Under a Christmas Sky

by Sharon Sobel

  She must retain her wits about her; that much was certain. Lord Willem Wakefield now thought she was simple Mrs. Townshend, who was invited to Seabury to sing for the guests of the Howards. He could not know she was a widow with some means, who had the freedom to go about her business as she saw fit. Perhaps he even pitied her, imagining her a sad spinster who was included in the house party as a gesture of charity, with nothing else to do.

  Julia dropped the harsh soap and watched it disappear to the bottom of the basin, hoping it was not capable of burning a hole right through the metal.

  As she groped about for the slippery bit of fat and lye, she considered he might be more accurate than she cared to believe if he indeed envisioned her a sad spinster. Though a lady might have the ability to move about as she pleased, that did not mean that she did so. In fact, she had nothing else to do this Christmas season, nor anyone else to share it with.

  The trail of her logic had grown as cold as the murky water. If Lord Willem Wakefield thought she was poor and unprotected, she was hardly a likely victim to be held for ransom. And if he had no practical use for her, why insist they travel together to Seabury? He might as well just abandon her here, and let her fend for herself.

  That he did not intend to do so suggested he was indeed a gentleman.

  She stood, naked and wet, in the cool room and wished she had something more substantial to wrap herself in than the threadbare towel that had been brought to her along with the soap and lap basin. She felt the dissolving soap under one foot and held onto the edge of the tub as she pulled herself out. Water splashed on the knotted rug as she hurried to the bed, where she had laid out her clothing.

  Actually, it was not her clothing, but Mimma’s. She supposed the maid Laurentia had sent for her was somewhere safe, dressed in green velvet and red ribbons, and perhaps passing herself off as Lady Leighton Kingswood. She could not help but wonder if this had been some dark plan laid out before they even left the dowager cottage back at Kingswood Hall.

  The maid’s garments were clean and well-mended, and might even include some of Laurentia’s own castoffs. Julia and her sister-in-law were somewhat of the same build and proportions. The dresses were good enough for travel, and surely Julia would be able to borrow a few dresses once she arrived at Seabury.

  Lacking a hairbrush, she combed her hair through with her fingers, and twisted some strands between her fingers. She remembered doing this with her mother’s help, when she was a child and her hair was allowed to cascade down her back in a thick flow of curls. One Christmas, when she was perhaps ten or eleven, they wove satin ribbon through her locks, setting her hair off her forehead and away from her ears, so everyone in church would notice her tiny pearl earrings.

  Her hand caressed her earlobe and the delicate stone, as she recalled the joy of that distant Christmas. But by the following December, her mother was dead, along with the baby she carried, and Mr. Townshend no longer had any desire to celebrate the season. He died some years later, of what those who attempted to console Julia called a “broken heart.” And then there was Leighton, whose horse threw a shoe as he rode past her little garden, and thus opened the door into her house and heart. But soon, Leighton was gone as well.

  Julia stared at herself in the looking glass, though she seemed to be gazing upon a stranger. She, who had already lost so much, felt as if she had lost something of herself, as well.

  She was startled by a bold knock on the door.

  “Will you join us in the dining room, Mrs. Townshend?” called Will Wakefield, without turning the knob. “We must make haste if we are to arrive at the next posting inn by nightfall.”

  “I am nearly ready, Mr. Wakefield. I must only pack my bag.”

  And, indeed, that was all. With a last twist of a damp curl, and a glance at the stranger in the mirror, Julia pressed her damp garments into the carpetbag, and left what was possibly her last stronghold before arriving at—she prayed—Seabury in the village of Rye.

  Chapter 3

  WILL WAKEFIELD STOOD ready to help Julia into the coach himself, as they were accompanied by no one but his driver, a cheerful man named Milton. Milton assured her that he had searched through the wreckage of her own coach and there was nothing that remained of value, but for the fittings of the vehicle. The horses were gone, probably along with those who accompanied her.

  The man handed her one of the gold crests that was mounted on each side of the coach.

  “I do not recognize the family,” Lord Willem said, studying it as he stood by her side. “Is it your family’s crest, or perhaps that of your employer?”

  Julia handed it to him, happy to deliver it into his care. He could better explain what happened to Geoff when, and if, they arrived at Seabury. “It is the Kingswood crest. You may be aware that Lady Laurentia was a Kingswood before she was a Howard.”

  “Yes. I met her brother once before he died quite tragically, and at a young age. There was a beautiful garden at his home in London, full of Laurentia’s sculptures,” he said, distractedly, still studying the images on the great disk. “And here is a stallion on the crest. Lord Kingswood was an excellent horseman.”

  “Not excellent enough,” Julia said softly, and he looked sharply at her. She turned away, knowing now why he did not seem a stranger to her. He had been to her home, sat in her parlor, perhaps held her hand in greeting. “The Kingswood crest remained on this coach, one they had no need of. I doubt they will miss it.”

  “And they had sent it to you, to bring you to Seabury?”

  “I did indeed have the use of it, as well as the services of a driver and a lady’s maid,” Julia said. She knew she was being vague, if not outright duplicitous. And she knew there was probably no need of it, for Will Wakefield had already given her every reason to trust him. Leighton had trusted him, and invited him to their home. And yet, she hesitated to give it all away; he had already undressed her, and saw her at her most vulnerable. Was it not a lady’s privilege to hold onto some of her secrets?

  But when she took his hand so that she might enter his coach, she thought she might have given everything away in an instant. She felt his warmth through their gloves, and she felt it suffuse her body until she thought she’d faint from the heat. If he noticed anything at all about her response to him, her secrets would be laid bare in an instance.

  How would she manage to be closeted away with him in a small coach for the remaining days of their journey?

  She watched him curiously as he pulled himself in, and set the latch behind him. As he settled himself, the coach lurched from one side and then the other, until he found his place. Unfortunately, that place was directly opposite her, so it would be impossible to ignore him unless she drifted off to sleep.

  As it turned out, he fell asleep long before she did. He politely explained the plan for this day’s travel, as if she had not herself been a guest at Seabury many times before, and his eyes were closed before they arrived at the first crossing on the road to the southeast coast.

  And so she had the opportunity to study him, as he surely had observed nearly everything about her the night before. There was something gratifying about that, a sense of balance, though she could not help but wonder if she would be so gratified if he were not so splendid to look at.

  He had the look of the Dutch, but might have inherited his size and fair features from any one of England’s near neighbors. She briefly imagined him a Norseman, but doubted his thoughtful demeanor and calming voice a legacy from the Vikings. He could pass for German, but Princess Charlotte and her noble family were pale in comparison, more at home in a salon than in the garden.

  Will Wakefield’s complexion had the ruddiness of a man who enjoyed a day in the sun. And if, indeed, he spent many months in the East Indies, he probably enjoyed many of them. The volcano that cast a gloom through Europe and the Americas during this past year had
not dimmed the sunlight on the island it nearly destroyed.

  If he had told her the truth, he would know about it better than anyone, and the fact of his survival was one of the remarkable things about his decision to spend Christmas with Geoff and Laurentia. After all, a man of his experience would be welcomed and celebrated in drawing rooms throughout England and the Continent, where he could regale guests with tales of his adventure.

  Julia sat back on the cushions, realizing that her hosts were just as likely to have invited him to speak of his experiences in Java, as they invited her so that she could entertain them in the music room. That she was also a near-relation did not matter; Laurentia was rather clear about the expectation that there would be music at the house party, and Julia understood at once that she would be required to sing.

  But if her voice did not sufficiently recover, the best she could do is tell the story of how her coach crashed in the snow only a few days distant from Seabury, and how she was rescued by the handsome Lord Willem Wakefield.

  She rather hoped her voice recovered. She sat for several moments, listening to Will’s deep and steady breathing, and started her song, the very one he had been whistling at the inn. It was one of the Kilmore Carols, sung for many years in Ireland, and more recently in English country churches.

  Her words started as no more than a whisper, but gathered strength as the horses quickened their pace. They passed farms and mills, small cottages and several larger estates in the distance. She thought it started to snow again, but then realized it was no more than last night’s accumulation falling off tree branches. A soft lightening of the sky revealed the sunshine just behind parting clouds, and she thought it a fitting witness to her hopeful mood. She had survived a great crash and nearly lost everything, but now she was on her way to spend Christmas with her friends, and her voice had returned to her.

  She started another, even brighter, carol, and studied her reflection in the glass. She scarcely recognized herself, for she did not look like the solemn widow she had become in the last few years.

  She blinked as something moved in the window, and it was a moment before she realized it was Will Wakefield’s reflection. He was fully awake now.

  “I apologize, Lord Willem,” she said, feeling her accustomed solemnity dropping about her like a curtain. She turned to face him. “I did not mean to disturb you.”

  “I cannot recall ever waking to so sweet a sound, or one so evocative of the holidays I have missed while on duty in the East Indies. I did not think it would matter so much to me, but I am now reminded of all the things I used to love.”

  Julia wondered if there was a lady who was part of those memories.

  “But you were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t imagine that I could awaken you.”

  “Only last week, my own mother expressed surprise that the mere eruption of a volcano could have awakened me, but she does not know me as well as she once did.” He smiled and his white teeth were in sharp contrast to his tanned complexion. “But whatever the soundness of my dreams, it was most impolite of me to fall asleep.”

  “You had every reason to be tired. You had done something very heroic, and were burdened with an unconscious woman to carry about. Besides,” she added, and then paused. Her words were a bit indelicate.

  “Besides, I do not look like a man accustomed to physical labor?” he suggested.

  She already concluded that he, in fact, did.

  “I intended to say that you did not have the advantage of a comfortable bed. Did you not sleep in the dressing room?”

  He stretched his back, and his jacket pulled tightly across his shoulders. “I think ‘sleep’ is too generous a word.” He continued to smile.

  “It is as I thought, then,” Julia answered. “You had a rough night.”

  His expression changed as he settled himself back among the cushions, though his eyes never left her face.

  “I could have managed well enough, for I often slept on nothing more than a woven mat in the East Indies. But I was concerned for you.”

  Julia thought that all her instincts about this man were correct; she could hardly fault him that things seemed to be progressing too quickly.

  “I was quite comfortable in my bed,” she said softly. “I was able to rest.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But my concern was whether or not you would find eternal rest.”

  “Oh, dear heavens!” she cried. “Surely you didn’t think I would . . .”

  “. . . not make it to Seabury, to entertain us all? Yes, that is precisely what I did think.”

  “Then you really did save my life. I am grateful.”

  “I daresay others will feel precisely the same way.”

  She did not think she had given away anything of her family history, though they skirted very close to it back at the inn. Did he mean that her presence was required at the Howard’s Christmas celebrations?

  “Your husband, perhaps. I assume there is a Mr. Townshend,” Will Wakefield went on, and pulled the heavy wool blanket closer around his shoulders, though it was warm in the coach.

  Julia again looked out the window, distracted by their passage through a town. A young woman stood beyond a stone wall, watching them go by. Not many years ago, Julia looked as wistful, wondering when she would go beyond the limitations of the only place she ever lived. Then Leighton rode by, stopping when his horse threw a shoe, and her life changed absolutely and wonderfully, if only for a brief while.

  “My husband is dead. I have been a widow these two years.” She turned back to look out the window.

  “You were very young,” Will said. “You then found it necessary to earn your keep.”

  What on earth was he thinking? She was about to respond when she realized he thought she was a singer on the stage. It was a wonder he treated her respectfully, believing this.

  “I am not very young, either in years or experience. But it is very kind of you to say so, my lord.”

  He held up his hand, and she saw he already removed his gloves. He wore a large signet ring, which was to be expected, and an unusual carved ring, which was not. It seemed to be crafted of black stone, with small flecks of silver glinting in the winter sunshine.

  “There will be plenty of time for lording and ladying it when we arrive at the Howards, so you may save your voice for your songs. I understand Princess Charlotte will be in attendance, and she will undoubtedly exhaust our quota of deference.”

  Julia shifted her gaze from his unusual ring to his light eyes, wondering if he was trying to gauge her response.

  “I shall do my best, my lord. And if I sound like a squeaky wheel, I shall have the best excuse. Perhaps you might then whistle in my stead.”

  He laughed. “I should be so lucky as to sound as fine as a squeaky wheel. I have been asked to step away from the pianoforte when friends have joined together to sing Christmas carols.”

  “And yet you have a rather fine voice, deep and resonant. I should think it one that people would find quite compelling.”

  He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands.

  “You may rehearse your songs as much as you wish; do not mind me,” he said, changing the subject. “I have an abundance of reading to accomplish before we arrive at Seabury.”

  “I should also like to read, but I believe my book must be a sodden mess in the wreckage of my coach. Have you anything to share?”

  He looked at her in surprise; surely he did not doubt she knew how to read? The man seemed to have a poor opinion of his countrywomen.

  “Here is something that might interest you.” He pulled a large cache of papers from a leather pouch, tied with string and bookmarked with woven tabs. He held it out to her with both hands, not releasing his hold until she nodded her assurance that she had secured it.

  She hefted it for a mome
nt before settling it in her lap. “I daresay we can travel all the way to Cape Wrath before I finish reading this. But am I not depriving you of your own entertainment?”

  His hands were already pulling out another set of papers, untied and loosely assembled. “Do not be concerned on my account, for I will not be idle. I have already read most of the pages you hold; they engaged me for the long journey from the East Indies to Rotterdam, and then again, across the Channel. I hope to conclude my reading of the manuscript before we reach Seabury. As you see, I do not have very far to go.”

  He held up the pages, which were no thicker than an inch or so, but written in a very tight hand.

  “Then do not mind me,” she said, echoing his words of some moments before. “We shall both be intent.” He nodded and settled back into a comfortable position against the cushions, angling the papers towards the light of the windows.

  She tried to find as advantageous a pose, which was made more difficult by the aching of her muscles and her bruised arm. She wondered if he would very much mind if she raised her legs so that she might balance herself against the opposite seat, but then decided he would think her even more unladylike.

  Though as to that, she was certain he didn’t think her a lady at all.

  She smiled as she untied the string. She could not claim a lineage such as his, but he would be surprised to learn the truth. Perhaps she was just a bit too cautious by not revealing much about herself, for he seemed honest and good. But they had miles to travel, and he might yet be scheming a plot against her.

  However, handing a woman a heavy bundle of papers was not usually a milepost on the road to perdition. Indeed, she rather thought it a compliment.

  “What am I reading?” she asked, without looking up. When he did not answer, she glanced at him, and realized he was attempting to mark his place before interrupting his concentration. Perhaps that was all the more reason for her to ask her question, for this certainly was not a light novel or a volume of poetry. Indeed, it looked to be hard work.