A Clockwork Christmas

by JK Coi, PG Forte, Stacy Gail; Jenny Schwartz

  “Thank you, Mrs. Harrison,” Ophelia said quickly, ignoring her husband and dismissing his words. “That would be lovely. You’re most kind.”

  Her cheeks flushed, her gaze mutinous, Mrs. Harrison next addressed Dario. “And after I’ve done with that, and seen that the coach is unloaded, would you like me to send for someone to take your horse back to its stall, sir?”

  “No.” Dario turned away, practically leaping down the stairs in his haste. “There’s no need. I’ll see to it myself.”

  Ophelia couldn’t stop herself from watching him go. She’d always admired the way he wore his riding clothes. The thin breeches clung to his muscular thighs like a second skin and his coat, rather than concealing his form, accentuated it—especially his broad shoulders and narrow hips. She watched as he ran his hand through the dark locks of his hair, pushing them off his brow, and her fingers itched to do the same.

  As Dario took hold of his horse’s lead and headed for the stables, Ophelia had to rein in her runaway thoughts. They seemed to want to follow right along after him. It was a struggle to wrench her mind back to the matters at hand.

  “Now then, my young man.” Mrs. Harrison smiled at Arthur. “While I see to it that your mother’s settled, what say you to choosing a room for yourself? We’ve more than enough, I dare say, all made up, even as the master said—and most of them empty too, more’s the pity. You can have your pick of them, if you’d like.”

  “Yes, thanks.” Arthur’s face beamed with excitement. “I would like that a great deal!”

  Ophelia smiled ruefully. It did her heart good to see her son so happy, to see him cossetted and fussed over and made to feel at home here—even a little. But would it last? Dario had offered her no assurances and, even if he had, she didn’t know if she trusted him any longer to do what he said.

  A short while later, Ophelia found herself in the same room she’d occupied as a bride. Part of the master suite, it connected to Dario’s room via a communicating door. Ophelia didn’t even have to check the door to know it would be locked on his side and would likely remain so for the duration of her stay. The thought hurt, but added to everything else she was feeling, she barely noticed it.

  Mrs. Harrison had sent one of the maids off with Arthur to get him squared away. Then, just as she had done once before, she took it upon herself to see that Ophelia was unpacked and all her belongings put away properly. Ophelia was touched by the gesture, even though she’d almost found herself in agreement with Dario when he’d protested the arrangement. It was hard being back in this house, being back in this room, with all the memories it held, was harder still.

  She would put up with it though. In fact, Ophelia would put up with a great deal more to ensure that Mrs. Harrison had no cause to feel offended, or to think her efforts were not duly appreciated.

  Ophelia never had a mother. The woman who’d contributed to her genetic makeup was long gone. It was her death, in fact, that had given Charles Winter the idea to create Ophelia, as a living tribute to the woman he’d loved and lost.

  When she’d married, Ophelia had hoped her mother-in-law might come to look upon her as a daughter, but it was not to be. The elder Mrs. Leonides had never warmed to her, had never considered Ophelia fit to wed her son. Mrs. Harrison had been a welcome surrogate. She was someone who’d known Dario from the time he’d been quite young and who’d welcomed Ophelia into his home, treating her as if she’d every right to be there.

  The warmth with which Ophelia had been greeted by her today meant the world to Ophelia, more than she could ever express. She’d been devastated when Dario rejected her. To have learned she’d lost Mrs. Harrison’s regard as well, that would have hurt almost as much.

  For now, her work done, the housekeeper glanced around the room and nodded in satisfaction. “Well now, I think that’s everything.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Harrison,” Ophelia answered, wistfully studying the dresser where her hairbrush, along with the few cosmetics she’d brought with her, had been carefully laid out. Who knew how long they’d be allowed to stay there? “It was very good of you to go to so much trouble for me.”

  “’Tweren’t no trouble at all. As I said before, it’s good to have you back where you belong, missus. I do hope you’ve no plans to be off again.”

  Surprised, Ophelia turned back to face her. “Certainly I have no plans to leave, but I hope you know it was never my decision to go the last time either.”

  “I do know it. But, all the same, you oughtn’t have stayed away as long as you did. They’ve been bad times here, these past years. It would have been a blessing for him to have had a wife to lean on—and to have known he’d a son to carry on after him, what with all the rest of his family passing on, rest their souls, one after the other. It was too bad of you to keep that from him—not but that I don’t understand why you might have done it. Nonetheless, a wife is meant be a helpmeet to her husband, to offer comfort and support in times of need.”

  “Even when he does not wish for her support, or even her presence?”

  “Especially then. Gentlemen do like to think they know what’s best for themselves, but oftimes they’re wrong.”

  Ophelia, thinking of her father, of all the hardships he’d unwittingly caused for himself and everyone around him, could not disagree. “Perhaps you’re correct. Still, I doubt Mr. Leonides would have taken kindly to any attempts of mine to comfort him.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “He can be a hard man, he can. There’s no use denying it. And I don’t pretend to know what it was took place between you two, only that he felt himself betrayed in some fashion.”

  “I never did anything to betray him,” Ophelia objected, wishing there was anyone to whom she could explain her side of the story. “Why would I?”

  “Aye. I never gave that idea much credit. It was plain to me you both loved each other far too much for that to have been so. Still, if you’ll forgive me for speaking plainly, it seems to me you took the easy way out when things got rough. A real woman would’ve fought harder for her home and her marriage, not turned tail and run at the first sign of trouble. I expected better of you.”

  Ophelia stared at the other woman, stricken by her words. Is that really what she’d done? Perhaps, after all, Dario was correct in his judgment of her. Perhaps she wasn’t as “real” a woman as she’d always imagined herself. It had certainly never occurred to her that she could fight his decision. She’d gone away—just as he’d demanded she do—and counted herself lucky he hadn’t chosen to express his displeasure in a more public fashion, by revealing her secret to the world and endangering her life.

  “Now, now, there’s no call for you to look so downcast,” Mrs. Harrison said, still scolding, but far more gently than before. “As I said to you already, you’re back where you belong now. That’s the important thing. It’s never too late for a fresh start, I always say.”

  Ophelia nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” Privately, however, she doubted a fresh start was anywhere in her future, at least not where she and Dario were concerned. What could she possibly do to bring about a substantial change in his opinion of her? He wouldn’t take her at her word—even though she’d never once lied to him, other than by omission. Nor could she do anything to alter her own nature, and it was nothing less than that to which he objected.

  Mrs. Harrison, her tasks completed, headed for the door. “If you think of anything else you need, ring the bell for the maid. I’m going downstairs now to see what’s happening with supper and to let you get some rest. I’m sure, what with all your traveling, you must be needing it.”

  Dario drew the curry comb down over the mare’s flank, then duplicated the stroke with the flat of his other hand. The black coat gleamed beneath his careful ministrations and the smooth, warm flesh felt comforting to his touch. This was a chore he generally left for his grooms to attend to, but today he found the repetitive motions the task required soothing. It kept his thoughts occupied and gave him a legitimate rea
son to stay away from the house.

  Not that he needed to make excuses for his behavior. He was his own master, after all, and could do as he pleased. Besides, he had more of a right to be there than…well, than anyone else currently in residence—that was for certain!

  If only Mrs. Harrison hadn’t developed such a fast and unexpected fondness for his bride. She’d raised such a fuss the first time he’d sent Ophelia packing, he’d nearly been forced to send her away as well. He could only imagine how little she’d like it this time around. If only there’d been somewhere else he could have taken his unexpected guests, some other property where he could have housed them, but then he wouldn’t have the chance to observe the child, get to know him…

  Was it possible? Could he truly have a son? His heart said yes, but his heart had been wrong before.

  Damn it, there had to be some means by which he might get to the truth of the matter, some test he could apply, some way to satisfy himself that the boy was everything Ophelia claimed him to be and not another soulless wonder crafted to deceive him.

  Hesitant footfalls sounded behind him. His horse whinnied softly and Dario knew before he turned his head who he’d find at his back, watching him. “Are you unpacked already then?” he asked, his gaze once again roaming greedily over the boy’s features, seeking the familiar.

  Arthur nodded. “There wasn’t that much. Mama said we weren’t allowed to take most of our things with us. She said it will be more like an adventure this way. Do you think that’s so?”

  Dario returned to brushing his horse. “I don’t know.” He would not feel guilty over the forlorn note in the little boy’s voice. After all, it was hardly his fault the child had been turned out of his home.

  “I think she just said it to make me feel better,” Arthur continued, in a confiding tone, as he crept closer. He stood quietly for a moment, watching as Dario continued his grooming. “What’s his name?”

  “Her name,” Dario corrected, as he combed his fingers through the mare’s black mane. “Her name is Leveche.”

  “Leveche,” Arthur repeated solemnly. “What’s it mean?”

  “It’s a Spanish word. I’m not quite sure what the original meaning was. But it’s the name for a type of wind they have there. It’s very gentle, but also very fast. Just like this beautiful little girl of mine.”

  “She’s not so little,” Arthur protested.

  “Oh, no?” Dario smiled fondly, as he measured the horse with his eyes. “Well, maybe not, compared to some. Compared to others, however, she is very much pequeña. Why, she’s almost of a size that you could ride her.”

  “Really?” The boy’s face lit up at that. “I could ride her? When? Now?”

  Dario laughed. “I said ‘almost.’ I think she’s still a little too strong for you to manage on your own.” He remembered, as a boy, being taken up in front of his father, being given the reins and allowed to steer his father’s tall gray gelding around the paddock. “But, perhaps, at some time in the next few days, we could go for a ride together, just you and I. Would you like that?”

  Arthur nodded, eyes wide as saucers. “I should say so!”

  “Very good then.” Dario studied the boy’s expression a moment longer. Surely, this much innocent excitement could not be faked? On the other hand, who was he to judge such things? Hadn’t he thought the same thing about the boy’s mother?

  His mood plummeting, Dario turned his attention back to his horse. “Perhaps it would be best if you returned to the house now. Your supper will be ready soon, you don’t want to miss it. And I’m sure your mother must already be wondering where you’ve gone.”

  The smile faded from Arthur’s eyes. “But aren’t you coming too?” he asked anxiously. “You will be eating with us, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Despite his determination to maintain his distance, Dario could not help but be touched by the boy’s obvious desire to spend more time with him. It was the very thing he wanted as well. But it was too soon for that, too soon to even hope that anything real and lasting could come of this. His hands still busily moving over Leveche’s coat, he murmured, more gently this time, “I have a little more work to do here, son. But I’ll be along shortly. Off with you now.”

  After the boy left, Dario abandoned any pretense of working on his horse. He tossed the comb aside and went to the window. Craning his neck for a better view, he watched as the boy made his way back toward the house. Dario couldn’t help but marvel at the familiarity of his gait, his build, even the way he cocked his head to follow the flight of a raven as it crossed his path. It was almost as if he was watching one of his own younger brothers, or one of his sisters’ sons. It was almost as if he was watching himself as a child. But could he trust the evidence of his eyes? Or was it all just another elaborate lie?

  A son. After all this time. It seemed too much to hope for and yet, how futile were his admonitions to himself not to get his hopes too high. For, in truth, his hopes had been raised since the first moment he’d laid eyes on the boy.

  Chapter Five

  Candlelight glimmered in the gold of his wife’s hair and Dario could not keep his gaze from straying down the length of the dining room table to where she sat, quietly chatting with her son over supper. He’d never expected to see her seated here again, presiding over his table as she used to do. Yet here she was once more, just as in seasons past.

  How many nights had he sat here reveling in the sight of her—her exquisite beauty, her ineffable grace—anticipating the night to come, when he’d have her once more in his bed…

  “And Papa said we might go riding together sometime too,” Arthur confided in eager tones. Dario started, his attention captured by the unexpected appellation.

  “Did he now?” There was a distinctly hesitant note in Ophelia’s voice. She shot a fearful glance in Dario’s direction. Arthur appeared not to notice his mother’s concern.

  “Yes, and I met his horse—Leveche—and he told me what her name means and…” His voice trailed off and then he, too, glanced nervously in Dario’s direction. “It is all right that I call you that, isn’t it, sir?”

  Dario ground his teeth, uncomfortably aware of those two sets of eyes trained so anxiously on his face. Arthur’s eyes pleaded with him to say yes. What Ophelia’s eyes had to say about the matter he didn’t know, for he refused to meet them.

  His initial instinct was to deny the boy’s request, to insist he address him more formally; but then he reconsidered. Where was the harm in it, really? As long as he kept them here on his estate, shielded from the busybodies and the gossips, why not indulge the boy?

  “Certainly,” he said at last and hurriedly returned to his meal, unwilling to be drawn into any more of their conversations. He could not, however, resist taking one quick look at Ophelia’s face. The smile that curved her lips, the radiant gleam in her eyes as she gazed back at him caused his breath to hitch and his chest to grow tight. She’d always affected him like this and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to indulge himself, as well—to have his wife once more in his bed, to see if he could not give her cause to smile at him several more times before the morning broke.

  Dario paused, shocked by the direction his own thoughts had taken. His wife? Could he even call her that anymore, knowing her for what she was? On the other hand, wasn’t that precisely how he did still think of her? Annoyed with himself, his appetite gone, Dario slammed his fork down on the table.

  He should have divorced her long ago. Religion be damned. She’d been absolutely right to have questioned his motives this morning. He’d been lying to himself for far too long.

  She was no one’s wife. He did not wish to bed her.

  He groaned softly. It had been hard enough trying to pretend that was the case with her gone. Sitting here face to face, it was completely useless. No matter how many times he repeated the same empty lies, he still could not make his heart believe them.

  The prolonged silence finally penetrated his confusio
n and he looked up to find two gazes trained upon him once again.

  “Is there something wrong with the roast?” Ophelia asked after a moment, in a tone of polite concern.

  Dario shook his head. His teeth ground together. He was happy to allow his anger to overpower the longing he felt for her; it was by far the easier emotion to deal with. Who was she to be inquiring into anything pertaining to his household? She was no longer the mistress here. She was nothing now but a…a casual dinner guest. He glanced at her almost empty plate. A dinner guest whose appetite was clearly unaffected by the awkwardness of their situation. For some reason, that angered him even more. “Why are you eating so much this evening?”

  Ophelia’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You can’t possibly be in need of that much food.”

  “I don’t know that I’m eating any more than usual.” Ophelia glanced at her own plate consideringly. “But, as you may recall, I missed my dinner today. Certainly that would account for an increase in one’s appetite, would it not?”

  “Would it?” Dario challenged as Arthur’s gaze skipped nervously back and forth between them. “I’m not sure I understand why it is you need to eat at all.” Surely machines ran on something far different than beef and potatoes?

  “Why would I not need to… Oh.” A wave of color swept over Ophelia’s face. “I see. Well, of course I need food, Dario. Have I not always eaten? You can have no earthly reason for imagining that would have changed. Or did you think it all just an act?”

  “Just an act? Of course it was!” The concerned expression on Arthur’s face grew more pronounced. Dario felt a pang of guilt. Was it possible the boy didn’t know about Ophelia’s secret? That he really believed her to be his mother, just as he obviously believed Dario his father? “Never mind,” he said quickly, silencing Ophelia’s protests with a shake of his head. “We can discuss this matter later.” There was no point in upsetting the lad, after all. Not yet, anyway. He picked up his utensils and resumed his meal. After a moment, the others reluctantly followed suit.