by Mary Balogh
The earl assured Mr. Cobban that such firm parental moral training was bound to have its effect in making Charlie and the other young ones honest citizens. Charlie stared at him the while, his eyes narrowed speculatively.
“I ’ope so, sir,” Mr. Cobban said. “We might be poor, sir, and fallen on ’ard times, but we still ’as our pride, sir.”
Mrs. Cobban’s labor had already reached an advanced stage before the earl’s carriage had arrived. Less than two hours later, Annie Cobban came rushing from the rooming house to announce the birth of another son.
The Earl of Kevern sat in the corner of the carriage watching as the father, who half an hour before had been lamenting the imminent arrival of yet another mouth to feed, hugged his sleeping child to himself and wept with joy over the compounding of his problems. And he watched Charlie bounce on the seat again and explain to Violet that they had another brother. Violet looked up at him in silent wonder. Annie meanwhile was explaining in a fast, excited voice how she had helped the lady and watched the baby being born.
Neither Mr. Cobban nor the children were permitted to enter the house immediately. Apparently the lady was still busy, and Annie had to return to help her. But soon enough they were summoned inside and wasted no time in scrambling out of the carriage to view the new Christmas arrival.
“A son born on Chris’mus Day, sir,” Mr. Cobban said before he left. “Imagine that. My son an’ Jesus both.” He chuckled. “A man couldn’t arsk for a better gift, now could ’e?”
No. A man could not ask for a better gift.
He waited quietly until she came out a few minutes later, without her bonnet, her face flushed, one lock of hair come loose from her smooth chignon.
“My lord,” she said, “I did not know until Charlie came inside that you had waited. It must have seemed a dreadfully long time. But I am glad my basket is still here. I forgot it earlier. Will you give me a moment to take it inside?”
“Take mine too,” he said. “They forgot about the food in their excitement.”
She hesitated and looked up into his eyes. “Come inside too,” she said. “Just for a moment. Come and see the baby and wish Mrs. Cobban a happy Christmas.”
But he retreated farther into his corner.
“Please,” she said softly. “I think you need to see that a child has been safely born.”
Strange words. He would have liked to ponder them, but she had reached inside for her basket, and she was smiling at him—a smile full of the wonder of Christmas and the event in which she had just played an active role. And a smile that was directed right into his eyes, right into his heart.
“I shall carry the basket inside,” he said. Good Lord and good Lord. He could be playing billiards now at Buckland Abbey.
They had two rooms, poorly but neatly furnished. Clean. How could a family of six—now seven—live in two rooms? And with no steady income?
He nodded to a tired Mrs. Cobban from the doorway between the two rooms and gazed down at the red and wrinkled new bundle of humanity that Mr. Cobban brought proudly for his inspection. Ugly. Life. Human life safely launched on its journey into the unknown. Beautiful.
Annie was exclaiming over her shawl and thanking him profusely. And they were all unwrapping handkerchiefs, and Violet was running a finger over the embroidery on hers and telling Charlie, awe in her voice, that she had had three gifts for Christmas.
Charlie was loudly demanding to know when they could eat. He already had the ham out of the earl’s basket.
“Mr. Cobban,” Lord Kevern said as the man laid the sleeping baby beside his wife and came back out into the other room, “would you miss the wharves if you worked in a large house instead? Perhaps in the stables? Or even in the country, perhaps, in Dorsetshire? As a gardener? Would you care to work for me?”
Mr. Cobban merely stared.
“My lodgekeeper at Buckland Abbey is due for retirement in the spring,” the earl said. “Perhaps you would care for that job. There is a comfortable lodge in which to live. I am sure work could be found for Annie in the house there, or here if she would prefer to stay in London. And small jobs could be found for Charlie when he is not at school.”
“School?” Charlie said. “Cor. I always wanted to learn to read, guv.”
“Working in an ’ouse?” Annie’s hands were clasped to her bosom. “Oh, sir, I always dreamed of workin’ in an ’ouse an’ wearin’ one of them uniforms.”
“Then you shall do so,” the earl said. “Mr. Cobban?”
“Lord love you, sir,” the man said. “But me arm.” He held it up.
“I shall have it tended to by a physician,” the earl said. “In the meantime my head groom and my housekeeper must find you duties that can be done with one arm. If you want the employment, that is.”
“If I want the employment!” Mr. Cobban’s tone implied that there was no doubt about his wanting it.
Lord Kevern was feeling embarrassed, and he was very aware of Julie, standing silently in the background.
“Report to my housekeeper on Hanover Square tomorrow morning, then,” he said. “The three of you. She will be instructed to offer you immediate employment until such time as we can work out some permanent place for you.” He nodded dismissively and picked up his empty basket from the table. “Charlie knows the way. A happy Christmas to you all.”
A chorus of Christmas greetings and blessings followed him from the rooming house. He handed Julie into his carriage and followed her inside. He sank into the seat beside her and closed his eyes with relief as his coachman put up the steps and shut the door. A few moments later the carriage lurched into motion.
“Well,” he said after a few minutes of silence, “you are missing your chance. ‘I told you so’ would be a quite appropriate remark.”
“I only feared,” she said, turning her head to look at him, “that perhaps the parents were uncaring and were deliberately driving Charlie into crime. But there is much love and much pride in that family despite their poverty.”
“I suppose,” he said, “there is even a friend next door named ’Arry.”
“You did a wonderful thing,” she said. “May you never turn those cynical eyes on me again, my lord, for I will not believe in them for one moment.”
“Oh,” he said, “I rather fancy having a cockney lodgekeeper. Mr. Cobban should be a source of endless amusement.”
They lapsed into silence again, and he stared unseeing from the window. Several minutes passed while he felt the weight of a great sorrow descending on him with the early dusk.
“Tell me about it,” she said at last, her voice little more than a whisper.
He did not ask her what she meant by it. He rested his head against the cushions and continued to stare out the window.
“My son died on Christmas Day,” he said. “Two years ago.” He swallowed. “He died making the perilous journey from his mother’s womb to a world he never saw.”
Silence stretched like a tangible thing.
“My wife survived him by two hours,” he said. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly and deeply. “It was Christmas. Even though she was upstairs all day moaning and occasionally screaming, everyone was in the best of spirits, even me for all my anxiety. Nothing bad could ever happen at Christmas. Only all that was good. The birth of my first child. What more appropriately joyous event could there be for Christmas than the birth of one’s firstborn son?”
Still the silence.
“My wife and my son died on Christmas Day,” he said.
The pain was intense. It had all the rawness it had had when it was new. The rawness had never worn off, in fact. It had not been given the opportunity. He had very deliberately suppressed it. He had stopped thinking of them. He had refused to have them mentioned the previous Christmas and had put off his mourning for the day in order not to dampen the spirits of the rest of his family. His own mood had been determinedly festive. He had suppressed his pain and not suffered through it.
Now the
pain made it difficult to breathe.
He turned his head sharply away when she took his hand in hers, carefully removing his glove before she did so. He could feel the hot tears on his cheeks and felt suddenly ashamed. Why had he felt compelled to burden her with his personal hell on this of all days?
And then he closed his eyes again as she lifted his hand, and he felt first her lips against the back of it and then the softness of her cheek.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I am so very, very sorry.”
“And yet,” he said, turning his head to look at her a few moments later, “life goes on. It is the most atrocious of clichés, but I have been learning the truth of it in the past few days. There are other Christmases without pain. There are children born live into the world every day. Even on Christmas Day. That is what Christmas is all about, I suppose. Birth. Life. Hope.”
“Yes,” she said. She was holding his hand against her cheek with both of hers.
“Even happiness,” he said. “I have been happy today.”
“Have you?” She smiled at him. “Did you notice the little one’s mittens, my lord? Each one of them was as big as his head.”
He chuckled. “I did not realize he would be that young,” he said.
“You did not even know he existed,” she said. “But I think you hoped he did.”
He gazed into her eyes, their emerald darkened by the dusk. “I did not know it would be possible to live again and not just exist,” he said. “I did not know I could ever laugh again.”
“You will do both,” she said. “Your period of mourning is over, my lord.”
“I did not know it would be possible to love again,” he said.
She took his hand away from her cheek and returned it to his side, though she did not release her hold of it. “You loved Charlie when he came into your life,” she said, “just as I did. And now you love his whole family.”
“I did not know it would be possible to love a woman again,” he said.
She was looking down at their clasped hands.
“Will you take your Christmas dinner with us, my lord?” she asked, raising her eyes finally to his. “I am sure it is a foolish question when you must have a sumptuous feast planned at your own home or elsewhere. And I can offer no entertainment beyond my grandfather’s company and my own. I am sure there must be a grand ton party somewhere.”
“At Lady Lawrence’s,” he said. “I am invited.”
“Ah.” She smiled.
“Since it is Christmas,” he said, “I fully intend to avoid an evening of dullness at all costs. And it seems I have a choice. Boredom or certain entertainment—which shall it be?”
She was smiling and nodding. “I understand,” she said.
“Certain entertainment, I think,” he said. “If you are sure I will not be intruding.”
She looked up into his eyes, and her lips parted.
“I accept your invitation,” he said and watched light leap into her eyes and felt hope and joy leap into his heart.
“Bring on Christmas, Julie,” he said, and he felt the unfamiliar sensation of smiling. “I am ready for it.”
“He has fallen asleep,” she said very quietly when the old gentleman’s chin finally came to rest against his chest and the sounds of low snoring became unmistakable. “It has been a very exciting evening for him, my lord. But he tires easily, I am afraid. This is already past his usual bedtime.”
“You do not have to sound apologetic,” he said as she rose to her feet. “I understand. Where are you going?”
“To ring for Mr. Stebbins,” she said. “He will help me to get Grandpapa to bed.”
“I shall help you when the time comes,” he said. “But does it have to be immediately, Julie? If your grandfather goes to bed, I shall have to take my leave since you have no chaperon.”
She sat down again in the chair close to his own that she had just vacated. “It must have been a dreadfully dull evening for you after all,” she said. “I am afraid Grandpapa likes to reminisce about the old days. I do not mind because the stories are about my own ancestors and some people I remember. But you were wonderfully patient to listen so attentively.”
“My grandmother died less than three years ago,” he said. “She could have outtalked your grandfather with no effort at all. I still miss her.”
“You are kind,” she said. “And he was so very pleased to discover that you could play chess. I have never learned. But it was such a very long game. I thought a few times that he had fallen asleep.”
“A good chess player likes to spend time thinking out his moves and picturing his opponent’s next move and his own next and so on,” he said. “Your grandfather was a worthy opponent. I barely defeated him.”
“But I am glad you did,” she said. “He gets ferociously angry with me sometimes when he suspects me of deliberately allowing him to win at cards.”
He smiled at her and watched the color mount her cheeks and her hands twist in her lap.
“But it was kind of you to spend the evening with us when you might have been at Lady Lawrence’s,” she said. “Grandpapa was happy.”
“And you?” he said.
“And I was happy too,” she said and looked down to the absorbing task of smoothing her dress over her knees.
“I have a Christmas gift for you,” he said. “All day I have hesitated to give it to you. It is not quite proper for single ladies to accept gifts from single gentlemen, is it?”
Her eyes shot up to his, and she reminded him for a moment of Violet Cobban as she had appeared in his carriage earlier at the mention of Christmas presents.
“Oh,” she said, “what is it?”
He smiled at her. “If I had had advance notice of the invitation to dinner,” he said, “I might have brought wine with me with the greatest propriety, might I not? Will you accept a gift instead?”
“Where is it?” she asked.
“I remembered to put it in my greatcoat pocket,” he said, “before sending my carriage home. My greatcoat is in the hall?”
She nodded.
He brought back the long package a few moments later and handed it to her. Her eyes sparkled.
“Oh,” she said, “it is heavy.”
He watched her unwrap it carefully so as not to tear the paper and perhaps to prolong the anticipation as he and his brother and sisters had always done at Christmas many years before—long ages before. And then he watched the stillness of incredulity on her face before she caught her lower lip between her teeth. And he watched her raise her emerald eyes to his.
“You bought it,” she said. “That was why it was missing. I could have cried when it was not in the window yesterday.” Tears sprang to her eyes as if to prove her point.
“You gazed at it,” he said, “as if nothing in this dreary world mattered because there was Christmas and a mother and child.”
She looked down at the porcelain Madonna and touched a finger to the chubby baby in its arms. Her finger was trembling.
“Oh,” she said, “it is the most wonderful, wonderful thing I have ever owned. Thank you.” And he watched a tear fall onto the back of her hand.
“Perhaps,” he said, “when you look at it, you will remember this strange Christmas and the happiness it brought to someone who had lost his faith in happiness.”
She looked up at him, tears swimming in her eyes. “But I have no gift for you,” she said.
“Ah,” he said softly. “Then you will have to pay a forfeit.”
“A forfeit?” she said.
“Why did you hang the mistletoe there?” he asked, indicating the sprig hanging before the fireplace.
“Oh.” She laughed breathlessly. “It does not seem quite Christmas without mistletoe and holly. Grandpapa said to hang it there.”
“Go and stand beneath it, then,” he said, “and pay your forfeit like the honorable gentlewoman you are.”
She bit her lip again, and her cheeks grew pink. But after a moment’s hesitation
, she stood the Madonna carefully on a table, got to her feet, and went to stand beneath the mistletoe. She turned to face the room.
He framed her face with his hands, feeling her soft skin and her smooth hair. He watched her swallow, though her eyes did not flinch from his, and he lowered his head and kissed her.
Softness and sweetness and subtle fragrance. And warmth. And happiness. And home.
He lifted his head and smiled at her. “Happy Christmas, Julie,” he said.
“Happy Christmas, my lord.”
“Darcy,” he said. “It is my name. Nothing so ordinary as Richard or Robert or John when my mother gave birth to my father’s heir.”
“Darcy,” she said.
“I love you,” he said.
She shook her head. “It is Christmas,” she said. “And it is the first one you have known for three years. It happens at Christmastime—warmth and happiness and love. It is wonderful, but it is not real life. Tomorrow you will feel differently.”
“Now who is the cynic?” he asked.
She stared mutely back at him.
“I will not feel differently tomorrow,” he said. “You may ask me when tomorrow comes. I love you.”
She shook her head again.
“I want to marry you,” he said.
She smiled and swallowed again and raised her hands to grasp his wrists. “You are an earl,” she said.
“And so I am,” he said.
“I am a clergyman’s daughter,” she said. “I work for a living.”
“But no longer,” he said. “Your only task as my wife will be to make yourself and me happy, as mine will be to make you happy. Marry me, Julie.”
She shook her head. “There is Grandpapa,” she said. “And Mr. and Mrs. Stebbins. I cannot abandon them.”
“Oh,” he said, and he drew back the length of his arms, though he still held her face in his hands, and frowned down at her. “I thought we could just marry and forget about them, Julie. They are just elderly folk after all.”
“You would take them on too?” she asked.
“Of course I would take them on,” he said. “Who else am I to play chess with except your grandfather? You have confessed to me that you do not play.”
