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A COUNTESS FOR CHRISTMAS
OTHER WORKS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A COUNTESS FOR CHRISTMAS
Anthea Lawson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2013 Anthea Lawson. Originally published in the anthology Christmas Ghosts, WMG Publishing, October 2013. All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, other than for review purposes, contact [email protected]. Visit the author at www.anthealawson.com and sign up for notice of new releases - http://www.tinyletter.com/AntheaLawson
QUALITY CONTROL: If you encounter any typos or formatting problems, please contact [email protected] so they may be corrected.
November 6, 1814
Tarrick Hall, Suffolk
Dear Miss Cecilia Fairfax,
Do not be unduly alarmed, but I am writing on behalf of your brother, Marcus. He is well, but suffered a hunting accident that has left his eyesight temporarily damaged, and I have agreed to help him navigate his correspondence.
His first wish was to write to you, and assure you he is (mostly) unharmed. Although he believes your first impulse will be to rush to his side, he would urge most strongly that you remain at home, tending to your father. In addition, Marcus asks that you make no mention of his current infirmity, so as not to lay an additional burden upon the viscount so soon after the loss of your mother.
As the accident occurred here at my estate, I am taking every measure to provide for your brother and ensure he is receiving the best of medical care. The doctor is confident Marcus will regain his eyesight within the month.
Marcus would like to assure you he plans to return as usual to Wiltshire for the Christmas season. He sends his love and reminds you that you are “a willow in the wind.”
Yours, etc.
Liam Cahill Barrett, 5th Earl of Tarrick
Cecilia Fairfax sank back into the tapestry-upholstered chair, the letter trembling slightly in her hand. A hunting accident? Oh, Marcus!
The fire burning in the parlor grate did little to ward off the chill creeping through her. She supposed she should be grateful her twin brother hadn’t blown his foot off, or shot the Earl of Tarrick in the shoulder, but still—the timing was wretched.
Forcing her breathing to calm, Cecilia sat forward and re-read the letter, searching for clues to Marcus’s true condition. The “mostly” was clearly the earl’s addition, as her brother was known to always put things in the rosiest light possible.
“Mostly” unharmed. It was small comfort.
She had known, the previous week, that something had happened to Marcus, through that curious bond they shared as twins. On Tuesday afternoon, while sitting with Father, her eyes had suddenly stung and burned, and her heart thumped like an enormous drum, tuned so tightly the next beat might make it burst. She had gasped aloud, and Father had asked what was the matter.
She’d made a vague reply, and the episode passed, but anxiety for Marcus had lodged like an iron splinter in her chest.
And now she knew.
The splinter still ached and pricked, however. She did want to rush to his side—but he was right. Father was fragile, and there was no reasonable excuse she could make for leaving Wiltshire.
You are a willow in the wind. How she wished it were so, but ever since Mother’s death—a slow, consuming illness that had claimed her life in early January—Cecilia had felt brittle. A sharp wind could snap her in half.
If she let it.
Cecilia refolded the letter into crisp lines. She was strong enough to carry on, despite her idiotic twin rendering himself blind. Despite Father’s recurring cough that left him weak and irritable. Despite the approaching holiday season—drat Marcus for reminding her.
Last Christmas, Mother had been ill, and the holiday had passed with none of the spirit and gaiety that usually filled Wilton House. This year, she fully expected Christmas to be excruciating, especially as Father had decreed it was time to put off their mourning.
“Your mother would not have wanted to see us so dreary, all in black.” He had patted her cheek. “The color makes you look terribly pale, my dear. No, we shall make an end of mourning and celebrate Christmas in her honor—with life and light and color, as befits her favorite season.”
How could Cecilia deny him? For well over a year the house had been swathed in sadness. And so, she was determined to make the holidays everything her father wanted—despite the absence of the viscountess, who had filled their lives with warmth.
Ignoring the chasm of grief inside her, as she ignored it every day, Cecilia went to her writing desk to compose a reply.
***
November 12
Wilton House, Wiltshire
Dear Lord Tarrick,
Thank you for your letter. I am not pleased with my brother for his continual exploits, but most relieved to hear the injury is not permanent. In our family, tales of his near-fatalities are notorious. Please keep him away from any sharp corners and stairs – secure him to the bed if necessary, or perhaps a leash might be in order.
As soon as he is recovered enough to travel, inform him his presence at home is greatly desired. Do keep me informed as to his wellbeing.
And thank you, sir, for tending to him. I commend your willingness to host what must be a demanding houseguest. Remind him that he is a stone in the sea.
We are in your debt.
Very sincerely yours,
Cecilia Fairfax
“A stone in the sea?” Liam Barrett glanced over the top of the page to where his reluctant guest, Marcus, lay on the bed, a bandage over his eyes.
The guest suite where Marcus was installed was dim, on the doctor’s orders. Floor-to-ceiling green drapes were drawn across the tall windows, and coals glowed redly on the hearth, lending heat but no light to the room. Liam had drawn a chair up directly beside the bed and lit the lamp on the bedside table. The warm yellow glow fell over the page, illuminating the firm curves of Cecilia Fairfax’s writing.
Marcus smiled, though the expression was closer to a grimace. “No matter what trouble I’m in, I’ll get washed back to shore eventually.”
Liam scanned the letter again. There was a sharp humor to Cecilia Fairfax’s words. He wasn’t entirely certain if he liked the woman for it.
“Your sister is all kindness. A leash?”
“No doubt Cecy pictures me leaping about blindly without a care in the world.” Marcus let out a low breath. “Despite what she says, I am not constantly risking my life.”
“Only occasionally?” Liam lifted a brow. “Although we were but acquaintances at Oxford, I heard stories of your escapades.”
Marcus flushed, his fair coloring showing his reaction clearly. No doubt he was glad of the linen laid across his face, so he would not to have to meet Liam’s eyes.
“I was young then, as you know,” Marcus said. “My mother insisted I enter school early, though perhaps I should have waited.”
He was still young, to Liam’s mind. Although Liam was two years his elder, it felt as though a decade gaped between them. Perhaps that was due to the burdens of the Earldom falling early on Liam’s shoulders, while Marcus was a carefree younger son. Or perhaps because of the cheerful way the young man strode into whatever life offered, while Liam knew himself to be far more dour in nature.
“You may regale me with stories of y
our exploits later,” Liam said, curiously interested to hear them; perhaps because he himself had led a rather staid life as a student. “Doctor Smith will be here shortly, and after his visit you may dictate more assurances to your sister.”
***
November 18
Tarrick Hall, Suffolk
Dear Miss Fairfax,
I am writing again at your brother’s direction, to say that a leash will not be necessary. I have personally provided a cane for his perambulations about the house, and the stairs are well-guarded by attack lions. Rest assured no more accidents will befall Marcus while he is under my roof.
His recovery is proceeding apace, and the doctor is encouraged that he will be able to travel in two week’s time.
Yours, etc.
Liam Barrett, Earl of Tarrick
Cecilia couldn’t help smiling at the earl’s letter, despite her ongoing concern for Marcus. Attack lions, indeed. The Earl of Tarrick was reputed to be a rather grim fellow, but his letter somewhat belied that reputation.
She absently stared at the mottled November sky through the parlor windows, trying to recall what she knew of the earl. There was some history of family tragedy, and the unfortunate fact of his Irish blood. Not only had his mother been Irish, but, horrifyingly, Catholic as well, according to the gossips. He did not spend much time about in Society.
The winter light shone weakly into the parlor, making the wallpaper seem more gray than peach. She held the letter up to the mullioned windows and studied the vigorous, looping handwriting. It was impossible to tell anything about the writer, other than he crossed his T’s with a line a trifle too broad.
“Mistress?” Martha, one of the maids, stepped into the parlor. “Begging your pardon, but Mrs. Bess would like to speak with you concerning the draperies.”
“Of course.” Cecilia swallowed a sigh. “I must reply to a letter, but inform her I will be down shortly.”
“Yes, mistress.” Martha bobbed a quick curtsey and was gone as quickly as she had come.
She was one of the village girls, hired less than a year ago, and so full of darting energy that she made Cecilia feel a bit tattered around the edges.
Fingers chilled, she rose and pulled her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. The dark brown wool was unbecoming, but it was the warmest she had. This time of year, she was always cold—but a cup of tea would revive her, certainly. Enough to meet with Bess.
Dear Bess. She had been the housekeeper for as long as Cecilia could recall, and even then she had been old.
Mother’s illness had taxed all of them. Father most of all, but Bess had suffered as well. Recently, she had taken to wandering in her attention, sometimes leaving crucial things undone. It was past time to provide her a proper retirement, but somehow Cecilia had been unable to bring herself to break the news to Bess that she was relieved of her longtime position as housekeeper to the Fairfaxes.
Soon, though. Once the household was out of mourning, and the holidays endured—celebrated, she amended—there would be time enough to restructure the running of Wilton House.
***
“Another letter from Wiltshire, my lord.” The butler bowed before Liam’s desk, then handed him the correspondence. The envelope, addressed in Cecilia Farfax’s neatly swirling script, was smooth beneath Liam’s fingers.
“Thank you, Hobbs. Please alert the cook to send luncheon up to Mr. Fairfax’s room.” Liam rose, glad enough to leave the estate business untended for a short while.
It was foolish, how such a small thing as a letter could become the brightest thing in his day. A letter that was not even written to him.
He did not like to think how empty his house would feel, once Marcus departed. It was not that Liam was lonely, exactly. But solitude was a heavy weight, and he had become accustomed, over the last handful of weeks, to having that weight lightened.
Marcus Fairfax was an unfailingly cheerful fellow, with an amazing number of stories. He had a witty way of spinning them out, the fire crackling cheerfully in his room, the warmth of brandy settling in Liam’s stomach while the warmth of words settled in his mind. Marcus’s tales of his times at Oxford were amusing, yet Liam found himself enjoying the stories of Marcus’s childhood even more.
Perhaps it was because his own youth had been empty of siblings, and a mother, and the type of family home that Wilton House sounded to be. It was like peeping into a baker’s shop and seeing the warm loaves, golden on the racks, when all one had ever eaten was stale, hard bread. Even though Liam had never tasted that life, he liked to hear that it existed outside the pages of treacley books written for children.
Though Marcus’s claims that Wilton was haunted did strain credulity a bit—especially the stories where he and his sister had played hide-and-seek with the ghost of a young girl.
“She almost always won,” Marcus told him. “The ghost, I mean.”
“One would think.”
“You don’t believe me, but she exists. Or existed. She died from influenza in 1783, at the age of nine—it’s in the family bible. Elizabeth Fairfax. Would have been my and Cecy’s great-great aunt.”
“How do you know it’s her?” Despite his skepticism, Liam found himself interested.
“The clothing, mostly. She’s not dressed as a serving girl—her skirts are wide and very old-fashioned. Besides, the Fairfaxes have lived at Wilton House for over two-hundred years. So even if she’s not Lizzy, she’s an ancestor.”
Liam shook his head and, letter in hand, ascended the broad staircase. What a fanciful fellow his guest was.
He paused a moment to set his palm atop one of the carved marble lions standing guard at the top of the stairs. The stone was cool against his hand. So far, the statues had done their job, and Marcus had not tumbled down the stairs. Of course, the maids were happy to assist and accompany the cheerful young gentleman about the house whenever he tired of the confines of his rooms.
“Another letter,” Liam said, striding into the suite where Marcus was currently housed.
The rooms were done up in deep green—a soothing color, if only Marcus had been able to see it.
“Cecilia is nothing if not punctual,” Marcus said, glancing up from his seat by the fire. The linen bandage across his eyes gave him the look of a jaunty oracle. “Come, read it to me.”
Liam joined him, settling into the second armchair pulled before the hearth. When he opened the letter, he smelled the distant memory of flowers.
November 24
Wilton House, Wiltshire
Dear Lord Tarrick,
I am relieved to hear of the lions guarding your stairs. Perhaps you could send one home with Marcus, as he could use such a pet to keep him out of harm’s way – although I hesitate to think what such a beast would do for his reception in Society, once he returns to London.
Now, Marcus, I must tell you it has not yet snowed here, so you may give up any thoughts of pelting me with snowballs the moment you walk in the door, as is your wont. Besides, with your recent injury, I would be forced to aim for your chest and not your head, so it is just as well the season remains cold and clear.
In all seriousness, will you need any extra provision made for your care when you arrive? I am not entirely certain I trust the reports that your eyesight will be completely cured—and if such is the case, I implore you to strain Lord Tarrick’s hospitality a bit longer, and do not undertake to travel until you are truly ready to do so.
Your loving sister, Cecilia
Marcus leaned back, his face turned toward the fire.
“Will I be fit for travel, do you think?” For a moment his smile slipped, revealing the worry beneath.
“Doctor Smith is planning to remove the bandages tomorrow, is he not?” Liam asked.
“Well.” Marcus leaned his chin on his fist. “I confess, I’ve peeked a time or two. I’m afraid my sight will not be miraculously restored overnight.”
“Can you see anything at all?”
Guilt rose up l
ike briars in Liam’s throat. If he had blinded Marcus Fairfax, he owed the man a debt he could never repay.
As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Marcus shook his head. “See here, Tarrick, guns misfire. It was my great misfortune to be behind the barrel of one at the time—but that is a risk a gentleman takes when shooting.”
“It was my gun,” Liam said. “I bear the responsibility.”
“To answer your question—I can make out shapes. I can see the brightness of the fire, and lighter patches in the room that might be the windows. It is an improvement, certainly.”
Liam crossed his arms. An improvement—but not a recovery.
“Your family has suffered some hardships recently, correct?” he asked.
“I do not remain here simply for your scintillating company,” Marcus said. “My mother has been dead nearly a year, and I am not certain Father is finding it worthwhile enough to stay on this mortal plane without her.”
“He must have loved her very much.” Liam couldn’t imagine.
Marcus let out a sigh edged with sorrow. “She was the sun the entire household revolved around. They are struggling enough, without me casting another dark cloud upon their existence.”
“Your sister seems well enough.” Liam waved the letter, again catching the faint scent of flowers.
“Cecy puts on an admirable front.” Marcus frowned. “A pity about the snow. She needs something to make her smile, especially now.”
“Now?” Liam leaned forward.
“She is caring for Father, readying the house for the holidays, and carrying the secret of my injury. Too many burdens.”
“You called her a willow in the wind.” Liam could imagine her—a slender, pale thing like her brother, bowed down by the weight of her obligations.
Marcus nodded slowly. “I only hope she doesn’t break.”
A Countess for Christmas (Regency Short Story) Page 1
