by Patty Deans
"Spunk with no muscles to back her," James agreed. "I hope Julia filled out a little, and looks more like a girl than a boy. She's not a beauty like her aunt who raised her from infancy." Frowning, he sipped his wine, and added, "Must have taken after her father."
"She had large mischievous eyes, and too much hair. Didn't she damn near drown before you forced her to learn to swim?" Glen teasingly reminded.
James shook his head. "Julia thought I wanted to drown her. I caught her fishing with the stable lads, and before I left, I taught her to swim. Indeed, she would have drowned before my father ever noticed she couldn't swim. Her aunt had eyes for nothing but her new baby and thoughts of being a countess."
"A beautiful countess! And I differ with you. She gave your father another boy, but she had eyes only for her husband." Glen lifted his glass, and took a long sip.
"That's as it should have been," James agreed unpleasantly. "A widowed woman raising her small niece needed a man to take care of them. She must have sought out my father." He wished his bitterness were not so evident in his voice. Yet to be honest, Papa had grieved many years before he met another woman to take his mother's place.
"'Tis true your father and brother took more interest in translating the classics than in dancing with women. God rest their souls. But by all accounts I've heard he and his second wife loved each other." Before James could comment, Glen added, "You'll prove to be a great earl, James. You were always more suited for it than your father or older brother. Everyone thought you more like your grandfather. Under his stewardship, Hawkthorn flourished."
Pleased by his friend's words, James took a long breath, and sipped his wine. "Because the Old Earl believed tenants prospered under good management. Something neither my brother nor Papa found as interesting as translating Greek and Latin into English."
"Don't be bitter, James. Your father and brother tried, but it never held their interest. Their translations contributed much to English education."
James laughed. "You always see the best in everyone. Come home with me, Glen. I might need bracing to face Aunt Shredda."
"Come now...Lady Loretta is much more amusing than those Frenchies. And you could not expect me to help you put the estate in order." Glen laughed. "We envisioned ourselves heroes, and I have a stiff leg to prove it...not that I'm not grateful you saved my life."
"Need we relive war stories? I'm quite sure my head would not rest on my shoulders today if it hadn't been for you."
"I'm glad you're not going back," Glen savored a swallow of wine. "War teaches a lot of lessons that Oxford omitted."
Their food arrived then. They were quiet as memories of the war stirred thoughts better forgotten.
Glen sighed, and broke the silence. "Do you think your new title will change you?"
Surprised by the question, James raised his chin. Then with a chuckle he said, "Not as much as the battlefield. Aunt Shredda once told me the more lofty the title, the worse the rogue."
"To a spirited old gal." Glen reached out and clinked James' glass with his own. "I suppose you're right. She'll be telling you what to do."
"Maybe not. She knows I never heed her advice. But I'm certain she will stay through Christmas. She's always been part of the holidays at Hawkthorn. She claims Christmas lacks warmth without family." Suddenly James felt it necessary to grab his old friend's arm, and plead, "Promise you will come down to share Christmas with me and the children."
"I will." Glen let out a sigh of relief. I dreaded spending it with my cousin. He thinks of all sorts of outrageous things to do. And a limping hero in tow will not enhance his polished image with his latest mistress. She's a beauty, a well-known opera singer, Kathryn Smythe. You might have heard of her even in France."
James shook his head. "That being the case, you're doubly welcome."
Glen added, "I'll be at Hawkthorn by the fifteenth of December. I'm looking forward to meeting your wards. Children don't expect much of one."
"Good, you can help choose the Yule log. I remember even Papa put down his books to join in the hunt for the finest ash log to grace our fireplace."
Glen sat back with a satisfied smile. "Done, then."
Old memories frolicked through James' head and heart; the feel of his mother's arms around him reading about Father Christmas. He turned ten the year she died, and had to read the Christmas stories to himself. The seasonal aromas of gingerbread, oranges and plum pudding filled the halls of Hawkthorn. Not to mention the aroma of goose baking from below stairs. The scent of pine branches trailing down the banisters, and visions of dancing at the Old Earl's Christmas balls. Finally, the wonderful Yule log in the grand fireplace.
As they left White's, James waved, trying not to notice Glen's limp as he returned to his horse. The time had arrived to put the war behind him, and to become the earl Papa had expected and his grandfather would have admired.
The next day James sent Casper ahead with the newly purchased carriage and a hired driver. James spent two hours choosing toys for Robert and Julia before leaving London.
Once astride his horse, James felt a yearning to be back at Hawkthorn; he missed the brook that ran through the fields, the winds that whistled through the trees, the birds that filled the air with their songs. One could view the blue sky unsullied by cannon smoke or listen to the soft bleat of a lamb instead of the loud roar of cannon. War reeked of death, not the scent of flowers.
As the sun began to set, the countryside hid in shadow, and James found himself anxious to return to Hawkthorn. Spurring his horse to a gallop, impatience filled him to catch up to his carriage that held his clothes and toys for the children. Alongside the carriage, he realized both the hired driver and his man Casper looked tired. Even the matched pair of black horses were dark with sweat and their heads hung when they pulled the carriage into the inn's stable. The only thing that perked the ears of the horses and improved their disposition while being rubbed dry, were the sugar lumps tucked in the stable boys' pockets.
Poor Casper kept removing his hat and wiping his brow, a habit he had when tired and weary. The hired driver leaned against the inn's door. It was obvious Casper and the hired driver, along with the horses, needed food and rest. Yet, imagined pleasures of his home estate fed and refreshed James. After leaving instructions, he continued to ride on alone.
In less than three hours it would be midnight, and he would be home. The night had turned cold and crisp, but he planned to sneak into his bedroom just as he did as a boy. Morning would be time enough to greet everyone. He berated himself for his eagerness, though it had been years since he'd been home. Oxford, London and a redheaded, black-eyed beauty enticed him in his youth. He believed himself in love, but the conniving woman jilted him for a duke old enough to be her father. Good riddance to the woman was all the sympathy he had received from Papa, or any of his friends.
Disillusioned, he had taken the funds his mother had left him, and bought his colors the next day. He expected his father would never speak to him again. Instead, Papa accepted the decision rather philosophically.
He hadn't known then that war stayed with a man in his dreams even after he left it. War was more than Papa believed. It was educating; very bloody; and more real than books. More deadly than parliament visualized. War bared men's souls; exposed bravery and fear in the strongest of men and bestowed honor on many. But the glory of war lived only in the words of poets, never on the battlefield. Glory could not be felt, sensed or realized until the last shot was fired. Only then could the mind perceive its meaning.
James' mood lightened. In the frosty moonlight, he could see the Hawkthorn Manor. The front lawn seemed more expansive. The trees had grown taller and the tracery of their limbs more tangled. The stone lions resting on both sides of the gate seemed to have shrunk. In shape contrast to the dark bricks, the white window trimming glowed in the moonlight. Climbing off his horse, he crept past the manor leading his horse to the stable.
A stable boy, sleeping in a pile of straw
awoke, "You be the new earl?"
Obviously Stewart Jones had sent a message ahead. "Yes. And who are you?"
"Bates. I'll take yer horse, my lord."
"I've ridden him long and hard today. Can you take care of him?"
"I'll rub him down and feed him, my lord."
"That's a good lad."
With a smile, James quietly meandered to the rear of the manor, leaned against the old oak tree and looked up at the narrow balcony with the French doors. Should he climb the trellis as he used to many years ago? He sighed deeply. Home. So good to be home.
He ambled over to the trellis and tugged at the vines. They seemed as strong as he remembered. At last he grabbed hold of the trellis in the dim moonlight. Life would be exciting with Robert. Teaching the boy to climb, ride the fastest horses and become an incredible whip. He smiled thinking of Julia tagging along, trying her best to be better than boys, perhaps Aunt Shredda could help him turn her into a lady. What a shame such a spirited little girl couldn't also be a beauty.
The memory of laughter and happiness that reigned in the old manor flooded over him. So different from war where one could hear the belch of cannon fire and the piercing cries of fear and pain by children, women and men. Here he would hear the laughter of children and observe them growing into adults.
He heaved himself up on the trellis, his heart racing with the thrill of anticipation. Christmas will be perfect this year.
***
Julia could not sleep. Her promise to Robert roiled over and over in her thoughts. The Hawkthorn Dragon made her jittery. How would she ever attract the Earl of Hawkthorn enough to propose marriage?
At the sudden rustling sound outside, under the balcony, Julia leaped from her bed, tiptoed to the curtains and hid. Slowly she peeked around the heavy fabric, breathless, unable to speak as a mist slowly seeped into the room. Half-frightened, half curious, she watched it twirl and descend. She held tighter and tighter to the curtains trying to disappear among the folds, yet she could not resist another glimpse.
The mist twisted upward and outward until she could clearly see an old man whose feet dangled above the floor. He swooped down to whisper in her ear, "Wait!"
CHAPTER 3
Julia pushed against the wall, the old man's toes touched the floor, and his whisper grew raspier. "James will climb the vine, and come right in using the very knife I gave him to disengage the lock. Caught him at it many times when he was a youth."
"Who," her voice quivered, "are you?"
His eyes twinkled in the moonlight. "The Old Earl."
Her heart pounded like thunder. Is this what Robert hears? Is the Old Earl more than an imaginary playmate? Is there a ghostly spirit haunting the manor dressed like the portrait in the gallery? She clung to the curtains. "Do you speak to Robert?" Even though she tried, she could not control the quake in her voice.
"Yes, we are friends." He came closer and frowned. "Listen to me! Hide behind that curtain. James is tired. He'll fall asleep before he rolls over."
"I can't be caught dressed like this." She clutched the thin muslin nightgown close to her throat and pushed back harder against the wall. "I must change, my lord."
"Oh, no. Perfect attire." He stepped back and moved his head from side to side studying her from every angle. "Just the right modesty. Take a risk, my dear. Ah, no quicker way to keep your promise to Robert." He put his finger to his lips. "Hush...hush..."
The mist drifted away. Julia pinched herself. Was it possible to see and hear ghosts? Can Hawkthorn really be haunted by the Old Earl? Then she clearly heard the crunch of dry vines as someone clambered up the trellis. Camouflaged by the heavy curtain, she held her breath, and waited, and waited. Her body trembled, and her heart pounded. She waited, listening to every twig that snapped.
***
James climbed the ivy entwined trellis, swung over onto the narrow balcony of his old room, took out his knife, opened the French doors and stepped through, not quite closing the door. Rather than the sober master of Hawkthorn, he felt more like the long ago young schoolboy, who had imbibed too much ale, and was skulking in late.
The thin sliver of moonlight lit the dark shadows while he removed his clothes. He stretched his muscles, felt the cool breeze caress his body while he ran his fingers through his hair. Clouds had covered the moon, and in the darkness, he slipped into the bed, and breathed in the sweet scent of fresh sheets. Home, where he belonged for the rest of his life. He closed his eyes to bring back pleasant memories of long ago. Life here would be happiness and contentment with days of fishing and swimming with the children.
James rolled over.
***
A soft snore filled the air. James had fallen asleep.
Julia let the curtain fall back. With a long breathless sigh, she clearly remembered when he snatched a fishing pole from her hands, pulled her out of the brook, and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He embarrassed her in front of her only friends.
She scrunched behind the curtain to wait. Her thoughts churning back to the last time she had seen James and thought him a fierce dragon. He actually didn't look all that much like the sketch of the Hawkthorn man that turned into a fire breather. James was as handsome as a prince with muscles that rippled in the moonlight, and when a lock of his black hair fell over his forehead, his hair seemed as untamed as Robert's curly locks. When Robert becomes a man, will he look like James?
Doubts filtered through her thoughts. What if he awakened and threw her out of the room. He could escape before Aunt Shredda arrived. She shook her head and stiffened her spine. He did not know she hid in the room. A sleeping dragon could not be dangerous. She wrung her hands, bit her lip and leaned back against the wall where the curtains hid her, and soundlessly slid to the floor. Then slowly she mentally relaxed every muscle, it would be a long night filled with foreboding, but she could handle it. "I can wait in the darkness," she thought, "until I hear Aunt Shredda's footsteps at dawn. I can slip into bed with James. Compromised...I will keep my promise to Robert. I can wait!"
"It is time," the raspy voice whispered in her ear waking her.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and watched the mist twirl. "Time?"
"To climb in bed with James."
"Now?" Her pulse raced. "It is still dark."
"It is time." The whirling mist scattered into the darkness.
Her heart beat like a drum, and she shuddered with fear as she unwound herself from the heavy curtain. How could she have fallen asleep? A cool breeze swept across her skin sending a shiver up her spine, she crept to the bed. His eyelid's were closed, his smiling face relaxed, and he reminded her of Robert. Slowly she sank down in the feather mattress, and laid her head on a corner of the pillow. She tried not to move until certain James had not awakened.
His breath on the back of her neck sent flutters creeping down her back. She drew her legs under the cover, and the warmth of his body triggered a strong desire to move closer. Never before had she been so in need of warmth, and some mysterious need she did not understand. Yet she didn't dare relax, move closer to the heat nor move away from the edge of the bed until she could hear Aunt Shredda's heels tapping in the hall.
While sunlight inched through the glass and wandered across the room, her heartbeat raced. She prayed James would not awake and discover her before Aunt Shredda arrived.
As her eyelids fluttered closed, she tried not to panic or leap from the bed. After a deep breath, she opened her eyes and concentrated on the doorknob. To keep her promise she had to remain in this bed.
At a sudden crash outside the door, her body lurched. Panic seized her stomach. She had to run, to disappear. Carefully she eased one leg to the edge of the mattress ready to slip from the bed. Suddenly, James rolled closer clamping his leg down on the tail of her nightgown. Frightened, she lay motionless. Caught like a rat in a trap!
Through the door she could hear Aunt Shredda sending her maid, Louise, to the kitchen. James moved again, bu
t Julia's nightgown remained gripped tightly to the bed. His breath seemed warmer on her neck.
The minute she heard the doorknob rattle and the hinges squeak, she threw the blankets over her head knocking her bed cap off. She closed her eyes and waited for Aunt Shredda to enter.
***
Groggily James raised his head from the pillow, and ran his fingers through his hair. His eyelids, still heavy with sleep, refused to open. No one knew he was home. He flopped his head down, rolled over and touched something soft.
A sweet moan drifted to his ears. Through squinty eyes, he saw a mop of blond hair on the pillow beside him. A small, bare foot peaked out of the covers on the other side of his bed as kicking legs tried to free themselves of their restraint.
The door opened.
The wiggling form beside him disappeared under the covers, and went absolutely still.
He sat up, and tried to focus on his aunt standing at the door.
"Quiet," Aunt Shredda whispered.
Glancing down, James grinned at the vague shape huddled under the covers next to him. Only a bit of hair now showed. "Who's in my bed?" he asked the lump politely.
"Your bed? What are you doing in my bed?" a soft muffled voice asked from beneath the covers.
"I asked the question first," he whispered to the quaking form responsible for shaking the covers.
Aunt Shredda's laughter filled the room.
A maid knocked on the door.
Puzzled, James looked at his aunt -- still a beautiful woman, perhaps slightly above average in height, but quite fashionable. How does she plan to control me? I'm too old to be bribed with sweets, and too young to believe flattery.
"Come back in twenty minutes, Louise." Aunt Shredda called to the maid.
Instinctively James suspected the little pest under the blankets was Julia. "Get out of my bed!" he ordered in a half-amused but authoritative voice.
