Christmas Belles

by Susan Carroll

  "Chloe!" He started to follow but drew up short. Somehow that thin curtain, veiling as it did such solemn female mysteries, was a far more daunting prospect than any enemy vessel he had ever attempted to board. Damning himself for a coward, he could not bring himself to go barging in there. Never in his life had he felt so blasted helpless.

  But another earsplitting wail from Peggety forced him to focus on his most immediate problem.

  "Hush, hush," he said, sinking down onto the stool, jiggling the child ineffectually on his knee.

  Peggety regarded him reproachfully through the tumble of her curls, her plump lower lip a-tremble. "Warnt Marmar. Warnt Marmar."

  "You shall have your mama presently," Will said, pausing his vigorous bouncing in some astonishment. By God, he had actually managed to understand something the child said. Feeling heartened, he resumed the bouncing, but Peggety apparently failed to understand that some sort of diplomatic breakthrough had been reached. She continued to cry.

  Trent racked his memory for anything he had ever heard about children. What did one do with a crying babe? Rock her? Tell her stories? That sounded vaguely as though it might have some merit. Though he had no idea of any tale fit to beguile a weeping child, Trent drew in a deep breath and plunged in.

  "Once upon a time," he began desperately, praying that Charles would arrive with that midwife very soon.

  It could not have been more than an hour later, but Chloe felt as if she had spent all day closeted with Sukey Green in the cramped, gloomy quarters of the bedchamber. Her head tossing against the pillow, her damp curls so like Peggety's, Sukey looked achingly young herself. She gripped Chloe's hand hard, pressing her lips together in a valiant effort to stifle her cries while her babe struggled to be born.

  But by the time the midwife finally arrived, another cry was heard, softer, like the mew of a kitten. The old woman bustled in, elbowing Chloe aside. The midwife had a crooked nose and breath reeking of garlic, but she set to work with practiced hands. After such an unendurable vigil, it seemed that in no time at all, Sukey rested with a small bundle tucked into her arms, the face of her infant son peeking from the folds of the blanket. Chloe, her limbs shaking with relief, sagged down on the end of the bed.

  "Bless me!" The old woman cackled. "What a new year this has turned out to be. Wasn't I just finishing with the birthing of Mrs. Catesby's wee girl when round comes the vicar to fetch me. But you lasses appear to have been managing quite nicely. Quite nicely, indeed." She bestowed a toothy grin on Chloe. "'Tis all over and done, miss. So don't you go a-swooning on me now."

  "I wasn't about to," Chloe said indignantly, forcing herself to her feet, although she did feel a little wobbly. "I have helped at a confinement before, when our old dog whelped her puppies."

  The old woman slapped her knee and roared with laughter, but Sukey gave Chloe a wan, grateful smile.

  "Thank you so much, Miss Chloe. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come round. There is only one more thing. I must get a letter to my Tom, tell him about the boy."

  "I am sure Captain Trent will know how to get a dispatch to your husband as soon as possible," Chloe said soothingly.

  But even as she gave this assurance, Chloe recollected guiltily in what case she had left Will. With a sobbing three-year-old in his arms, the captain might not be feeling particularly obliging.

  "Don't be fretting about letters and such just now, dearie," the midwife scolded Sukey. "You are exhausted. Miss Chloe, would you mind tending to the babe while I get Mrs. Green settled more comfortable-like"

  Chloe was only too happy to comply with this request. With a tired sigh, Sukey kissed her son's cheek before Chloe scooped the warm bundle into her arms. His small face had that newborn scrubbed-red look, but Chloe thought him quite the most handsome creature she had ever seen.

  He already showed signs of being a most saintly child, for the moment content to doze as though he, too, had found the ordeal of being born quite exhausting. Cooing softly to the babe, Chloe prepared with some trepidation to step into the next room and see how Will was faring.

  As she nudged the curtain aside, Chloe heard the low drone of his voice. Will was talking to someone, perhaps the vicar, or maybe even Charles had come.

  But when she slipped across the threshold, Chloe was puzzled to see no one else present but Peggety. Will had to be addressing the child. Staring into the fire, he did not seem to realize that Peggety had fallen asleep in his arms. Snuggling the babe securely against her, Chloe inched forward, trying to make sense of what Will was saying.

  "And the captain knew the folly of pursuing such a course in a squall, but he was a most stubborn man. When the storm reached the pitch of its fury, he called to his first mate, 'Prepare to abandon ship."Aye, aye, sir,' the mate replied, roaring out to the crew above the wail of the storm, 'Say your prayers, ye lubbers, for I fear we are all about to meet our Maker.' "

  Chloe listened in astonishment, her lips curved into a smile. A story. He was telling Peggety some kind of story.

  "The waves washed over the deck, and the masthead came crashing down. All seemed lost, but at that moment a miracle occurred. As though she had heard the captain's cry, the beautiful lady of the sea came rising up from the ocean's floor. With gentle hands, she quieted the waves, and—"

  Regrettably at that moment a floorboard creaked, betraying Chloe's presence. Will glanced around, and his face flushed a dull red.

  "Oh, don't stop now," Chloe said. "You must tell me what happened. Did the lady save the stubborn captain?"

  "Likely so," Trent said gruffly. "The fellow was far too obstinate to drown." He shifted carefully, peering down at the sleeping Peggety, her breath coming in soft, contented sighs. The trusting way the child nestled against Trent's broad chest brought a curious lump to Chloe's throat.

  "It was all but a pack of nonsense," he said. "But at least I seem to have bored our young friend here to sleep."

  "To dream of three-masted ships and jolly Jack-Tars, no doubt."

  "She is a sailor's daughter," Will said. "What else should she dream about?" He struggled to his feet, taking great care lest he disturb Peggety. He settled the child upon the cot in the corner of the room. She curled up at once, somehow guiding her two fingers to her mouth even in the depths of slumber. Will tucked the blanket around her and after a brief hesitation patted the little girl's curls, the gesture both awkward and tender.

  He straightened, keeping his voice low as he asked, "Is Mrs. Green all right? I mean, did all go well in there?"

  "See for yourself. Peggety has a new brother."

  Trent started, becoming aware that the bundle clutched so protectively in Chloe's arms was a baby. As she drew closer, Trent took a polite but cautious peek in much the same manner he might have viewed some curious variety of sea life.

  "Here, you hold him," Chloe said with her customary impulsiveness.

  Trent retreated a hasty step. "Oh, no. I only recently mastered the art of keeping a grip on a squirming three-year-old. I would prefer to work my way down in rank more gradually."

  But there was no gainsaying Chloe. She shoved the babe into his arms with a silvery laugh. "Don't look so terrified. He won't break."

  "Won't he, indeed?" Trent muttered. After he had held Peggety's sturdy little frame, the babe felt as fragile and weightless as a china teacup. Trent risked one awestruck glance beneath the blanket. He had never known human beings could come in such tiny form. A golden dusting of hair crowned the little one's head, almost invisible lashes resting against soft cheeks. One diminutive hand stirred against the blanket folds. It was almost enough to make a man believe in such things as fairies.

  When his wondering gaze at last drifted up to meet Chloe's, he saw that her eyes were aglow with such pride and tenderness, it could have been her own babe she presented. He imagined she would look just so someday when she offered up her first-born son to her husband.

  A bittersweet longing shot through him as he held the bab
e, bathed in the glow of Chloe's gentle smile. From some great distance, he could hear the wind beating against the cottage. But for one moment he felt strangely bound to Chloe in some safe harbor, far removed from the elements, removed from time itself as he stood there imagining that not only might this be her babe, but his. Except that if he ever had a son, he would likely be far away at sea, just like Tom Green was when the little lad was born. And Chloe would not be the mother of his child.

  He handed the babe back to her, filled with a regret as keen as it was unexplainable. "We had best be going," he said. "The vicar stopped by here for a few minutes to tell me that Charles went back to Windhaven to fetch the carriage for us. It looks like there is going to be a storm."

  Chloe nodded with a tiny sigh. Slipping into the other room, Trent could hear her handing the infant over to the midwife. Trent helped Chloe into her coat and then held the door for her.

  Any words they might have spoken would have been snatched away by the brisk wind, but neither of them seemed to have anything to say. Lost in silence, they trudged back along the shingled beach.

  Chloe's bonnet blew back, hanging by its strings, her hair becoming a wild tangle. Shielding her eyes, she stared out to sea. When she spoke, Trent had to lean closer to catch her words.

  "I like the look of a beach in the morning. Everything is washed clean and new as though it were a chance to begin again. The birth of a baby is something like that, too, isn't it?" She paused to glance up at him. "I mean, no matter how terrible things might seem, it is still the beginning of a new life, new hopes."

  "I suppose so," Trent agreed, though he hardly knew what he was saying. It suddenly occurred to him that long after he returned to his ship, in the lonely hours standing watch on deck, he would be seeing her this way, her honey brown hair blowing in the wind, her lips softly smiling, her light blue eyes always so wistful with dreaming.

  He would see her everywhere, in the foaming waves, in the night sky, in the crisp billow of the sail as it sang in the wind. Somehow she was in his heart now as much as the sea itself.

  His hands came up to grip her shoulders, and he began drawing her forward. He wanted nothing so much as to clasp her in his arms, to hold her fast forever. The desire came upon him as strong and fierce as the gathering storm.

  He heard Chloe give a soft gasp, but she didn't resist. What he saw reflected in the depths of her eyes fairly took his breath away. He would have kissed her then, but she ducked her head, and his lips merely grazed her forehead.

  Somehow he retained enough sanity to release her. Reaching up, he drew her bonnet back over her head. As he secured the ribbons at her chin, tying them in a bow that was most militarily precise, he noted how badly his fingers were trembling.

  Chloe caught his hand between her own. "Will, I ..." she began and then stopped, her face full of despair. "I suppose we had best hurry. Emma will be worried about us."

  "Yes," he said hoarsely. She released his hand and turned, fairly running up the beach. Trent watched her for a moment, stifling a soft curse.

  It was a poor time to be realizing such a thing only hours away from his own wedding. But he was about to marry the wrong sister.

  Chapter Nine

  As afternoon shadows lengthened, the entire Windhaven household gathered in little St. Andrew's Church for Emma's wedding. Even though the ceremony had yet to begin, Old Meg was already reaching sentimentally for her handkerchief. Polly sniffed gustily, though no one was sure whether it was over the present occasion or the absence of Mr. Doughty.

  The steward had thus far eluded capture, much to Chloe's relief. At least his arrest would not cast any further pall over a wedding day that already seemed lost in gloom. The gray clouds without had brought on an early darkness, causing the sexton to scurry about, lighting more candles.

  The storm that had threatened all afternoon had yet to break, but the wind could still be heard setting up a mournful wail. Sitting in the front pew, Chloe shivered a little, her heart feeling as heavy as the overburdened skies.

  The rest of her family appeared no more cheerful than she. They might well have been attending a funeral service instead of a marriage. Attired in her best bonnet and gown, a pale Emma stood before the altar, her nervousness betrayed by the fluttering of her hands. Lucy and Lathrop were the picture of misery. Situated across the aisle from each other, they exchanged longing glances.

  The only one at all composed was Agnes, staring vacantly up at a stained-glass window. But then her mind was likely far away, daydreaming about some musty old Romans.

  Lucy fidgeted on the seat beside Chloe and whispered in peevish accents, "What is taking the captain and Mr. Henry so long? What else could Trent possibly have to say to him?"

  "Perhaps there is some last-minute detail that has been overlooked," Chloe said. She had no more notion what might be causing the delay than Lucy did, but she stood fiercely ready to defend any of Will's actions.

  Lucy scowled. "Doesn't the captain think Mr. Henry knows his own business? You were right about Trent all along, Chloe. He is a high-handed, interfering tyrant."

  "He is nothing of the kind!"

  "Oh yes, he is! He cannot give one good reason, yet he is forbidding Charles and me to become engaged."

  "As your guardian, Will is obliged to keep you from making a mistake, and—" Chloe ducked her head, adding quietly, "And he does not believe anyone can fall in love that fast."

  But there had been one moment back there on the beach when Chloe had questioned the captain's lack of faith. For one moment, when he had drawn her closer, the look in his eyes had spoken not of skepticism, but of a passion as strong and deep as the sea itself. But either Will's common sense had reasserted itself, or it had all been the product of her own wild and wicked imagination. Most likely the latter, Chloe thought.

  Lucy stole another wistful look at Charles, then grumbled, "Well, I think Will Trent is a great fool."

  "No, he is simply a man who will always adhere to his own notions of duty and honor," Chloe said with simple pride. And she loved him for it, even though it was those selfsame qualities in Will that were likely to break her heart.

  She inched farther away from Lucy, not wanting to hear any more of her criticisms. Chloe knew she would have enough to do simply to put on a brave front, to be able to offer Will and Emma her congratulations. Her only hope was that given time, perhaps the strength of her feelings for Will would fade to become something more sisterly. It was a poor consolation, but all she had. In the meantime, she could only wish that Trent would come with Mr. Henry and make an end of this ordeal.

  In the small robing room behind the altar, that was precisely what Trent was trying to do. While Mr. Henry donned his vestments, Trent paced the cramped quarters. Clad in the full regalia of his best uniform, he felt more like he was about to plunge into battle than into wedlock Which perhaps he was—a battle for the only happiness he might ever know.

  Chloe had always been so certain that Emma and Mr. Henry were still in love with each other. Trent had his doubts, but he prayed fervently that Chloe's instincts might prove more accurate than his own. If she were wrong--- No, he could not consider that prospect. It was far too bleak.

  Clearing his throat, Trent launched his first tentative barrage, heaping praises upon Mr. Henry until the poor young vicar turned quite pink.

  "And never have I been so moved as by your sermons. Such clarity of thought, such force of expression."

  Mr. Henry looked as though he thought Trent quite mad, but he said politely, "Indeed? It is heartening to know someone stayed awake long enough to listen."

  "You are a man of great talents, quite wasted upon this tiny parish. You should be in possession of a much better living, and I intend to see to that."

  "You overwhelm me, sir. I scarce know what to say."

  "Say nothing but that you will accept my friendship and allow me to exert my influence on your behalf."

  "That is most kind of you, but I assure you I am qu
ite undeserving."

  "This is no time to be modest," Trent growled. When Mr. Henry shrank back apace, Trent reminded himself that he wasn't browbeating one of his midshipmen. Modifying his tone, he said, "Forgive my impertinence, but I understand that you are charged with the support of your mother and several younger siblings. Think what an improvement in your position could mean to them."

  "Well, one does not like to be thought mercenary," Mr. Henry said wistfully. "But a slight raise in income would be most welcome."

  "And then you could afford to take a wife." Trent gave the slender vicar a hearty slap on the back. "As Saint Paul said, better to marry than to burn."

  Trent watched Mr. Henry's face anxiously, fearing he might have overdone it a bit. He couldn't imagine the quiet vicar even smoldering. But a flicker of something appeared in Mr. Henry's mild eyes.

  "Yes, I could marry then, couldn't I?" he said eagerly. "I have always thought it good for a clergyman to set an example for his flock by choosing a proper bride."

  "And there is no lady more proper than Miss Emma Waverly. She would make an excellent vicar's wife."

  "Aye, indeed she would—" Mr. Henry began warmly and then stopped, looking deeply self-conscious. His spark of animation died. "But Miss Waverly is betrothed to you, Captain."

  "Ladies have been known to change their minds," Trent hinted with mounting desperation. "Emma is such an attractive woman, I would not blame you if you were tempted to steal her away at the altar itself."

  Mr. Henry drew himself upright, looking outraged, and Trent silently cursed himself, realizing that his last salvo had been a grave misfire.

  "Sir!" Mr. Henry said in offended accents. "That is a most dreadful jest. Eloping with your bride! Do you think a respectable lady like Miss Waverly would countenance such behavior?"

  "She might find it rather romantic," Trent suggested weakly.

  "She would find it reprehensible and the most baseless ingratitude to one who is proposing to become my benefactor,"