The girl rolled over and stared at her blankly, escaped strands of dark hair covering parts of her face. “My mother is dead.”
Oh, dear! Why hadn’t she thought of this? One ought never to make such assumptions. “I’m sorry.” Eliza’s own parents were still alive. As far as she knew. Presumably, she and Thomas would have been notified had one of them passed.
“Don’t be. It’s not as though she made a big difference in my life—”
Mrs. Blake made a few disapproving sounds.
“Well, it’s true.” Miss Fairchild’s gaze flicked toward the maid.
“I would imagine one would miss what a mother provides, even if one doesn’t recognize it.” Eliza reached over to the small table by the bed to absentmindedly examine the contents of her reticule.
Had Lord Crestwood’s wife had been alive at the time she’d known him? For a moment, she hoped the woman had died in childbirth—not that she wished any woman such a horrible and tragic death, nor that she’d wished his children never to have known their mother, but that she’d wished she’d not committed adultery twelve years ago.
Was it possible?
Following his abrupt departure, she’d regarded him as a bounder and a rake, but this! She never would have imagined. Not once had he given her any indication…
How could this be happening? Her stomach lurched. She had to be certain.
“You must be coming out soon, Miss Fairchild. Are you yet six and ten?” The girl was older than twelve, but Eliza must be certain.
“Nearly. I will be in a few weeks, but my father is making me wait two years before taking me to London. He treats me like a child!”
Oh, and, of course, the son was even older. That meant the woman had been quite alive when Eliza had known him.
It was worse than she ever could have imagined. She would have liked to bury her own face upon that pillow alongside Miss Fairchild.
His grown daughter.
Not only had he had a wife, but he’d also had a family!
Eliza blinked away tears of anger, raging inside all the while she sat placidly upon the bed with her back straight and her lips pinched together tightly.
Suddenly, the room seemed to be closing in from all sides. She could not sit here a second longer.
She burst from the bed and, without further comment, located her coat and gloves.
“Surely, you aren’t going outside, miss?” Mrs. Blake looked at her in astonishment.
“I… I…“ How could she explain herself? “I have need of some air.”
“But you’ll catch your death!” The maid glanced out the window. If anything, the storm had strengthened. She could barely make out the brown of the stable across the yard.
Eliza half stumbled toward the door. “I’ll only be a moment.”
And then she was rushing through the tight corridor outside the various chambers. Head down, she descended the stairs, crossed through the taproom, and slipped outside, grateful for once for her invisibility.
The wind bit into her cheeks and tugged at her coat and hair the instant she stepped away from the building. But she didn’t care. She deserved it.
She’d held onto those passion filled memories. She’d dreamt of him, longed for him. She’d made excuses for him despite his abandonment. For a time, she’d mourned him, assuming that he must have died.
If he’d yet lived, surely, he would have come back to her.
Because the man she’d thought she’d known would not have hurt her the way he had. In the wake of his departure, her life had turned upside down.
Such memories could only curse her now.
He’d been married! She’d allowed him to make love to her and all along, he’d had a wife!
A copse of trees beckoned from behind the Inn. Her feet, somewhat protected by well-worn but practical half-boots, did not feel the cold. Only a few inches of snow had as of yet accumulated.
With her eyes focused on a perfectly shaped evergreen, she tripped her way forward to escape any eyes that might have seen her flight. If only she could flee this day as well. Or skip over it, pretend it never happened.
If only she could flee from herself!
She increased her pace, practically running until she was safely out of sight of the windows overlooking the yard. She picked her way through the trees until she found a thick, solid trunk with little brush at its base that would support her.
Where she proceeded to bend over and lose what was surely the entire contents of her stomach. The retching sounds roared in her ears. Eyes closed, she half-sobbed with each convulsion.
She hated him. Oh, how she hated him. He was evil.
I am evil!
She choked on another sob.
Clutching her abdomen with one hand, supporting herself against the tree with her other, she spit onto the ground in an attempt to remove the taste of bile from her mouth.
She’d had relations with a married man outside of wedlock.
Twelve years ago!
She’d known her behavior had been bad enough but to learn he’d been married…
Her stomach convulsed again but nothing remained to expel. Tears streamed down her face now. Tears she’d not even realized she’d shed.
Leaning forward, she allowed the sharp edges of the bark to press into the top of her head. Cold seeped through her shoes and a gust of wind blew right through her wool coat, shawl, dress, and underclothes.
He’d asked… no, he’d essentially demanded she join him and his children for the evening meal. And she’d not refused.
Oh, how she hated that she’d grown so utterly accustomed to putting the wishes of others before her own.
“Miss Cline?”
Eliza drew in a deep breath. Of course, now, he would come upon her in such humiliating circumstances.
“Leave me, please.” Her voice sounded hoarse, practically a whisper.
A crisp white linen handkerchief appeared before her, clasped in those long, elegant fingers of his.
“I cannot allow you to remain outside.” He opened his hand, encouraging her to take the slip of material. On a sigh, she reluctantly accepted it and dabbed the linen against her lips, still bending over and quite unwilling to look him in the face.
“I imagine you hate me about now.” That same languid voice she remembered from so long ago dripped from his mouth. “With good reason.”
“You had a wife.” The words burned her throat, and she forced herself to stifle another sob that threatened to escape. “A wife!” At last, she turned her head and met his gaze.
She hadn’t realized he was crouching beside her, nor that his face would be so close to hers. Those hawkish features of his, not to mention his stunning green eyes, were mere inches from her own.
He held her stare steadily and nodded.
“I hate you. I will hate you forever.” She’d never said those words to another living person. And yet they were also directed inward. She hated everything about herself at that moment. Why did he have to show up here, of all places, with his beautiful but spoiled children?
She noticed a movement in his throat, as though he were swallowing her hatred.
His hand touched her back, and she flinched out of his reach.
But then it settled there again, and she had nowhere to go.
She moaned, and he pulled his hand away.
“Please come back inside,” he begged, sounding resigned. “I cannot leave you out here in the cold like this.”
She’d given him her body. Although she’d been working at the inn, she had been a gently bred young lady. “You had no difficulty leaving me before. Now, I understand why. You had a wife to return to. A wife and two children! I’m no responsibility of yours.”
If only she could remain outside forever. Allow the cold to penetrate her body as much as her guilt had taken over her soul. Disappear completely.
But such thoughts were evil.
She couldn’t wallow in self-pity forever. Others depended upon her. Or d
id they?
“I cannot walk through a room full of strangers looking like this,” she said when he did not respond to her accusation. She must look a fright, with tree bark in her hair and splotches of red streaking her face.
A heavy coat dropped onto her shoulders.
Ah, the irony. He would protect her from a blizzard now, when he’d…
But the worst of it all was that she’d been equally to blame. She had known it was wrong. She’d been engaged! Everything she’d ever learned in life had promised her she’d suffer for such poor judgment.
Earlier today, she’d wished for something more in her life. She had to learn to be careful of what she wished for.
She inhaled and the scent of man, the scent of such an elegant masculine gentleman, engulfed her senses, reminding her partly of why she’d given herself to him in the first place. What kind of woman was she?
She shivered in the warmth left over from his body.
Eliza could not change the past any more than she could change her current circumstances.
She wiped her mouth again with his handkerchief. “I do not require your coat.” She rose to her full height. He pushed himself from his haunches and managed to somehow appear as equally formal and handsome as before he’d come out into the storm.
Except for the lock of hair that now swept along his cheek and jaw, seeming to emphasize his austere features all the more.
A blast of wind ripped between the trees, and she swayed, her knees nearly buckling.
“Steady there.” This time, when he took hold of her arm, she hadn’t the strength to push him away. Her moment of revulsion having left her weakened.
She hated feeling weak. She was Miss Eliza Cline—dependable, strong, able to step in whenever parishioners were in need.
Eliza Cline was not this pathetic, scandalous woman who’d run recklessly into a blizzard.
“I am fine.” She forced her shoulders back.
It wasn’t that anyone else would know or suspect what she’d done. But… knowing herself was bad enough.
And God knew.
She shuddered but made herself take one step, and then another.
“Eliza! Miss Cline!” His voice halted her. If he deigned to apologize or make some excuse or reason for omitting such pertinent information when they’d been acquainted before, she was going to scream.
This was not something she could forgive.
“What?” she answered impatiently, freezing in place.
“The inn is this way.”
She lifted her chin and made an attempt to find her bearings. The snow was falling so thick now that she could barely make out the shadow of the building she’d fled from. If he hadn’t followed her, she might have simply wandered off to nowhere, never to be heard from again.
And no one would have been the wiser.
She blinked at her maudlin thoughts but turned and walked in the direction he indicated. Her feet were freezing but other than that, she only felt emptiness.
He did not attempt to touch her as they trekked through accumulating snow. Upon reaching the covered porch at the entrance, Eliza shrugged out of his coat and numbly handed it over. White flakes covered his hair and shoulders. His face was grim.
Apparently, he, too, realized that any sort of apology could never be accepted. What he’d done was unforgivable. She was relieved he realized this.
She would not thank him for coming after her, nor for the use of his coat. Looking at him only managed to rebuke her for what she’d done.
“I’ll see you at supper,” he reminded her.
She nodded. And sometime in the future, she’d meet him in hell.
* * *
Henry waited outside long after Miss Cline left him standing there. He’d been the one to walk away twelve years ago.
He’d been traveling through Misty Brookes and stopped at… what had she called it, oh, yes—The Dog and Pudding Pot—when he’d first met her. She’d been open and friendly when he’d wanted conversation. She’d surprised him with her intelligence and profound opinions. She’d also been engaged to marry the innkeeper’s son. Henry could not remember the man’s name; he barely remembered how he’d even arrived in that fateful village; he’d been so mired in despair from what he’d learned of his wife’s condition.
That the young girl who made him laugh had belonged to another man and to Henry, that had been of no consequence. Neither had he considered that he had nothing to offer her. He’d pretended to be a bachelor, a younger brother to himself. He’d pretended his troubles never existed and that he was merely a young man returning from a leisurely trip to London.
He’d filled her head with lies.
He’d flirted with her, dazzled her with his fine speech and aristocratic airs. Ah, yes, what an ass he’d been. And when he’d sensed that she was falling in love with him, he’d done nothing to dissuade her. In fact, he’d encouraged her.
And then he’d seduced her.
Henry would shoot any man who dared a sideways glance at his own daughter, let alone acted in the manner that he had.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t cared for Eliza… Miss Cline… in his own selfish way. She’d been like a balm to his soul at the time. He’d imagined he could love her while it suited him. Since God had cast him into a living hell with Francine’s injury, he’d believed he could strike back at life however he’d liked.
Remorse had come later, when he’d gone home and sat with Francine that first night.
A combination of self-disgust and bitter regret had moved into his soul.
It had yet to depart.
He’d hurt Miss Cline in the worst way and betrayed his wife at the same time. Francine had been lost within herself, lost to reality, and even though he’d confessed, she’d only nodded with that empty look in her eyes.
But he’d abandoned Miss Cline to suffer the consequences.
Henry had been the cause of her broken engagement, and in turn, she had never married. If her fiancé had jilted her it was possible their affair had been exposed. What other penalties had she endured?
No wonder she’d had to run into the forest to vomit. He deserved her hatred. He deserved far worse than that.
A whipping gust of wind reminded him he was standing outside in freezing weather. He brushed the snow off his head. Nothing he could do about it now. It was obvious she had no desire for him to make an apology. No apology could suffice.
She’d recoiled from his touch.
Stepping inside, he determined he would make certain she had all that was needed for her stay at this infernal inn. And then they’d go their separate ways.
He could not change the past. But she could rely on him to be the utmost gentleman in the present.
Chapter Four
Dinner conversation
Eliza should have chosen to dine in the taproom amongst the other guests; she would have been a thousand times more comfortable. She’d have been ignored, as usual, and not been concerned about her appearance or making conversation.
Instead, she sat in Lord Crestwood’s private dining quarters, a warm fire burning in the corner and several candles flickering in the center of the table, feeling most out of place.
Miss Charlotte Fairchild sat morosely playing with her soup. A nervous energy emanated from Lord Crestwood’s son, who sat bouncing one knee unpleasantly after consuming his own soup in less than two minutes.
Lord Crestwood seemed to be doing his best to ignore them all.
The soup had been watered down. Eliza speculated that the innkeepers hadn’t been prepared for such a full establishment and needed to stretch supplies somewhat. It was only right, however, to appreciate what was set before her.
When one of the maids entered to serve a few loaves of bread, Eliza didn’t miss the furtive glances exchanged between the very young woman and young Mr. Fairchild. Lord Crestwood’s son had obviously already charmed the woman, if her fluttering lashes and smile were anything to go by.
Eliza pinched h
er lips together.
Like father, like son.
This was too hard. How could she not remember the past with him sitting just a few feet across from her?
Just as his son was now, Henry had been incredibly handsome. She’d known he had been older than her. She hadn’t stood a chance against such charm, not to mention that he’d been born into the aristocracy! He’d been attractive in every way imaginable. He’d asked her opinion on matters that meant something to her. It had been refreshing to discuss philosophy, history and literature instead of chamber pots and laundry. And he’d listened to her. And she had listened to him.
He’d told her she was beautiful.
She’d been besotted with him.
She had enjoyed all of it up until the end—that was until he’d abandoned her. She’d not acted at all like an engaged woman. She’d acted like a trollop.
She and Mathew’s nuptials had been hastily cancelled. Eliza’s own parents had told her not to bother coming back home. If not for Thomas…
Her brother had welcomed Eliza back at the vicarage. She could assist him, he had reassured her, with cleaning and cooking and some of his paperwork. He’d taken her in unquestioningly despite adamant complaints from some of his parishioners.
The shunning she’d experienced over the next few years had been painful but well deserved.
“Would you care for some butter?”
Eliza snapped out of her musings enough to decline the plate Henry––Lord Crestwood–– offered.
“No thank you.” Only in truth, the bread was dry, and she would have appreciated a smidge of butter. But she didn’t want to take anything from him. It was bad enough she was here.
She refused to meet his eyes.
“On second thought, I would.” She took the plate before he could set it down. “Thank you,” she added.
“How did the two of you meet, Father?” His son seemed willing to make conversation in order to relieve his boredom.
“While traveling.”
“I worked at an inn.”
The Perfect Christmas: With Bonus Material Added Page 4
