With that, she stepped back, draped an arm around the cherub, and surveyed her handiwork on Rhys’s coat. She gave a satisfied nod.
In that brief moment, Rhys was enchanted to his toes.
And suddenly angry. ‘‘Did you inherit nothing at all?’’ he heard himself demanding harshly. ‘‘I cannot believe your father left you with nothing . . .’’
This time her smile was slow and sad before it turned blithe. ‘‘Of course I did.’’ She patted the stone shoulder. ‘‘I inherited all the remaining artwork at Hollymore. And that is something worth more than all the gold in the world to me. Now, I really must see how O’Reilly is getting on with our dinner.’’
She hurried off. Rhys followed. As he went, he noticed something he had not before: There was mistletoe hanging from a good many of the scrubby trees that lined the scrubbier lawn. Sighing, he continued on his way. He caught up with Elizabeth in the Great Hall where she appeared to be supervising the maneuvering of a better part of the local woods. Andrew, the young footman, and the elderly butler were wrestling with a massive, slightly feral-looking log. They were trying to cram it into the fireplace, which, despite its own mammoth proportions, seemed to be resisting the intrusion.
Rhys studied an arm-sized twig that jutted from the log and was sticking out from under his nephew’s elbow. ‘‘What,’’ he demanded, ‘‘is that?’’
‘‘It’s the blockna . . . blockna . . .’’ Andrew replied, panting somewhat as he hefted his end in a different direction, trying to make it fit. ‘‘One more time, if you please, Kelly.’’
‘‘Bloc na Nollag,’’ the footman grunted from his side.
‘‘The Yule log,’’ Elizabeth explained as she, too, joined in the fray. ‘‘Now, Andrew, if you lift there, and Kelly, you turn it there . . . O’Reilly, at the risk of having you snarl and snort at me, might I suggest that this is not the best activity for your rheumatism. Perhaps you ought to relinquish . . .’’ The butler did, just as Rhys stepped forward to help. The behemoth of a log landed squarely on his booted toes.
Andrew would later report that the responding long, lurid, and decidedly inventive curse had been heard all the way to Wexford town. By the time he had hobbled up the stairs to see how many of his ten toes were intact, the unfortunate bloc na Nollag had been relegated to the woodshed. When Rhys hobbled back down several hours later on ten unbroken but complaining toes, it had been replaced by a much smaller, much less interesting specimen. From the po-faced looks the staff gave him as they served the meal, he surmised that it all had been a sad disappointment, the responsibility for which landed squarely on his uniformed shoulders. Elizabeth, at least, inquired after his feet. She then cast a mournful look at the Hall hearth as they passed on the way to the drawing room. It was almost a relief to retire.
Once settled in bed, Rhys stared grimly into his own fire. Thirty-six hours. In thirty-six hours, he and Andrew would be safely on their way back to Wales. By the time Rhys returned, demolition should have begun. He wouldn’t have to set foot in Hollymore again. He wouldn’t have to suffer the recriminating glares of the scowling O’Reilly, or endure Andrew’s silent but potent opinions on the matter of his empty rib cage. He had a heart, damn it. It simply refused to bleed on demand. Not even for someone like Elizabeth.
Thirty-six hours, and he would never have to face Elizabeth again. Only, he found himself thinking as his eyes drifted shut, a man could do far worse than face Elizabeth closely and often. For a fleeting second, Rhys wished that once, just once, she would look at him with the same dreamy eyes she had for her sad if splendid ruin of a house . . .
His own eyes sprang wide as the door to his bedchamber creaked open. Andrew stood in the doorway, candle in hand, eyes wide. ‘‘I think,’’ the young man announced without preamble, ‘‘that you’d better come with me now.’’
‘‘Andrew—’’
‘‘Please, Uncle Rhys. It’s important.’’
Rhys couldn’t have refused the plea if he’d tried. Sighing, wincing, he climbed from the bed and donned his dressing gown. He followed Andrew into the hall. There were candles lit everywhere in the house, and they were being allowed to burn all night. Another Irish tradition, Elizabeth had explained. A fire hazard, Rhys thought, but certainly an attractive one. With their light, Andrew didn’t need the single taper he carried. Not, Rhys realized, until he entered an empty bedchamber down the hall.
It was one they’d seen briefly during their early tour of the floor. Apparently Andrew had been back. The wardrobe door stood wide, and Rhys watched as his nephew disappeared through it. ‘‘Well, come along!’’ came impatiently from the depths. Rhys poked his head in. Where Andrew should have been was another door—or rather several panels standing open. A scuffling echoed from the space behind it.
‘‘Andrew,’’ Rhys growled, ‘‘come out of there now. You cannot know if it is safe—’’ He then grunted as a heavy, sheet-shrouded object came sliding out to thud into his shin.
‘‘Take that into the room,’’ Andrew commanded, ‘‘and come back. There are three more.’’
Several minutes later, uncle and nephew stood staring at the four paintings they had uncovered and propped against the bed. Rhys had collected more candles from the hallway. He leaned in close to the first painting and couldn’t stop himself from letting out a low whistle.
‘‘Is it . . . ?’’ Andrew whispered.
The face of a not especially pretty young girl looked back at them sourly. Yes, Rhys thought, an ugly child, but a very distinctive style. ‘‘Gainsborough,’’ he announced.
‘‘I thought so. And that one.’’
There was little question that the long-faced Madonna was El Greco. The dark supper scene could only be Rembrandt. But it was the final piece, the delicate lady in silk and ermine with the unmistakable emblems of English royalty surrounding her, that had Rhys’s jaw going slack. It could have been Elizabeth, but he suspected that he was looking at the ill-fated Catherine Howard, fifth wife of Henry VIII.
‘‘Holbein,’’ he murmured.
‘‘Valuable?’’ Andrew whispered.
‘‘Extremely.’’
It appeared Christmas had arrived early at Hollymore.
Allelujah, Rhys heard in his head. In chorus. Elizabeth Fitzhollis was about to become a very wealthy young woman. She would be able to give Timothy every penny he’d paid for her home—and more. Allelujah.
Then it occurred to him that perhaps this gift of some quirky magi was not something to celebrate.
Chapter Six
On Christmas morning, Elizabeth gave herself the ultimate luxury and stayed in bed past seven. Then, after a quick and chilly wash, she donned the one wool dress, the soft green, she possessed that had neither stains nor mended spots, and headed downstairs.
‘‘Happy Christmas, Miss Lizzie!’’ Meggie chirped as she hurried by with an armful of holly.
‘‘Happy Christmas.’’ Lizzie lifted a brow at the maid’s departing back. Such a hurry.
The Lily Room was empty, but breakfast was laid out on the sideboard. There was chocolate this morning, a rare treat, and Lizzie stood for a moment, steaming cup held to her face so she could breathe in the rich aroma. She noted with a smile that someone had replaced the mistletoe. It might have been a silly gesture, but it was a charming one.
Now, if only a knight would come along, tall and strong, armor shining, for one sweet kiss . . .
‘‘Happy Christmas, miss.’’ Kelly poked his face into the room. ‘‘Is there anything I can fetch for you?’’
‘‘No, Kelly. Thank you. Happy . . .’’ But he had already gone. ‘‘Well,’’ Lizzie said to the empty doorway. There would be no knight, shining or otherwise, on this day, she thought, and resolutely pushed the image of aquamarine eyes and a poet’s mouth in a warrior’s face from her mind. She would settle for old friends.
She took her time with breakfast, doing her best to savor what would be her last Christmas in her beloved home. Somehow,
though, it didn’t seem to be working. It was, she decided, being alone that was dampening her festive mood.
She nearly sighed with relief when Andrew bounded in a half hour later. Seeing the mistletoe, he grinned and blew her a saucy kiss from the doorway. He had a sprig of holly tucked into his lapel and a winning smile on his handsome face. He stopped at her side and bowed with a charming flourish. ‘‘Good morning, Elizabeth, and a very happy Christmas to you!’’
Feeling much better, Lizzie returned the greeting. Then, ‘‘Will your uncle be joining us soon?’’
Andrew rolled his eyes. ‘‘Oh, Uncle Lawrence. I doubt we’ll see him for some hours yet.’’
‘‘But it’s Christmas morning.’’
‘‘So it is. And a glorious one at that. There is frost on the ground and a glimmer in the air.’’
Yes, Lizzie had stood at the window, drinking in the sight. But the glimmer had dimmed. ‘‘Captain Jones will not be joining us for church, then?’’
‘‘Unlikely.’’ Andrew tucked cheerfully into his sliced ham. ‘‘I, however, am very much looking forward to it. When do we leave? And can we walk?’’
She always had, but had assumed they would take the dog cart. ‘‘If you don’t mind a mile in the cold.’’
‘‘Mind? On the contrary.’’ Both glanced up as O’Reilly stomped into view. ‘‘Ah. Good morning, O’Reilly, and a happy Christmas.’’
‘‘Happy Christmas, Miss Lizzie. And to you, young sir.’’ The butler appeared to wink. But no, Lizzie thought. He never winked. She worried that the poor man might be developing a palsy. No one knew precisely how old O’Reilly was, but he certainly would not see sixty again. ‘‘We’ll be off to Mass, miss. Is there anything you’ll be needing afore we go?’’
‘‘No, thank you, O’Reilly. Happy . . .’’ And he was gone, too. ‘‘Hmm. Curious.’’
Andrew shoved a last forkful of eggs into his mouth, then jumped to his feet. ‘‘Shall we be off, then?’’
Bemused, Lizzie rose. ‘‘Certainly. But—’’
‘‘Splendid. Now you go fetch yourself something warm to wear. It’s frightfully chilly out there. I felt it right to my toes.’’
Lizzie couldn’t imagine what he had been doing outside, but didn’t have the chance to ask. Andrew was hustling her out of the room and into the hall. A few minutes later, booted and cloaked, Lizzie joined him on the front steps. A distinct crunching sound caught her attention. Andrew didn’t seem to notice.
‘‘What is that noise?’’ she asked. It seemed to be coming from behind the house. But when she started toward it, Andrew grasped her hand and tucked her arm through his. ‘‘Oh, Kelly puttering about before they go,’’ he commented cheerily. ‘‘Come along now, before I freeze on the spot.’’
He whistled a tune as they headed down the drive. Lizzie recognized it. ‘‘That is the ‘Wexford Carol.’ ’’
‘‘Indeed. Lovely piece. Now, do tell me, will I be allowed to sing very loudly in church this morning . . . ?’’
He did, much to the disapproval of Aunt Gregoria and to the vast delight of most of the congregation. Lizzie was grateful for his genial presence by her side as she said her fervent prayers. And when she, along with the rest, chose a wisp of straw from the manger—a symbol of blessing and luck that she so needed—Andrew tucked one of his own into his pocket.
When the service was over, he did a charming social circuit, pumping the hand of a bemused but delighted Reverend Clark, chatting with Josiah Lambe, tickling the Kinahans’ baby under the chin, and sending pretty young Ann Dermott into a blush with his cheeky grin.
He even offered his hand and merry greetings to Percy, who was sporting a truly ridiculous combination of purple-striped waistcoat and green coat. ‘‘And may I say that is a very fetching hat, ma’am,’’ he complimented Gregoria on her storm-gray bonnet. Whether because the milliner had sewn it on too tightly to remove or in honor of the day, the thing sported a rather prickly looking collection of black feathers.
To Lizzie’s astonishment, Gregoria actually grunted a thank-you. Followed, not surprisingly by, ‘‘I trust you have managed to obtain something potable to serve with dinner, girl.’’
It was only more Burgundy, actually, but Lizzie smiled and replied, ‘‘Of course, Aunt.’’ In truth, she hadn’t been expecting her relatives for dinner, but she probably should have. They always came when they were least wanted. O’Reilly could be counted upon to prepare more food than was necessary on Christmas. With luck, Percy would leave some for the rest of the party. ‘‘We shall see you this afternoon, then?’’
‘‘Not a bit of it.’’ Percy thrust his familiar snuff up his nose and sneezed onto Andrew’s coat. ‘‘Coming now, of course.’’
‘‘Of course.’’ Lizzie swallowed her sigh. ‘‘Well, shall we go?’’
Gregoria’s beady eyes slewed around. ‘‘Where is the carriage?’’
‘‘We walked, Aunt.’’
‘‘Walked?’’ was the disbelieving response. ‘‘Good heavens, why? Has that good-for-nothing groom of yours driven the cart into the ground?’’
‘‘We walked,’’ Andrew cut in with his winning smile, ‘‘for the sheer pleasure of it. I would be honored if you would take my arm, madam, or I will certainly run and have your carriage readied.’’
Lizzie could almost see the wheels turning behind her aunt’s eyes. To subject her ancient carriage to the winter roads . . . ‘‘Give me your arm, young man,’’ the lady said imperiously. ‘‘We shall walk.’’
It was not a particularly merry group who arrived at Hollymore an hour later. Gregoria had carped about the state of the roads, the wear on her shoes, and the paucity of the fires at Hollymore. Percy, for his part, had snorted and sneezed, and spent the entire walk trying to slip an arm around Lizzie and suggesting various dates for a spring wedding. Through it all, Andrew maintained his goodwill and charm. Lizzie wanted to cry.
Nuala greeted them just inside the door. She cheerfully accepted coats and cloaks, not so much as batting an eyelash when Gregoria snapped, ‘‘And don’t you be going through my pockets! I know precisely what is there.’’
‘‘Has Captain Jones come down?’’ Lizzie asked quietly.
Nuala nodded. ‘‘And up again. Now, Kelly’s got a fire going in the blue parlor, and there’s cider and eggnog ready. You just go have a nice sit, miss, ’til he’s ready.’’
‘‘He . . . Kelly?’’ Lizzie began, but Nuala was bustling off. ‘‘Well.’’
‘‘Marvelous. Eggnog!’’ Andrew was all but pushing Gregoria across the floor.
‘‘Yes. Eggnog,’’ Lizzie murmured. ‘‘Very nice. But we haven’t any brandy . . .’’
Percy got a grip on her arm just as Kelly appeared briefly in the facing hall door. Elizabeth knew she was mistaken, but the objects in his arms looked just like champagne bottles. That was quickly forgotten when Meggie scuttled through a far archway, a steaming basin in her hands and what appeared to be the medicine basket tucked precariously under her arm. She disappeared through the door leading to the back stairs.
‘‘Really must insist on speaking with you, Lizzie,’’ Percy insisted, casting a nervous glance toward the grand stairway. ‘‘Matters to be settled, y’know.’’
‘‘Oh, Percy!’’ Lizzie blew out an exasperated breath. ‘‘There is nothing to be settled. Now, if you would let go of me . . .’’
He didn’t, and tried to pull her right past the parlor door. Sighing, she tugged her arm free of his grasp and followed Andrew and Gregoria into the room. The holly decorations seemed to have multiplied overnight. There were bunches and garlands and little wreaths with bright candles in them on every surface. There was a large fire burning merrily in the grate and, as promised, mulled cider and eggnog on the side table.
‘‘Mistletoe!’’ Percy cried. Lizzie elbowed him smartly in his well-padded ribs.
‘‘Eggnog.’’ Gregoria plunked herself down in the seat closest to the fire. ‘‘And don�
��t be stingy, young man!’’ she commanded as Andrew hurried to fill a cup for her.
‘‘No later than April, Lizzie.’’ Percy rubbed his rib cage as he made his own quick way to the refreshments. Lizzie closed her eyes for a weary moment, then smiled as Andrew pressed a warm cup into her hands.
‘‘Have a little faith in this blessed day,’’ he murmured, then was off again to refill Gregoria’s waving cup.
A long quarter hour later, footsteps sounded outside the door. Kelly opened it with a flourish and stepped aside to admit Captain Jones. Lizzie’s heart, heeding no message her brain was sending, gave a cheery little thump at the sight of him. His coat shone richly in the light, his boots gleamed with new polish, and he’d combed his hair back so it gleamed like ebony above his brow. Where, Lizzie noticed, he had several angry-looking scratches.
His eyes met hers, warm blue, and he smiled. It was a smile like his nephew’s: swift and startling in its power. This time, Lizzie’s heart did a dizzying flip.
‘‘Happy Christmas,’’ he announced huskily. ‘‘I think, Elizabeth, that you should come with me. You need to hear the decisions I have come to regarding Hollymore.’’
He held out an arm, over which was draped her cloak. His hand, she noticed as she rose a bit shakily to her feet, bore more scratches. Confused, pulse skittering, Lizzie met him halfway and allowed him to help her into her cloak. ‘‘Where are we going?’’
‘‘Outside,’’ he replied. ‘‘This needs to be done outside.’’
‘‘Now, see here’’—Percy hauled himself to his feet—‘‘Can’t just be taking m’fiancée off like th—’’
‘‘I can and I will. Elizabeth?’’
She did not protest as he guided her out the door. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all as they left the house. Rhys kept his eyes on her as they reached the terrace steps. He wanted to see her expression every step of the way. His determination almost had him going tip over tail when he stepped on a loose slate. But it was worth it, worth the stumble and every painful scratch on his body, when she saw the maze.
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