Trent nearly groaned aloud. Damn his eyes. Why did the vicar have to be so blasted honorable? Trent already felt as if he were strangling upon enough honor for the both of them.
"It is not as if I would be that heartbroken if something happened to stop the wedding," Trent said, trying to sound as callous as possible. "Emma and I barely know each other. We are virtual strangers."
"In time you will come to realize what a jewel she is, to love her as much as—" The vicar checked himself. Looking extremely noble, he concluded, "We must no longer keep the bride waiting, sir."
Without giving Trent a chance to say any more, Mr. Henry took to his heels, rushing out of the room with as much haste as though he fled from the tempting whispers of the devil.
"Damn! Damn! Damn!" Trent muttered, heedless of the sacred walls surrounding him. He smacked his fist against the wall, wishing it were Mr. Henry's thick head. He would go grab the good vicar by the scruff of his surplice, haul him back here, and shake some sense into him.
Trent lowered his arm with a weary sigh. No, by God, he'd been a naval captain long enough to know a defeat when he saw it. He had done everything but pick up Emma and thrust her into Mr. Henry's arms, and still, his tactics had utterly failed.
So now what was he going to do? Go out to Emma and say to her, "I am sorry, my dear. I cannot marry you today. I have fallen in love with your sister."
Trent knew how much luck he would have trying to get those words out. Hadn't he already tried to talk to Emma when he had taken Chloe back to Windhaven to prepare for the wedding? How did one say anything so devastating to a woman who was rushing about in an apron tied over her bridal dress, helping to bake the bread for her own wedding supper?
He was about to pay the price for his cowardice in keeping silent. He had failed with Mr. Henry, and there was no approaching Emma now. Trent could hardly jilt her at the altar, humiliate her in front of her family and servants. Even if there was a chance that Chloe would ever return his love, she would never forgive him for hurting her sister. More important, he would never forgive himself.
"Oh, Chloe. What a fool I've been," he murmured sadly, knowing that it was the last time he could ever allow himself to pronounce her name with such tenderness.
Well, there was little point in prolonging this agony. Squaring his shoulders, he opened the door and marched out into the nave of the church. Years of rigid close-order drill stood him in good stead, for he looked neither right nor left. Above all else, he avoided meeting Chloe's eyes, fearing that for once his sense of duty might fail him.
He focused instead upon Emma, who was waiting patiently for him in front of the altar. She was obviously as nervous as any bride might be, but her placid features revealed no great inner distress. Her eyes were quite dry, and she did not even look at Mr. Henry as he opened his prayer book.
Trent moved woodenly to Emma's side, taking her by the hand. She felt quite cold. Or was it his own flesh lacking any warmth?
Dear God, Trent prayed. I've seldom troubled you unless I thought my ship was in danger of sinking. Unless you send a miracle quickly, this time I shall definitely fetch up on the rocks.
The only answer was a silence so vast, Trent could hear the old cook sniffing at the back of the church. Mr. Henry fumbled with the prayer book, and the ceremony began.
As though determined to belie all Trent's praise of him, the young vicar was more than usually awkward, stammering over the words, losing his place in the text.
"If-if anyone knows just cause," he faltered, "why this man and this woman should not be—"
Mr. Henry dropped the prayer book. Red-faced, he retrieved it, thumbing through the pages with trembling fingers as he sought to begin again.
"If any man man knows..." His voice trailed away to nothing. He closed up the book, his eyes meeting Emma's with a look of complete despair. "I am sorry, Emma. I cannot," he whispered. "I simply cannot do this."
All color drained from Emma's face She struggled for her composure, but for once she seemed unable to keep her heart from surfacing in her eyes. A single tear trickled down her cheek.
Turning to Trent, she hung her head. "I am sorry, too, Captain Trent. I fear I cannot go through with this."
His miracle had come so quietly, Trent was slow to recognize it. When he realized what was happening, his relief was so vast, he was made nigh dizzy by it.
"No need to apologize, my dear," he said, wringing Emma's hand. "No need at all." For the first time in their acquaintance, Trent experienced an urge to grab Emma and plant a hearty kiss on her cheek, and he did so.
A restive murmur ran through the assembled witnesses, and Trent realized Mr. Henry and Emma had spoken so low that very likely no one else understood what was happening.
Turning, he confronted a gathering of astonished faces, but Trent sought out only one. Biting upon her lower lip, Chloe regarded him with anxious eyes.
Stifling an idiotic grin, Trent tried to give his announcement all the gravity the situation demanded. "I am sorry to disappoint you, but—"
It was an announcement he never had the opportunity to finish, for the church door crashed open. At first it seemed as though the heavy portal might have been blown by the wind, but then a burly man rushed in.
Amid astonished cries, Doughty staggered down the aisle, his hair standing up in wild tufts. Breathless with coughing, his face and clothes were streaked with soot.
Any tentative happiness and relief Trent had been feeling were driven from him. Before the steward could manage to choke out a word, Trent charged at him.
"Doughty! You damned villain." Trent seized him by the collar. In a low voice meant for the steward's ears alone, he hissed, "You bloody fool. What the devil possessed you to come back here?"
"Had to warn you, Cap'n." Doughty wheezed. "Fire. Me 'n' the groom tried to put it out, but 'tis already out of control."
"Fire! What fire? What the deuce are you talking about? If this is more of your tricks—" Trent said, uneasiness sluicing through him as he noticed that Doughty reeked of smoke.
"No trick, sir. Fire up at the house. Fire at Windhaven."
His rasping words echoed through the church with greater effect than a thunderclap. After a moment of stunned silence, everyone made a mad rush for the door. Trent was the first to cross the threshold, staring off to the west, in the direction of Windhaven Manor.
Even against the gathering darkness, a most unnatural glow lit up the evening sky.
"No. No!" Trent heard a soft cry behind him. It came from Chloe. She plunged wildly past him, darting into the lane as though she would run the mile back to Windhaven on foot if permitted to do so.
Moving swiftly, Trent caught her by the shoulders, gently restraining her. "No," he said. "To the carriage. Quickly."
In her panic, she didn't seem to comprehend him, but then she nodded. With an efficiency borne of years of command, Trent snapped out orders to Mr. Henry to sound the alarm, telling Lathrop to help bundle the dazed women into the old coach that had been waiting to convey the wedding party back to Windhaven.
As the vehicle lurched through the darkness, Chloe was thrown up against Trent. She clutched at his hand and he sought to offer her some words of assurance, but none came. He had a very bad feeling about this.
His worst fears were realized as the coach turned up the drive. The horses plunged back in such terror that the coachman could no longer drive them on. Flinging open the coach door, Trent dismounted to face the hellish scene taking place before his eyes.
The west wing was already a blazing inferno, the fire leaping toward the sky. And the the merciless wind only served to fan the flames, driving them toward the main body of the house, as though Windhaven were nothing but so much dried tinder.
Momentarily stunned, Trent felt Chloe tugging at his hands.
"Oh, Will, please," she begged, her breath catching in a sob. "Make it stop. Please do something."
Will did not know what was harder to bear, her complete fa
ith in him or his own sense of helplessness. He would have marched into hell itself for her. But he knew nothing he could do this night was going to save Chloe's beloved Windhaven.
Chloe had always believed that no matter how great the disaster, things would always look brighter in the morning. But as she surveyed the ruin of what had been her home, she wished the night had never ended, the darkness forever veiling Windhaven's scarred walls.
The sun would choose today of all days to poke through the clouds, bringing light but no warmth, a most merciless light that revealed the west wing to be nothing but a pile of charred beams. The main portion of the house remained standing, but the stonework was scorched black, the stench of smoke yet strong in the air.
Chloe felt nearly sick from the cloying smell, her eyes rubbed sore from a night she would never forget yet never clearly remember. The ordeal had already become a blur of images like a bad dream: the demonic red-gold light of the fire, Windhaven's timbers crackling and groaning as though the house itself were crying out in pain. Will's desperate, determined face as he sought to round up all hands and organize a bucket brigade. But it had all been hopeless against such raging conflagration, as hopeless as expecting a single tear to put out the fires of hell.
Only the storm breaking at last had prevented Windhaven's burning entirely to the ground. With a wild crack of thunder, an icy rain had cascaded down in torrents. But Chloe had been unable to greet the deluge with a cry of joy. She had stood numbly, rainwater streaming down her face, watching the flames expire in an angry hiss, like some fiery monster in its death throes. But the monster had already done its work.
Chloe vaguely recollected Will's strong hands on her shoulders, forcing her to come away. Everyone had returned to the vicarage to get warm and dry, to await the coming of first light to see how bad the damage had been.
No one had been able to sleep, but Chloe had pretended to do so, not wanting to talk to anyone. She felt as though some bright part of her had been reduced to ashes along with Windhaven, that part of her that had always found reason to hope.
She knew Will's marriage to Emma had been but temporarily disrupted. No doubt the ceremony would be completed in the morning, and then Will would be gone.
When the others had trudged out to view the wreckage, she had joined them out of sheer listlessness, having no real desire to go poking about in the debris, seeing what was to be salvaged of a lifetime of memories.
Her sisters kept stealing glances at her, waiting as though expecting some of her customary good cheer and optimism. Chloe had none left to offer them.
Not that they needed her comfort, in any case. She had already heard them whispering, making plans. The vicarage was far too small. They would have to beg temporary shelter at the squire's manor until arrangements were made to travel to London, to stay with Cousin Harriet. Lathrop had offered to escort them.
That was all well and good for the others. Windhaven had never meant as much to Lucy, Agnes, or even Emma. Chloe's sisters, even Agnes, seemed to understand that, going out of their way to be kind to her.
But Chloe shrank from their sympathy, stealing away at first opportunity to what remained of the blighted garden. Sinking down on the old garden bench, she only wanted to be left alone. Her lips set into a taut line when she saw Agnes approaching.
Her self-assured little sister looked strangely younger this morning. Perhaps owing to the hair tumbled about her pinched face, or because she was wearing a cloak borrowed from Mr. Henry's mama, three sizes too big. With unaccustomed diffidence, she sidled up to Chloe.
"It is not all so bad, really, Chloe," she said in a gruff little voice. "I have been up to our room. The fire went out before it did much damage there, although of course everything reeks of smoke. But look what I fetched down for you."
Extending her hand, she displayed a sooty wooden object. It took Chloe a moment to recognize her small carving of Saint Nicholas. She only stared at it, making no move to take it.
Agnes drew forth a handkerchief and proceeded to ruin the fine linen in an anxious effort to wipe the figure clean, "I knew you would want to take this to London with you."
"Whatever for?" Chloe asked dully.
"Well, because it's your Saint Nicholas. Your good-luck piece."
"It's only a carved block of old wood," Chloe said.
Hadn't Agnes told Chloe exactly the same thing many times? Then why did the girl look so crest-fallen, scrubbing harder than ever at the old figurine?
"There. 'Tis almost as good as new."
When Chloe still did not reach for it, Agnes's smile faded. She fretted her lip, looking as though she wanted to say something more but didn't know quite what. After an awkward pause, she laid the statue beside Chloe on the bench and walked away with a sad backward glance.
Chloe felt like the greatest wretch imaginable. Agnes must be hurting, too. The library had been gutted, every last one of her precious books gone. Chloe might at least have thanked her little sister, but even that simple gesture seemed to demand too much of her.
Her gaze drifted down to the object on the bench. The statue's wooden eyes, which she had once fancied so wise, stared blankly back at her. An unreasoning surge of anger coursed through her. Chloe snatched up the figure and dashed it to the ground.
Then she buried her face in her hands, wishing more than anything that she could cry. But last night's fire seemed to have consumed every last drop of water, even her own tears.
She did not look up when she heard the crunch of a footfall and sensed a presence looming over her. It had to be Emma hovering again, or perhaps Agnes had come back.
She choked out, "Cannot all of you just leave me be?"
"I am afraid I cannot do that, Chloe." Will's quiet voice penetrated the haze of her misery.
Chloe lowered her hands to peer up at him, his face lined with exhaustion, a strand of dark hair tumbling across his brow. She glimpsed the remains of his once handsome uniform beneath his open cloak, the fabric rumpled, the buttons tarnished, one sleeve slightly scorched. He looked very much like a weary commander returning from battle, one that he had lost.
"I have had no chance to speak with you alone," he said. "And I very much need to do so. May I sit down?"
Chloe merely shrugged. He took this for her consent, lowering himself stiffly to her side.
"I cannot imagine what there is to say," Chloe said bitterly. "Though I suppose I do owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"For burning your house down. You did warn me about the dangers of having those decorations in the parlor."
"The fire had nothing to do with your decorations. It started in the west wing. Your groom thought he heard a prowler. When he went to investigate, he dropped his lantern. But this has not all been a total disaster, Chloe. Luckily, the wind was blowing away from the stables, and the main part of the house—"
"Is a total ruin," Chloe interrupted with a touch of asperity. "There is no need for any of this heartening pretense, Captain. This disaster merely saved you the problem of tearing Windhaven down yourself. I know you never wanted to live here with Emma."
"I admit it freely. I never did. Not with Emma, in any case," he added.
But Chloe rushed on, not heeding him. "Now you can do as you always wanted with a clear conscience, find Emma some smart new house near town."
"Where Emma lives is none of my concern. That is going to be Mr. Henry's problem."
When Chloe stared at him, he said, "Didn't you understand what took place in church yesterday? My marriage to Emma has been postponed—forever. You were right all along. Mr. Henry and Emma are still in love. The pair of them could have saved us all a deal of trouble by being a little less noble. Emma should have made her feelings known to me at the start."
Astonished and confused, Chloe seemed unable to take in the full import of his words. She focused on his criticism of Emma. "My sister is a perfect lady, Captain Trent. She has always been wonderfully self-contained, never one to make a
vulgar parade of her emotions."
"If that is what being a lady means, I wish Mr. Henry joy of her. For my part, I much prefer the lass who wears her heart on her sleeve."
He covered one of Chloe's hands with his own. "My dear, I know this is a poor time to speak of such a thing the day after the dissolution of my engagement to your sister, but ..." Will paused, swallowing hard. Chloe had never known himt to be so shy about speaking his mind, but she felt far too drained to offer him any encouragement.
"I wonder," he said, "if you could find it in your heart to consider—just consider, mind you—the prospect of one day marrying me."
Chloe gasped. Could he possibly have thought of anything more cruel to say to her? She yanked her hand away, crying savagely. "Oh, don't!"
"Then you find the thought that repugnant. I had hoped…"
His voice trailed away as Chloe shot to her feet, blazing with hurt and anger. "Go back to your blasted ship, Will. Your duty is finished here. You have seen Emma restored to Mr. Henry, and Lucy is also as good as spoken for. Agnes and I will be taken care of somehow. You need feel under no further obligation to my father's memory."
Flushing, Trent also leapt up. "This has nothing to do with your father. I did not propose to you out of duty. Damn it, Chloe. I love you."
"No one falls in love in only one week!"
Trent flinched to hear his own heedless words flung back at him. "I was wrong about that, too, and I have already told Charles and Lucy so. They may leave at once for Gretna Green if they've a mind to—with my blessing.
"Perhaps it is asking too much for you to forget what a fool I have been," he said. "I only beg you to believe one thing. I do love you, Chloe."
But as he gazed deep into her lackluster blue eyes, Trent was tormented by the fear that Chloe was never going to believe in anything again. No more fairies, no more ghosts, no more Christmas magic, and certainly no more faith in the words of a certain clumsy sea captain. The world suddenly seemed a much bleaker and colder place than it had ever been.
Her delicate features set in hard lines, she spun away from him. "Shouldn't you be preparing to return to your ship? I would not want to be the one responsible for you neglecting your duties."
Christmas Belles Page 17
