me a little melancholy. 'Tis rather a strange night, you must admit. One tick of the clock and another year slips silently away."
"I understand," he said. "I often feel that way myself. The old year passing, and who knows what disasters the next might bring?"
"It could prove a better year than the one before."
"Or it could be worse."
"But it might be better," she insisted, finding a need to believe that more than ever before. Much to her relief, Lucy and Lathrop returned to the parlor.
"Enough of that dratted lantern and this gloomy darkness," Lucy called out.
Lathrop murmured suggestively, "I am rather fond of darkness myself."
Lucy giggled, and Chloe heard her administering a playful rap. Whatever Lathrop had been whispering to her, Lucy's face glowed more brightly than the candles she was lighting.
As the room slowly filled with light, Chloe saw that Trent had already moved away from her side. Like her, he looked ill-disposed for any merriment. But neither her silence nor Will's made any impression upon Lucy.
"Do pack all those things away, Chloe," Lucy said gaily. "'Tis almost time to see in the New Year. Someone must wake poor Emmy, and shall we chase Charles outside to be the first footer?"
Never had Chloe been less inclined to take delight in any of the old legends, but both Trent and Lathrop looked so puzzled, she felt compelled to explain. "What Lucy means is that great care must be taken after midnight that the first person to enter the house in the new year should be fair rather than dark, or else—"
"I know," Trent interrupted with a grimace. "Or else, more bad luck."
"I think we should send Lucy out to be the first footer," Lathrop said. "She is obviously the fairest of us all."
"It cannot be a woman, you fool," Lucy retorted, somehow making even that epithet sound as tender as if she had called him her darling. Lathrop regarded her adoringly.
Their happiness was so obvious, a happiness Chloe realized she would never know. She felt obliged to look away. She had never been inclined to envy her beautiful older sister, at least not until now.
Chloe was on the verge of excusing herself when the clock chimed out the hour of midnight. Emma started awake, then blushed, apologizing for having dozed off. Lathrop poured out glasses of sherry and passed them round to drink a toast to the new year. Chloe barely tasted hers, and she could not help noting that Will hardly drank his
She had no sooner settled her glass upon the tray when the parlor door burst open. Polly rushed into the room. The little maid appeared flushed, and she bobbed a hasty curtsy to Will. "Captain Trent. Begging your pardon, sir. But there's a dark-haired stranger come banging at the door, asking for you."
"Dark hair? Oh, no!" Lucy cried with comical dismay.
"We are doomed." Lathrop tossed down the rest of his drink "Come kiss me, ladies, one last time, before we all perish."
"Charles! Decidedly you have had too much wine," Trent said, then turned back to Polly. "Who the deuce would be calling upon us at this hour of night? Did you not think to ask his name, girl?"
"Nay, I was that flustered, sir. But the gentleman is wearing a naval uniform."
Trent frowned and then excused himself. He moved unhurriedly from the parlor, no apparent urgency in his step. Yet he left an aura of tension in his wake. Even Lathrop and Lucy's merriment faded.
"Oh, dear," Emma said. "Who do you suppose it could be?"
No one even hazarded a guess. Chloe was gripped by a feeling of dread she could not explain. Gathering up her skirts, she rushed out of the parlor. She reached the hall in time to see Trent flinging the door open wider to admit the stranger.
"No, don't," she almost cried out, but she knew Will would feel she was being foolish. Perhaps she was, but she shivered as she watched the tall, dark sailor step across the threshold and salute Trent.
"Sorry to arrive so late, sir," the man was saying. "But I have been riding like the devil to bring you these orders from the Admiralty."
He handed over a folded document, affixed with a very official-looking seal.
Chloe held her breath as Trent broke the seal. He stepped to one side, perusing the notice. Whatever the contents, Trent's only reaction was a slight tightening of his mouth.
"What is it, Trent?" Lathrop called out.
Chloe became aware that the others had also filed out from the parlor, but she could not tear her eyes from Will's rigid features.
"Bad tidings, I am afraid," he said. "The rest of my leave has been canceled. I am to report back to Portsmouth as soon as possible. It would seem the Gloriana's refitting has gone much quicker than expected, and her services are needed."
"But why? Where will they send you?" Chloe cried.
"I rarely ever know that until I have actually put to sea. I will receive further orders then."
"Do you think there will be another Trafalgar?"
Trent hastened to reassure her. "I doubt my ship will be facing anything as grim as that. Napoleon will never manage to land his army in England, that I promise you. You and your sisters will be quite safe."
Chloe pressed her hand to her lips. It was not her safety that she was worried about. It was borne in upon her as never before the dangers Will might face when he left Windhaven. She felt as though a great weight were pressing upon her heart, but she managed a weak smile. "I did warn you it was bad luck to let a dark-haired stran
ger in first."
His answering smile was rather sad.
Lucy, as usual, was concerned with more immediate matters. She frowned. "Does this mean Emma's wedding will have to be postponed?"
Chloe was ashamed to feel a stirring of hope, a hope that swiftly died when Will said, "No, that will not be necessary. We will simply move the ceremony forward to tomorrow, if that is all right with you, madam?" He deferred to Emma, who nodded.
"I shall be ready," she said. Then she moved to make the tired young sailor welcome, inviting him to come down to the kitchens for something to eat.
Chloe could only stare at her sister, marveling at her composure.
"I'd best start making preparations for my journey at once," Will said. He straightened his shoulders, looking like a man preparing for action. "Mr. Doughty must be informed. Polly, be a good lass and go fetch him."
Instead of hastening to obey, Polly stood nervously twisting her apron.
"Polly, did you not hear me?" Trent said more sharply.
"I fear it would do no good, sir." Polly's face puckered. To everyone's astonishment, she burst into tears.
"I can't fetch Mr. Doughty," she blurted out. "He---he's gone."
Chapter Eight
It was indeed a foul beginning to the new year, Trent thought. His eyes raw from lack of sleep, he strode along the main lane leading into Littledon, the cobblestoned street of the tiny fishing village glistening wet with melting snow. The scattering of cottages and handful of shops appeared to be slumbering in the chill morning light, even St. Andrew's Church still and silent.
But only moments before, the street had rung with the clatter of horses' hooves, the tramp of booted feet, and the enthusiastic voices of the men who had assembled to begin the search for Mr. Samuel Doughty. Most of these volunteers had come from the farms of the local squire, who was also the district's magistrate. Squire Daniels himself had ridden with them as eagerly as though it were all but sport, more entertaining than any fox hunt.
Christmas Belles Page 14
