Under a Christmas Sky

by Sharon Sobel

  “Would you not have met me here at Seabury? Or would you not have noticed me among the younger beauties?”

  His fingers stopped their insistent tattoo. “I would have noticed you in a crowd of thousands.”

  If she hadn’t guessed it already, she knew she was forgiven, if indeed there was anything to forgive.

  “And yet here we are, once again alone in a room, with no one particularly concerned for my reputation.”

  “Then I suggest we take full advantage of the opportunity,” he said.

  The same fingers that had expressed his agitation now caught her at her elbow and urged her to rise as he did. Julia did not need much persuasion to come around the small expanse of the table to stand before him, and lift her hands to circle around his neck. He brought her even closer, so she was warmed by every contour of his body, and loose woman that she was, she kissed him.

  “Dear Mrs. Townshend,” he murmured against her lips. “I thought I had lost you.”

  “And yet you were perfectly prepared to leave me to go searching for Geoff’s horses down in Penzance or wherever you imagined they might be.” She sighed as she clung to him, her breath so rapid, she thought her heart would burst.

  He laughed, and she felt the rumble of it in his chest. “Thank you for saving me from that, but I believe I thought only of you. You lost something in that violent transaction as well.”

  “I shall miss some of those jewels, but memories are of more value than emeralds.” She paused, knowing this was not the moment to complain about the loss of the Kingswood necklace. “And perhaps I found something of greater value.”

  “The manuscript, of course,” he said, holding her apart and looking down at her. “Raffles will be so very pleased to hear it.”

  “And you, Lord Willem Wakefield? Can you reconcile yourself to waltzing with Lady Leighton Kingswood? She is not so very different from her predecessor, though perhaps better dressed.”

  “I rather liked that green dress we picked up in Langerford, with those white things about the neck.”

  Julia pulled herself out of his hold and put her hands at her hips in mock exasperation. “Those white things are called crocheted flowers, and one doesn’t merely pick up a dress. Did you not see how those poor seamstresses were pinning it all around me?”

  “It did seem a complicated affair,” he acknowledged, and grinned.

  “What is this about an affair?” asked Laurentia, choosing that moment to interrupt their conversation. She swept into the room in a lovely gown that surely had not been “picked up” anywhere, holding a train of greenery.

  “We are discussing dressmaking, my dear, and my hope that my gowns might be recovered. I should like to wear my shepherdess’s dress to the Masquerade Ball,” said Julia, straightening her bodice.

  Laurentia’s expression left no doubt that she did not believe her. “Is that where my husband is off to? To track down his recalcitrant servants? I warned him about that girl, Minerva.”

  “Mimma,” Julia corrected. “That is what she calls herself.”

  Laurentia cast her a glance, and Julia wondered when she had seen her in such an exasperated state.

  “Lady Howard, he is sending several men to do his bidding,” said Will. He separated himself from Julia with a few steps. “I believe he has retreated to the sanctuary of his library.”

  “Then he is probably staring out the window, fully aware that it has started to snow again. We may need those men to shovel the drive and lead the horses out of the snowbanks.” Laurentia looked speculatively at them. “But you need not worry about your lost shepherdess’s dress, for I will not have my sister dressing like a rustic. Every other woman intends to be a queen of one age or another.”

  Every other lady of Laurentia’s acquaintance was already a queen, real or imagined. Knowing this, Julia had intended to stand out from the others. Besides, she thought that her simple dress, with its green leg-of-mutton sleeves, would be a fine prelude to her selection of Christmas country songs on Christmas Eve. But her sister-in-law wished to make a point, undoubtedly for Will’s benefit, and Julia was not in the mood to dispute it as Laurentia turned on her heel and left the room, nearly tripping over the train of greenery now tangled between her feet. As she regained her balance, she murmured something that was decidedly rustic.

  DINNER WAS AN elegant affair, even if one might be reminded of Macbeth’s great feast, with its empty chairs. No one expected ghosts to make an appearance, though Laurentia was clearly hopeful some latecomers, delayed by the snow, might arrive in good time.

  Just as her guests finished the duck aspic, that good time arrived, as Lord and Lady Jersey burst unceremoniously through the door.

  “The roads are so dreadful, we shall be obliged to remain in Rye until the spring,” said Lady Jersey, waving off the gentlemen who started to rise. “Sit, sit. It is we who are interrupting the formalities of your lovely dinner. We scarcely deserve your notice.”

  “As if we could ignore you, darling Silence,” said Laurentia, coming around the table to hug her old friend. Everyone laughed good-naturedly, for the nickname, so popular in London, was intended to be ironic. Lady Jersey hardly ever stopped talking. In fact, her presence already guaranteed a lively party.

  But poor Lord Jersey looked like he’d had quite enough of conversation, and after seating his wife, sat down heavily at her side. They were just across the table from Julia, but introductions were not needed.

  “It is Lady Leighton Kingswood, if I am not mistaken? We met once along the footpath in Hyde Park,” Lord Jersey reminded her.

  “We did indeed, Lord Jersey. If I recall, you then reported that you had just become a father.”

  “Possibly not for the first time, Lady Leighton. We have three fine boys.”

  “They remain at Osterley Park,” Lady Jersey said briefly, and no other explanation was necessary. Without touching anything at her place setting, she stood and moved down the line to wait for the chair to be pulled out next to Will. Perhaps no other explanation was necessary here either, as Lady Jersey was notoriously fond of handsome young men.

  “And how are things in The Hague, Lord Willem? I hope your mother is well? She promised me black tulips last season. and I have not yet received them.”

  “My parents are well, Lady Jersey. If you refer to a package of tulip bulbs, I have them wrapped in newsprint, in my room.”

  “I hope they are hardy enough to survive such a long trip, in the snow and cold.”

  “Like most things in the Netherlands, they are hardy stock,” Will said, and glanced at Julia. Lady Jersey followed his gaze and nodded thoughtfully as she brought her silver spoon to her lips.

  “Yes, and very reliable. A lady could do a lot worse than marry a Dutchman,” said Lady Jersey, and then made elegant, if quick, business of her beet soup.

  “And yet my mother married an Englishman,” Will said quietly.

  “They are reliable as well,” said Laurentia. “And are known for other qualities.”

  Julia watched as their hostess sent a silent message to her husband, at the opposite end of the table. That he knew just what she meant was clear from his expression, which made Laurentia blush like a girl in her first season. The rest of them might as well have been elsewhere.

  In the brief respite that followed, the Christmas guests concentrated on their excellent dinner and on not meeting anyone else’s eyes. Even Silence Jersey seemed reflective, though on the warm relationship between the Howards, or the quality of the silver, Julia could not say.

  She, herself, was too familiar in this household to reflect on either. But she used the moments of solitude absorbed in her own thoughts, mostly about the reliable, steady, and very fine man who carried a bag of tulip bulbs with him on his journey, just to please a lady.

  THE HOWARDS’ GUESTS continued
to arrive, even after the midnight hour, when no one could reasonably expect the servants to be ready to receive travelers. The ladies retired to the parlor and then made their apologies as they went up to bed, but the gentlemen remained downstairs and found comfort in the warm fire, the cushioned chairs, and the bottomless crystal decanters of sherry in Geoff’s library. Peter Arquist set out the playing cards. Mr. Wolfe worried that the warmth in the ballroom would dry out his violin. Young Lord Cartigan pulled out a large bound atlas and wished to know where his companions had traveled, and what he might expect someday when he took his own grand tour. Old Mr. Patterson promptly fell asleep near the fire, and Geoff gently snuffed out his lit cigar before he burnt down the place.

  It was an excellent December evening, one of the last of 1816, but Will wished to find comfort elsewhere. He gazed upwards at the frescoed ceiling, no doubt painted by some luminary of the last century, and imagined he heard a wisp of song and the briefest scent of lavender.

  “She is a well-endowed little angel,” said Geoff suddenly, as he sat beside him.

  Startled, Will turned to his friend, whose gaze also turned skyward.

  “Can you possibly be speaking of . . .”

  “The half-dressed beauty just above us, with that ‘come hither’ look. One can only wonder where the artist found his muse, though there have always been Howard cousins who bear no resemblance to the rest of the family. I suppose they are the lucky ones,” Geoff said.

  Will settled back in his chair, relieved they were just discussing a ceiling painting. “You are inviting me to compliment you, my friend, and tell you that you outrank many men in both titles and looks.”

  “Yes, of course. I am very put off by the fact that Lady Jersey devoted her attention entirely to you at dinner this evening. My nose is completely out of joint.”

  “Not even Sally Jersey would flirt with a man whose wife is seated not yards from him, and is known for her strong opinions. I happened to be conveniently situated, and she was rather more interested in tulip bulbs than in me,” Will said reasonably enough. Of course, the lady had patted his thigh many more times than was necessary. And at no time had it been necessary.

  “Lady Sally is not the sort to be interested in anything that goes into the ground, unless it is a boring husband,” said Geoff.

  “Was Lady Leighton’s husband boring?” Will asked. He knew almost nothing about the man, other than that he had been dearly loved. Perhaps that’s all he would ever need to know.

  “Leighton? He was a good chap, and a kind person, the sort of fellow who would drive a friend home after a wild night of carousing, or welcome a stranger into his home. I suppose there is some irony in that, for the new master of Kingswood was a stranger to him, some distant cousin who knows no more about estate management than you know about bricklaying.”

  Will thought about some of the ways he had endeavored to be helpful after Tambora’s eruption. “I know something of bricklaying. And thatching roofs, as well.”

  “But you see my point, I suspect. The current earl is a man out of his element.”

  “He must be kind to Lady Leighton, if she remains on the estate.” For the first time, Will considered the possibility that she was interested in that man. There were no church prohibitions about marrying the many-times-removed cousin of one’s deceased husband.

  Geoff shook his head, though he still gazed at the ceiling, as if seeing it for the first time. “Laurentia would like her here with us, if for nothing else but to meet other eligible men. Instead, Julia has closeted herself away in some cottage on the property, and tells us she is quite content. Leighton left her well off, particularly when you consider she possessed little or nothing when first they met.”

  “Perhaps she values things other than jewels and elegant gowns.” Will remembered how she looked, only days ago, in her hurriedly tailored gown at a country ball. She was magnificent.

  “I daresay you are correct.” Geoff finally lowered his gaze and his dark eyes met Will’s light blue ones. “Many ladies attempt to reinvent themselves after a marriage is over. But I believe our charming Julia will never change. Leighton adored her just as she was, and there must be a man about who will adore her just as she is.”

  “Is there already such a man?” Will asked, and then cleared his throat.

  “I cannot be certain.” They continued to study each other. And then Geoff said, barely audibly, “Yes, I believe there is.”

  WILL EXCUSED HIMSELF from the card playing, the drinking, and a rather ribald game of charades that had just begun, even though the hour was quite late. Perhaps it was precisely because the hour was quite late. But once he closed the door behind him and stood in the chilly foyer, he felt like he had entered another world, where other possibilities beckoned, and hope was as fresh as the snow still falling outside. Once again, he thought he heard the sound of a song, tempting him to climb the broad staircase to the bedrooms above.

  In the unaccustomed silence, he heard the sound of his own footsteps, tapping a beat on the marble steps. He paused at the first landing, at first hearing nothing but his own faint echo, and then realizing that the music he heard was not an illusion, but was a voice he was coming to know quite well. He followed it, no longer listening to himself, but to the other, his other.

  She was behind a closed door at the far end of the hallway, and paused as soon as she heard his light taps on the heavy oak.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, though she pulled him in so quickly, she must have had some idea. “Do you know the hour?”

  Will frowned as he looked around the room, not sure where he was. It certainly was not a bedchamber, unless one hoped to sleep on a narrow chaise. There were several seats about, large chunks of granite, that made one think of an ancient amphitheater. And then he saw a raised platform on which stood a blanketed form. It was Laurentia’s studio.

  “This is where Laurentia works in the winter, for it is far too cold for her in her workshop. Though as to that, it was a dreadful summer, so I believe this has not changed since last year. There was the baby, of course.”

  Will turned to her, forgetting about the unusual room. “Of course.”

  Julia wore a short jacket, which made her look like a diminutive sailor, though he could not recall any man at sea looking quite like her. She had a knitted scarf around her neck, though she looked warm enough with her red cheeks and bright eyes. Scattered about on the nearby blocks of marble were music sheets, which were a language as indecipherable to him as hieroglyphs.

  “She gave me permission to practice here,” Julia explained, shrugging her slim shoulders. “I hope she did not give you leave to use the room as well.”

  “No one gave me permission to do anything. I did nothing more than follow your song to this room, like seafarers once did to the sirens.”

  She looked doubtful, and he wondered if he presumed too much by the reference. After all, ladies only knew what they read and an indifferent governess could have provided her with nothing more than Fordyce’s sermons. But he should have known better.

  “That sounds a bit dangerous, Will. You risk being dashed against the rocks and by nothing more than the sound of my voice. Should you not tie yourself down?”

  He decided it best not to take her cue and refrain discussing anything about being tied down. She was a clever and well-read lady, but perhaps she did not know everything.

  “For what I intend to do, tying myself to a mast would be a distinct disadvantage.”

  “Then I should stop singing, poor performer that I am. I would not risk another wreck,” she said, smiling, which was as fine an invitation as he ever received.

  “It would not matter. You may silence your song, but I am already seduced. I would hear your music even if I were a hundred miles from here.”

  “But I am not.”

  That did
it. He took her hand, savoring its softness and warmth, and kissed her.

  Chapter 6

  JULIA AWOKE AGAINST something hard and thought she might have fallen asleep on one of the blocks of marble in Laurentia’s studio. The last thing she remembered was practicing her songs in the stillness of the night, surrounded by an audience of half-formed figures and chiseled bits of white stone.

  And then the marble on which she lay moved, just slightly, and her memory was startled into recalling other things. She opened her eyes.

  Her cheek was on Will’s broad chest, rising and falling with each breath he took. With each rise, she took stock of their surroundings, and decided that the absence of flowered dimity and lace suggested they were in a man’s bedchamber. Will’s bedchamber. Or, at least, the one he was assigned while at the Seabury Christmas party.

  It was a fine room, but it did not matter. The passionate pleasures they shared last night had nothing to do with the furnishings or the comfort of the overstuffed mattress. They could have been anywhere—including a cramped coach—so long as they were together and did the things they did. Julia blushed just thinking about it. Leighton had been dead for only eighteen months, but she had already forgotten it could be like this.

  But then, it had never been quite like this.

  “Do you suppose we can manage to be snowbound for another few months?” Julia heard Will’s voice vibrate deeply in his chest.

  She shifted so she could look over the rumpled bedding to the window and, not surprisingly, it was still snowing. “You may have your wish, Will, but I doubt it will go unnoticed if we do not join the others for Christmas. Laurentia will be quite put off, and instruct the servants to push us out the door. As it is, we may not have more than an hour left to us this morning.”

  “Then I suggest we use it to our best advantage,” Will said, and rolled her onto her back. She looked up at him, at his hair falling over his forehead, at the light shadow of his beard, at his half-closed eyes. “And to think that I called you ‘Lady Frost’ when first we met.”