Evidently not.
Unable to read another word, Christine steepled her hands in front of her face and closed her eyes, wishing the world to the devil and Bainbridge with it. And just when they seemed on the way to a better understanding…
Chapter Nine
Harlan drummed his fingers on the polished mahogany desktop, a faint smile curling his lips. Finding ways to please his indifferent bride had eluded him until now but this morning, surely, Christine would understand he was doing his best not only to protect her sisters but to improve the Ashford family’s estates. There were soul-searching moments when he wondered why he was so determined to break through his wife’s cold façade and discover the woman beneath. Could he not simply wait, certain in the knowledge that time would heal her wounds? That was what he had intended when they were wed but somehow…
Even before Christine put off her blacks he had begun to find her face—and yes, her form—attractive. He admired her intelligence, her knowledge of the estate and the people living on it, her kindness to her sisters and to their governess. But for himself—nothing. It was almost as if she feared him, even though he had done everything in his power to wrap his wife and her sisters in all the ease and comforts an earldom could buy.
Wait, be patient. Time will heal all.
But would it? And could he really wait that long?
Harlan groaned. He, the man who had sometimes gone months without a woman, was developing a tendre for the little termagant whose single glance could freeze him to the bone. It couldn’t be the switch from black to gray or whatever she’d done to her hair—he wasn’t that shallow. But lately he’d caught an occasional soft smile and, yes, her shoulders were less stiff. She no longer walked the corridors like a soldier on parade. One evening he’d even heard the tinkling sound of the pianoforte, though the moment he poked his head through the music room door Christine had jerked her hands from the keys, closed the cover and stalked from the room with only the merest nod to acknowledged his existence.
Devil it! What was a man to do?
Show her he was doing his best to care for her and her sisters. And that was exactly why he’d sent for her—
A faint scratching at the door and there she was. Lady Bainbridge. His wife.
“You wished to speak with me?”
Harlan blinked. With a plain white cap atop her hair and white collar and cuffs on her gown, she looked like a Puritan maid from centuries past. Demure, shy—though he knew quite well she was not. He waved her to a chair in front of his desk.
After the stiff exchange of pleasantries which good manners required, Harlan leaned forward and confided, “I fear your suspicions were correct. Jenks has been looking the other way while your sister met with young Sinclair. I have let him go without a character.”
“You can’t do that!” his wife cried. “His family has been on the estate forever. We played with him when we were children.”
“All the more reason for him to care what happens to Lady Daphne,” Harlan asserted, too startled to quite take in her protests.
“No, no, no! You must stop the assignations, yes, but you cannot let Jenks go. A scold is surely enough, perhaps a few weeks on a job he does not care for, cutting timber, repairing cottages—”
She was angry? When he had expected gratitude. Devil take it, the woman was dicked in the nob. “Jenks’ actions endangered your sister. And, I might add, he is not the only one to go. Barnswell is joining him.”
His wife’s jaw snapped shut over the words she had been about to say. She stared. “I beg your pardon?” she murmured after several long moments of silence.
“As long as you are readying yourself to rail at me about Jenks, I thought you should know the whole of it. A thorough study of the account books reveals that Barnswell has been feathering his own nest for years.”
“Papa would never allow such a thing,” Christine cried.
Harlan steepled his fingers before his face, sending up a brief prayer for heavenly assistance. Certainly he was not doing well on his own. After rejecting several possible responses he said quite simply, “No one is perfect, Christine. Not you, not I, not your father. And surely not Aaron Barnswell. He is a thief, and he must go.”
Hell and the devil confound it, she was crying. Glistening drops of moisture ran down her cheeks, though she uttered not a sound.
The ticking of the clock on the mantel seemed to grow louder, filling the room, echoing off the bookshelves. A death knell…when he’d had such hopes.
At last she raised her head, chin high. “Jenks,” she whispered. “Will you at least spare Jenks? Punish him, but do not send him away, I beg you.”
“Done,” Harlan agreed, stifling a bitter sigh. “But he’s going to be slogging through snow and sawing timber ‘til he develops a backbone and a better sense of who puts clothes on his back and a roof over his head.”
Christine stood, proffered a stiff nod of agreement and walked out.
Harlan Ashford, the great negotiator, again bested by a scrap of a female. Devil a bit, why did he keep trying to close the yawning gap between them?
Did you really want to marry Lady Sarah Hutton? Linny’s plaintive question rang loud and clear in his head, reminding him that not all the burden of guilt for their estrangement fell on Christine. When Linny—who could be trusted to speak when everyone else’sa tongues were tied—had revealed the malicious gossip in the letter from London, he should have gone to Christine and explained. Although he and Sarah were childhood friends, he had never given her reason to expect an offer from him. Their betrothal was merely the long-cherished dream of their parents, who had been close friends for years.
But he had shied away from any explanation, thinking it best to let sleeping dogs lie. He had married Christine, had he not? Was that not enough?
Probably not. Harlan heaved a heartfelt sigh. How often had he been reminded patience was a diplomat’s greatest virtue?
Endless patience.
Head bowed, unwilling to look at the ravaged face in the mirror above her ornate Louis Quinze dressing table, Christine waved Sally away. The nightly ritual of having her hair brushed and put into a loose braid was always soothing but after the vicissitudes of the day she wished only to be alone, to be free to give in to the overwhelming temptation to howl to the winter wind. To long for the world that once was and forget the horrid reality of the world of now.
It wasn’t fair. Not fair at all. After her shocking confrontation with Bainbridge she had, in succession, met with Daphne, Jenks and Barnswell. Daphne screamed, Jenks cried and Barnswell had broken down and confessed his guilt. Heartsick, Christine had presided over tea like an automaton, managed a smile for Linny and Miss Applegate as they made their daily report of activities in the schoolroom. As Lady Bainbridge she had presided at dinner with her customary cool efficiency. Daphne did not join them and she and Bainbridge exchanged not more than three sentences the entire meal.
When Bainbridge had shown signs of eschewing after-dinner port in favor of following her into the drawing room, she had run up the stairs to her room and spent the remainder of the evening attempting to read. Which was difficult with tears running down her cheeks, dripping off her chin, and a nose becoming more and more red as she used up almost the entire contents of her handkerchief drawer.
Was there never, ever, to be a good surprise?
You consider marriage a bad surprise? her conscience taunted.
Just because Bainbridge rescued us doesn’t mean—
Then again, perhaps it did. She should be grateful for anything that took them away from Wetherell Manor. And had not Bainbridge sacrificed his own dreams of the future? Possibly even a true love to take on the burden of the Ashford sisters?
“Leave us.”
At the earl’s command Sally, who had been hovering anxiously near the door, scurried from the room.
Christine, horrified, thrust a soggy handkerchief over her face, closed her eyes and prayed her husband was a figment of h
er imagination. Not now, not now!
His steps on the thick carpet were silent but she could feel him coming closer, so close a quick peek in the mirror, though obscured by the lace edge of her handkerchief, revealed he was standing almost directly behind her. Dear Lord, give her strength.
“This nonsense has to stop, Christine. You cannot avoid me forever.”
The final straw in a totally disastrous day. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her future, her sisters’ future depended on her, and she was sitting like a great lump, unable to so much as look at him. Cowardice? Or sheer Ashford stubbornness?
She shivered. Which reminded her she was wearing nothing more than her night-robe and gown. Good stout English woolen but nonetheless…
Christine scrubbed at her eyes, wiped her cheeks and dropped the handkerchief onto the dressing table. She blinked and drew a deep breath before responding. She did not turn around. “I deeply regret the great inconvenience my sisters and I have been to you, Bainbridge. And I fully acknowledge I must make a greater effort to fulfill my part of our bargain. You and I must come to a better understanding, I know, but today has been more than I could bear.” Her breath hitched, her voice threatening to break. “I beg you to go away and leave this conversation until I can more fully support my share in it.”
“I have, I believe, rivaled Job for patience!”
Christine cringed. Only now, when he had run out of patience, could she appreciate how kind and generous Bainbridge had been. To her sisters and to herself. “I am aware of the walls I have built,” she told him. “If I had been like this during my two seasons I would have been termed ‘the impregnable citadel’. Truly, I am trying to do better. But please, not tonight.”
“Look at me!”
“I have said I’m sorry!”
“Sorry you offered to write a character for Barnswell, thief that he is?”
Christine’s head jerked up. In the mirror their eyes met. “Never!” she cried. “He is an old family retainer—I could not simply turn him out.”
“Confound it, woman. I am beginning to see why men beat their wives!”
“You wouldn’t!” Shocked, she turned to face him squarely, eyes wide.
The earl’s shoulders slumped. “Of course I would not but you try me, Christine, you surely do. A man wants a woman of flesh and blood—” He broke off, eyes narrowed, as a thought struck him. “It occurs to me,” he drawled, “that a woman of fire is great improvement over a woman of ice.”
She did not care for the sudden gleam in his eye. Heart pounding, Christine swallowed, searching frantically for the right words. “We have delayed our…true marriage too long,” she offered, “but a day filled with such animosity is not the time to begin. I beg you, give me a bit more time to move from mourning to marriage.” Anxiously, she gazed up at him. “I am truly mindful of the sacrifice you have made for me and my sisters and I will try very hard to become the wife you want. I promise I will make every effort this Christmas season to bring joy back into our lives.
Silence enveloped them as her husband stared at her, his dark eyes black pits in the dim light. “Good night,” he finally pronounced, returning to his bedchamber through the dressing rooms that connected their bedchambers.
Christine, too stunned to cry, shed her night-robe and crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Tomorrow had to be better. Surely…
Sacrifice? Marrying her was a sacrifice? What had she meant by that? How could she know about his reluctance to be earl? Or…could she mean Lady Sarah? Did Christine think he’d given up his true love to rescue the Ashworth sisters? Could she possibly credit him with being so noble? Or was she perhaps a wee bit jealous?
Harlan’s lips curled in a near smile. Little termagant! Her eyes might have been red but they’d sparked with the defiance he had seen the day they met in the Wetherell’s drawing room. She would never be easy, his wife, but he was beginning to realize a woman of spirit could make his life interesting for years to come. And make the getting of children far more pleasant than he had anticipated.
Very well, he would remember he was a negotiator. He would conquer his urge for confrontation and grant her more time. A bit more time.
But her days were numbered. He could only hope she had sense enough to realize it.
Chapter Ten
Christine stood in the center of the hall and drew in a deep breath of pine and spruce, augmented by a whiff of the hot wassail set out to celebrate the end of a long day of decorating. She turned slowly, taking in the results of their efforts. Green garlands flowed along the mantel above the great fireplace and twisted around the banister of the imposing staircase. Large scarlet velvet bows, strategically placed, added a vivid touch of color to the garlands. On a circular table in the center of the hall was an arrangement almost four feet tall, boasting not only evergreen boughs and pinecones but masses of holly, more scarlet bows and, at the very top, a cluster of white-berried mistletoe.
Too much for a house of mourning? Some would say so, Christine feared. But surely the cold dreariness of their lives had been weighing them down past all bearing. It wasn’t as if they were going to entertain. All this, and the decorations in the drawing room, were just for the family, an attempt to bring cheer back into their lives.
Christine could still hear Daphne’s screams of rage when her rides were confined to the open fields to the east of Ashford Park or a gentle jaunt to the village. They had reverberated throughout the house, followed by a fit of the sulks that had lasted for days. And were reflected in Linny’s solemn little face. With Christmas only days away, gloom had settled around them even more firmly than before. Including the deep abyss that had once been her heart. And now, lovely as the decorations were, they seemed to be bringing tears to her eyes rather than a smile to her lips.
So lovely…yet they hurt. Designed to dazzle the eye, they stabbed through her heart. And if the magic of Christmas failed to cheer her, how could she expect her sisters to—
“Christine, Christine!” Emma Applegate stood at the top of the stairs, her hands clutching the gallery rail. “I cannot find Linny,” she cried. “I have searched everywhere. Everywhere! She’s not to be found.”
“What?” For a moment Christine could not take it in. Impossible. Less than an hour since Linny had been helping them decorate. “Have you tried the stables?” she asked.
“Sally herself searched the stables, every inch, even the hayloft.”
“Then she is hiding,” Christine declared flatly.
“She’s been taken by gypsies!” Daphne pronounced in dramatic accents as she joined Miss Applegate on the gallery above the hall.
“Nonsense! We never see gypsies this time of year. Nor would they ever so abuse our hospitality.”
“Well she’s gone,” Daphne countered. “Are you saying she just wandered off with night coming on?”
“And snow threatening.”
All three women stared at the Earl of Bainbridge as he slammed the front door before brushing a fresh sprinkling of snow from the sleeves of his heavy woolen coat and stamping his snow-covered boots on the green marble floor. “Now what’s this about Linny?” he demanded.
“Miss Applegate and Daphne have just told me she is missing,” Christine returned. “Since I find it impossible to believe she would venture out in this weather, I believe she is hiding somewhere in the house.”
“Whatever for?”
“A good question.” Christine sighed. Silence reigned as Daphne and Miss Applegate descended the stairs and joined them. “I had hoped that decorating the house would help bring us out of the depths of mourning and remind us of the promise of Christmas and the new year to come.” Christine paused, once again looking around the magnificently decorated entry hall. “But when it was done I felt the pain of remembering Christmases past, and perhaps Linny did too. I feel quite strongly that she is hiding somewhere in the house. Perhaps she just needs to be alone, or perhaps she needs to have us look for her, proving that we
truly care.”
“Oh my dear,” Miss Applegate murmured.
Daphne drew in a sharp breath as if, for once, she was thinking of someone besides herself.
“At least I pray it is so,” Christine added. “To think of her outside on such a night…”
“Are there any secret passages?” Bainbridge asked.
“Secret passages?” Christine blinked. How clever of him, even if it were not so. “If there are, I have never heard of them. I think we must ask the servants to let the wassail grow cold while we search from cellars to attic.”
In less than a quarter hour the earl had organized the searchers into teams. He and one of the footmen would take the cellars, Christine and Sally would try the attics while Daphne, Emma Applegate and the remainder of the household staff searched every nook and cranny of Ashford Park’s three main floors.
“It’s so dark, my lady,” Sally whispered as they stood in the open doorway at the top of the attic stairs. “How we’re t’find our hands before our faces, I’m sure I don’t know.”
“That,” Christine informed her, “is why we each have a brace of three candles.”
“Yes, my lady,” Sally muttered as she drew her cloak more tightly about her. “‘Tis a shame they don’t give off heat.”
“I daresay Bainbridge will find us before we turn to icicles,” Christine returned. “Let us begin—” She broke off, frowning. Her rather tart statement was true, she realized. She had come to depend on the earl’s reliability, on his sense of duty.
As much as she might wish he had married her for herself.
She admired him. Liked him. Could even love—
Now? How absolutely ridiculous that in the midst of searching for Linny she was struck by the realization she cared for her husband. Of all the absurd times—
“My lady?” Sally’s anxious voice brought Christine back to the task at hand.
“I’ll take the left, you go right,” she ordered, and they plunged into the icy black void of the attic, each holding their brace of candles high.
The Last Surprise Page 6
