The Christmas Visit: Comfort and JoyLove at First StepA Christmas Secret

by Moore, Margaret

  A bit rude? Gwen had never met anybody so rude in her life. Coarse, perhaps, and unrefined, but not so breathtakingly, deliberately insolent. And dismaying. And disturbing.

  As for the idea of trying to seduce her…it was ridiculous.

  “He’s got his book to finish, you see, and he always gets a bit testy when he’s running out of time.”

  Then he should have been able to appreciate her immediate need for funds before Christmas.

  “It’s a history of Wales,” the woman went on without prompting, and with obvious pride. “Starting from before the Romans up to Queen Elizabeth.”

  At the top of the shallow steps, they came to a long gallery, paneled in rich mahogany, the walls covered with portraits. They were the earl’s family, Gwen assumed as she walked past the oil paintings of men and women wearing clothes from eras past that proclaimed their wealth and power. She could practically feel them looking down their aristocratic noses at the orphaned daughter of paupers.

  She wouldn’t let the portraits intimidate her any more than she would their descendant. So she stared at them all as she passed, her steps slowing when she came to the last. It was the earl, in formal dress, probably painted when he was in his early twenties. Despite his attire, he was posed casually in front of a marble fireplace, one elbow on the mantel, with a sort of careless ease that matched the smile and expression in the eyes that seemed to suggest the world was his to enjoy.

  And why not? Judging by the portrait, not only was he wealthy and titled, he’d been breathtakingly handsome.

  The passage of time and the scars had certainly altered the earl’s features, but there was much yet of the handsome young man in the man in the study below: the dark curling hair, the strong jaw, the straight nose, and those knowing, mocking brown eyes. The body was the same, too—broad shoulders, long limbs, narrow waist and hips, muscular thighs. Indeed, despite the scars, the earl was still a very attractive man.

  Which made his self-imposed isolation that much more self-indulgent, and she would waste no pity on him.

  “This was done during his last year at Oxford,” Mrs. Jones offered, coming back to join her, “when he took a first in history.”

  So he was intelligent—another reason not to feel sorry for him.

  “That was about five years before….”

  Mrs. Jones’s voice trailed off, but she didn’t have to finish. Gwen could guess to what she was referring.

  “The young women used to flock about him like so many birds,” Mrs. Jones said with a sigh as she turned and started forward again. “And all the young noblemen wanted to be his friend. Oh, he was a merry fellow in those days, before the fire—and that woman—broke his heart. Ended their engagement right after the accident, she did. But he was well rid of her, and I told him so at the time.”

  Gwen suspected he hadn’t been delighted to hear Mrs. Jones’s comments, for she’d seen men face similar situations in the hospital—a body permanently injured or scarred, followed by an engagement broken. One, a man could hope to cope with, but both? She’d known at least two who’d killed themselves rather than go back to England.

  “As for his supposed friends, there might have been one or two stood by him, but only because he was rich. My poor boy figured that out soon enough.”

  Perhaps there was more to the earl’s self-imposed isolation than vanity, after all. He must have felt as if his whole world had come crashing down with that beam.

  “Then at Christmas—you never saw a man put his soul into celebrating the day like he did. The whole house would ring with his singing. He comes by it honest, for his parents—bless their memory!—was just the same. There’d be gifts for everyone and anyone, and food! Oh, my, we had an army of cooks during the holiday. Wassail and pudding, tarts and pies and all sorts of fruit. Even the scullery would be full of pine boughs and mistletoe and holly.” She wiped her eye with the corner of her apron. “I miss the singing most of all. Such a voice he has—like an angel.”

  “Did the smoke from the fire damage his lungs?”

  “No. He says he has no heart for singing now.” Mrs. Jones came to a halt outside a door. “Here we are. The blue bedroom, and as pretty a chamber as ever I saw.”

  They entered the largest and prettiest bedroom Gwen had ever seen, the corners shrouded in shadow until Mrs. Jones lit more candles. The walls were papered, the pattern one of delicate blue blossoms. The furniture was rosewood, of a simple light design, and really quite dusty. The bed was large, with a canopy and royal-blue velvet curtains. A thick blue satin coverlet was drawn back, and there were the signs the bed had been hastily made.

  Clearly, this room hadn’t been used in years.

  “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I fetch everything else you need to make you feel at home?”

  As if she could ever feel “at home” in such a place! “If you don’t mind, I’d rather go with you. I’m used to working, and I’d prefer the company.”

  “But you’re the earl’s guest and it wouldn’t be right.”

  “I’m not his guest, strictly speaking,” Gwen replied. “I’m a refugee from inclement weather.”

  Mrs. Jones cocked her head and studied the young woman. “Well, it’s still chilly here, and that’s a fact. The kitchen’ll be warmer. All right, come with me. What Griffin doesn’t know won’t hurt him. When he’s in this sort of mood, he’ll stay in his study until the Lord only knows when.”

  Later that night, after convincing Mrs. Jones to let her eat in the kitchen and help clean up, Gwen sat in the large bed in the blue bedroom, her arms wrapped around her knees. She wore a voluminous nightgown that Mrs. Jones had loaned her. The kindhearted woman had also provided plenty of coal for the fire, a bed warmer, three candles, two more blankets and a shawl.

  Outside, the snow continued to fall steadily, whipped by the howling wind. She could almost feel the drifts piling up against the house, blocking the road. What if she couldn’t leave tomorrow? Or the next day?

  There was still so much to do for Christmas. Her children had little enough at the best of times, beyond clean clothing and full bellies. She wanted to give them a happy Christmas, to assure them all that they were as deserving as any child of a treat or a toy. To make the day special.

  She should have kept that in mind, and not let the earl annoy or upset her. What was a little personal humiliation when the children’s happiness was at stake? What if he changed his mind and declined to give anything to the children? Why, oh why hadn’t she held her tongue?

  She threw back the covers and got out of bed. She sucked in her breath when the soles of her feet met the cold wooden floor. Grabbing the shawl, she wrapped it about her as she went to the window and peered out. She couldn’t see a thing except blowing snow.

  Looking around the huge room, she shivered—and it wasn’t just from the cold.

  She wouldn’t stay here in this chamber. She’d dress and go to the kitchen, to wait for morning and Mrs. Jones. That was better than being here by herself.

  After dressing, she took one of the candles and left the bedroom, tiptoeing down the corridor, and then the long gallery. She paused to look again at the picture of the earl in the flower of his youth.

  If she had been a beauty, then been horribly scarred, rejected by the man who was to marry her and deserted by her friends, might she not retreat and hide herself away? Might she not be bitter and angry at the world?

  She raised the candle a little higher and studied the portrait more. What would it be like to possess looks and property and rank? No wonder he’d enjoyed Christmas so. For him, it must have been a celebration of bounty, a joyous occasion to relish all that he possessed.

  For her, Christmas had always been a time more of hope than celebration. Hope that people would think of needy children. Hope that they would be generous. Hope that she would get a gift—any gift. A ball. A pair of warm stockings.

  “Is the accommodation not to your liking, Miss Davies?”

 
She whirled around to find the earl right behind her, looming out of the dark like a ghost.

  A very solid, muscular ghost.

  He grabbed her wrist. “If you don’t mind,” he said, taking the candle from her, “I’ve narrowly avoided death in one fire. I’m not anxious to tempt fate again.”

  Flustered and flummoxed, she didn’t reply as he let go of her wrist.

  His face lit from below by the candle, he raised a questioning brow. “Was the blue bedroom not warm enough?”

  “It was most comfortable.” That wasn’t exactly a lie; it would be very comfortable, to most people.

  “Why, then, are you prowling about my house in the middle of the night?”

  He made her sound like a burglar. “I’m not going to steal anything!”

  “That’s a relief. Were you planning on staring at my family’s portraits all night?”

  “I was going to the kitchen.”

  “Was dinner not satisfactory?”

  She tried not to betray any frustration with his persistence in thinking she’d found something to criticize. “It was delicious, and the Joneses are very hospitable.”

  “Unlike your host.”

  Ignoring that comment, she said, “I thought I’d go to the kitchen and help with breakfast.”

  His brow rose. “In the middle of the night?”

  “It must be nearly dawn,” she replied, hoping she was right.

  He took a gold watch out of his vest pocket and opened it. “Three in the morning.” He snapped it closed. “You’ll have a long, chilly wait. Mrs. Jones banks the fires before she goes to bed. I suggest you retire, Miss Davies. Mrs. Jones will come for you when breakfast is ready.”

  He turned to go, taking the candle with him.

  “My lord!”

  He half turned, then realized what he’d done and offered it to her.

  She hesitated, then instinctively clasped her hands together, as she’d always done when she was a girl and asking forgiveness for a transgression of the rules. “My lord, I regret what I said to you after you generously offered to donate something for the children’s Christmas and I hope you won’t change your mind about doing so.”

  The earl’s lips curved up. In the flickering light of the candle, that made him look demonic. “Calm yourself, Miss Davies. I told you I would, so I will, for the children’s sake.”

  She sighed with relief. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I’m not really an ogre, although my looks may give that impression.”

  “I don’t think you look like an ogre. I’ve seen worse scars many times, my lord.”

  “Because you were a nurse, of course. You are the exception then, and not the rule.”

  She could think of nothing to say to that, because she had seen more wounds than most people.

  “Well, Miss Davies, since my face doesn’t repel you and I can’t sleep, either, perhaps you’ll join me for a brandy in my study.”

  When she didn’t immediately reply, he frowned. “I promise you’ll be quite safe with me. You’re not the sort of woman I’m attracted to, anyway.”

  As if she’d ever think she was! “I don’t doubt that, my lord.”

  “Or are you, despite all you’ve said, afraid of me?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Then come along, Miss Davies, and have a brandy.”

  Determined to show him that she wasn’t afraid of him in any way, she followed him to his study. He held open the door and gestured for her to enter. “Sit down.”

  She did, by the hearth where a cheery fire cast out its warmth. The bronze glow from an Argand oil lamp illuminated the messy papers on his desk. The windows of the room were etched with frost. The untidiness, the scattered books, the fire and dull, glow of the lamp, made it seem very cozy and comfortable, and not like a nobleman’s room at all.

  The earl took out two snifters and a crystal decanter from behind some books piled on the bookshelf nearest the door. “The glasses are clean. Mrs. Jones brought them this morning,” he said as he poured the brandy.

  Perhaps she should refuse the drink. “Thank you, my lord, but—”

  “But?” he inquired as he walked toward her carrying the glasses. “As there’s nothing to fear from me, there’s nothing to fear from a little brandy.” His eyes twinkling with amusement, he smiled that mockingly devilish smile. “Think of it as medicinal, Miss Davies.”

  As she accepted it, being alone with him suddenly seemed like a very dangerous place to be. But she wouldn’t flee like a coward or risk offending him when he’d done nothing except hand her a brandy.

  The earl settled himself in the chair opposite and regarded her over the top of his glass. “How much will you require to make this Christmas a merry one for your orphans?”

  “Ten pounds.”

  He took a drink. “That doesn’t sound like much for that many children.”

  “They don’t require much to be happy. And perhaps I fear that if I name a larger sum, you’ll never contribute again.”

  He laughed, a low rumble of merriment that was surprisingly pleasant. “A wise answer. And since you seem a wise and intelligent woman, I think I can do better than that.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “So your efforts were worth it, after all, Miss Davies.” He rose and set his glass on the mantel. “If there was nothing else robbing you of sleep tonight, you should have no trouble now. There are still a few hours before dawn.”

  He casually leaned against the mantelpiece, in a pose very similar to the one in his portrait, reminding her that he was still very handsome, even if he didn’t think so. “Or were there more than Christmas worries keeping you awake?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “Then I wonder what compelled you to leave the room—or were you uncomfortable for some reason and you didn’t want to tell me before because you feared I’d rescind my pledge?”

  She had been extremely uncomfortable, but not for the reason he suggested. “The room was perfectly comfortable, my lord.”

  “Then why did you leave it?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I might.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll try.”

  What harm could it do to tell him? Her weakness wasn’t anything to do with him.

  “You may desire solitude, my lord,” she said slowly, “but I don’t. It…unnerves me.”

  Having started, she decided to continue. “My parents died of a fever one night, within hours of each other, when I was four years old. We weren’t discovered until nearly noon the next day.”

  She stared at the flames, remembering her panic and desperate horror as she tried to rouse her parents. Then being carried away by the beadle, kicking and screaming and crying.

  The earl wordlessly rose and poured her another brandy.

  She accepted the drink, holding it in her hands and looking at the slowly shifting liquid without really seeing it. “I was taken to an orphanage.”

  She took a sip as the earl returned to his chair.

  “I know many people, especially those who read the works of Charles Dickens, think such institutions are all horrible places,” she continued, more relaxed now that the worst of her story was over. “Many of them are. I was fortunate to be in one of the good ones. Food was meager, but enough, and the clothes they gave me were clean and better than the filthy, torn garments I’d had before.

  “But I was terrified of being alone at night.”

  She tried to sound matter-of-fact, as if there was nothing unusual about revealing this aspect of her past and its effect on her. “I still hate to be alone, especially in the dark. I have my own room at the orphanage, of course, but I know I’m not more than a raised voice away from another person.”

  “You’ve not had an easy life, Miss Davies,” the earl said after a moment.

  “No,” she agreed, thinking that a mild way to put it. “But I survived.”

 
; “I’d say you’ve done considerably more than merely survive. How did you become a nurse?”

  “I was very fortunate. The vicar thought I was clever and when he heard I wanted to be a nurse, he offered to pay for my education.” She saw no need to tell him how she’d had to struggle to achieve that goal even with the Reverend Mr. Johnston’s help. “When I learned about the situation in the Crimea, I asked to be sent.”

  “Paying back the reverend with good works, or following a sweetheart?”

  She frowned. “Neither. Reverend Mr. Johnston asked nothing in return for my education. And if I followed anybody, it was Mary Seacole.”

  “Not Florence Nightingale and her famous lamp?”

  The sardonic earl was back, and it was not a transformation Gwen welcomed, especially given the subject. “She, and her methods, saved many lives. But I spent more of my time with Mary Seacole in Balaclava than at the hospital in Sebastopol. Perhaps you’ve heard of her, although she’s not so famous as Miss Nightingale.”

  Gwen smiled as she remembered the determined Creole. “She’s a marvelous woman, and so inspiring! Refused by the War Office, she went anyway and spent all her money setting up her own hospital close to the front. She didn’t let anybody stop her. You should have heard her speak of the officers she knew when they were in the West Indies. ‘My boys,’ she always called them. She simply had to help them, and she made me want to help them, too.” Her voice dropped as she thought of all the young men who had died. “As many as I could, anyway.”

  “She clearly made an impression on you, Miss Davies,” the earl said as he leaned back in his chair, his features in shadow. “Was Balaclava as bad as they said in the newspapers?”

  “Worse. No written account can possibly convey what it was like.”

  She’d never forget the sights, sounds and smells of the wounded being crammed onto ships to be taken to Miss Nightingale’s hospital. Or the feeling of overwhelming helplessness in the face of so much suffering and pain.

  “Is that why you aren’t nursing now?”

  She finished her brandy and nodded her head. “I’ve seen enough death and blood and mutilation to last me a lifetime. I like children, and I know the difference a good matron can make to an orphanage, having been so blessed to have such a woman in charge of the one where I was sent. When I heard about the opening for a matron for Saint Bridget’s, I applied, and here I am.”