‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘When the major says the same sort of background, he means a lady from a big house, someone who already has lots of servants and probably a title. Now, please don’t say any more about it because he would not like you discussing his personal business.’
They shuffled off, looking chastened. Emilia attacked the dough, feeling much the same. Of course the nosy little beasts had asked Hugo and, of course, he had guessed whatever he said would get back to her and so he had made it quite clear where his boundaries were. And the humiliation of thinking he might find that necessary was like coals of fire in her stomach.
Granfer Janes had promised the thaw would set in after Christmas Day and when it did Major Lord Hugo Travers, or whatever he was, would ride out of her life. Emilia scooped the dough out of the bowl and thumped it on to a floured board. That could not happen soon enough for safety, although she feared she was never going to get him out of her head. Or her heart.
* * *
Christmas Eve was a flurry of activity. There was baking to be done for the Feast, barrels of ale to mark and men to direct on which to take and which to leave. Neighbours called in to borrow flour or yeast or simply to take refuge from their own busy homes over a mug of ale.
Parcels were set out on the dresser. Sweetmeats, books, whistles and new coats for the boys from her, the neatly wrapped package of handkerchiefs, a mysterious large box for the boys from Hugo and a tantalising soft package for her with his best wishes.
A lumpily wrapped oblong was for Ajax from Nathan and Joseph and they had labelled a jug for Hugo. One sniff told her that they had traded some odd jobs for Granfer’s lethal spirits. But there was nothing from the boys for her. Perhaps she had misunderstood Hugo’s hints about the carpenter and that wasn’t what they had been doing these past few days.
Hugo vanished, muttering something about helping at the barn. She had no sooner got the boys scrubbed and into their best outfits when they called her out to the stable. ‘We’ve lost Ajax’s bit,’ Nathan explained. ‘We were cleaning it and now we can’t find it.’
‘You will have to look for it tomorrow, we haven’t got time now. I have to get changed and if you two grub about in here you’ll get dirty again.’
‘But, Mama!’ Nathan sounded frantic. ‘You have to help us. We don’t want to upset the major.’
‘Oh, very well, but hurry up.’
* * *
Ten minutes later there was still no sign of it. ‘I can’t waste any more time on this, I’m sorry.’
She was back in the house before the wails of ‘But, Mama!’ died away. There was thump from above her head, then another. An intruder? Heart in her mouth, Emilia seized the poker from the hearth, gathered up her skirts and was halfway upstairs before she realised that the village was still cut off and that, surely, none of her neighbours would be above stairs. It must be a cat, or a rat...
She flung the door open and there was Hugo, in his shirtsleeves, standing in the middle of her bedchamber. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing in here?’ she demanded. Then she saw the hammer in his hand and, on the wall opposite her bed, a set of shelves painted blue with a jug on it full of holly.
‘Oh! That’s what the boys were doing! Oh, Hugo, thank you for helping them.’
He smiled, revealing half-a-dozen nails clenched in his teeth and dropped them into the palm of his hand. ‘You gave me such a shock I nearly swallowed that lot. They’ve made a good job of it—and here they come.’
The boys pounded into the room. ‘Mama, do you like the shelves?’
‘They are lovely. You are both so clever!’
‘Mr Daventry did the stars on the ends and the major helped with the painting,’ Joseph confessed.
‘All craftsmen have assistants to deal with some of the routine parts of the work,’ Emilia said, inspecting the shelves carefully. ‘You have made a wonderful job of these.’ They came and hugged her and she bent for their kisses, and thought how blessed she was and how ungrateful to wish for anything other than this. ‘I must get changed now. If you go down and make an early tea, then we can open our presents. Oh, and take the poker.’
That sent them scampering for the head of the stairs. Hugo started to follow them, then stopped at her side. ‘You are very lucky in your family,’ he said. ‘Thank you for letting me share it.’ And he stooped to kiss her.
* * *
If Emilia had not moved it would have landed chastely enough on her cheek as he had intended, but she half-turned and his lips found hers. He could not move, she seemed frozen, all but the heat of her mouth against his. Then the hammer fell from his hand with a thud and she started back.
‘No!’
‘I did not mean to kiss you on the mouth.’ Did I? He didn’t know what he wanted any more, except that it was tied up in a complicated knot of desire and lust and a deep aching need and somehow a sense of responsibility for this gallant woman whose hazel eyes held a mixture of desire and despairing anger.
How could he feel responsible for her? Was it simply years of being an officer, and of his early training to care for his staff and tenants? Hugo held out one hand and Emilia slapped it sharply away.
‘Just stop it! I am not a nun, I am still young and I am lonely and I know I have no hope of marrying again.’ Her face was stark, her hands clenched and the words were tumbling out as though a dam had burst, no less intense because of her struggle to keep her voice low. ‘I am not one of the villagers and neither can I ever expect to be courted by a gentleman. I ache and yearn when you touch me, but I am not going to be your mistress, or any man’s, and it is unfair of you to tempt me so!’
‘Emilia—’ Appalled by the outburst, he dared not touch her.
She turned away. ‘It is I who should apologise. I landed myself in this situation, I broke my parents’ hearts, brought disgrace on them. Sometimes I wonder if Giles would have been killed if he had not had to play that night to provide for us.’
‘That is irrational,’ Hugo said sharply. ‘He was a gamester, the sort of dispute he found himself in was an occupational hazard.’
‘I know it is irrational!’ She spun back, seemingly as angry with herself as with him. ‘Do you think that makes it any easier to think about in the small hours of the morning? When I wonder what I have done to my sons? And don’t tell me that they would not exist if I had not eloped, I cannot cope with any more rationality.’
Hugo saw the anger ebb out of her leaving her a tired, brave young woman with too much on her shoulders and weighing on her heart and only love and will-power to keep her going. ‘I was managing until you came,’ Emilia said with an honesty that he could see was hurting her. ‘You are so...male. And you fill the house and our lives. And I like you and I know you are a decent man and I wish I could forget about my conscience and my sons and make love with you. Just once.’
‘Emilia.’ What could he say? Sorry was utterly inadequate. The truth, that he wanted her just as much, was impossible. ‘There is a thaw coming, I will be gone tomorrow.’
‘Good,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘Now, let us go downstairs and smile and welcome Christmas into this house.’
Hugo followed her down the stairs and conjured up a smile with the same effort of will he employed to appear calm and cheerful before a battle when his guts were in a knot and his hands wanted to shake and he could show neither fear nor uncertainty before his men.
The twins were standing as close as they could to the pile of presents, their hands behind their backs as if they had to physically stop themselves touching.
‘Which shall we open first?’ Emilia said. The happiness in her voice was real, he realised. However desperate she felt, she could find joy with her sons.
‘You first, Mama,’ Nathan said and handed her the parcel Hugo had wrapped so carefully. He had stuffed his saddlebags with portable treasures brought back from France in case he yielded to the pressing invitations from his fellow officers and found himself needing to give gifts to his
hosts.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she untied the twine and folded back the silver paper and then the tissue that enfolded the shawl. It was silk, a swirling pattern of gold and brown and reds like a drift of autumn leaves.
‘Oh,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, how very lovely.’ She draped it carefully around her shoulders and rubbed her cheek against its softness. It brought out the rich brown in her hair and the gold in her eyes. ‘Thank you, Hugo, I will treasure this.’
Joseph thrust the bottle into Hugo’s hands. ‘That’s from us.’
He opened it and took a cautious sip, the spirit burning its way straight to his stomach. ‘Thank you very much. I must treat this with care and make it last or I will be as drunk as a lord.’
That made the boys hoot with laughter, but Emilia sent him a steady, frowning look. Drunkenness was no laughing matter for her, it seemed. But she laughed when he unwrapped Ajax’s present, a name board for his stable carved with rather uneven letters.
The boys were delighted with their sweets and the whistles, which they promised not to blow inside, and their very grown-up new coats. And that just left the box from Hugo, which they dived into to emerge with a wooden fort and an entire regiment of carved and painted toy soldiers.
‘How on earth did you produce that from your saddlebags?’ Emilia asked as they fell to their knees and immediately began to lay siege to the enemy positions.
‘I bought the soldiers from one of my men who makes them as a pastime and I got your village carpenter to make the fort.’ They watched in seeming harmony for a while, then Emilia whisked upstairs to change and Hugo was dragged into advising on strategy.
They needed cannon and an opposing regiment, he thought, amused by the boys’ total immersion in their play. He could look through his old toys that must be stored somewhere in the attics at home. There were boxes of toy soldiers, he recalled.
And then he heard Emilia’s footsteps on the stairs and realised that once he had left there was no coming back, no possible contact. He had ripped through the fragile walls she had built around herself simply because he had yielded to an impulse to hold her and then had not had the understanding to see what damage his kisses would do. And she in turn had rent some barrier he did not even realise he had erected and left him vulnerable to emotions and feelings he did not know he possessed. Or perhaps he had not possessed them until he met her.
Hugo looked up as she came into the humble room and thought she lit it up as though it was an elegant drawing room lined with candles. She was wearing a green silk gown, simply trimmed with narrow lace around its scooped neck and at the edge of the puffed sleeves. The shawl he had given her was around her shoulders and her hair had been plaited and coiled on her head like a coronet.
She looked beautiful even as she came closer and he saw that the dress was faded and had darns in the folds of the skirt and that the string of beads around her neck were the cheapest polished pebbles. There was a small burn on the back of her hand from the oven and he knew her hands were a little rough despite the pot of cream by the sink. The shoes that peeped out below her hem were not silken slippers, but simple leather.
But her cheeks glowed with colour, her lips were curved into that generous smile that always made his heart contract with pleasure and the smooth creamy swell of her bosom above the narrow lace was as lovely as any Society lady could boast. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, but he could find no words that would not hurt her more than he had already.
‘That’s Mama’s special gown,’ Nathan confided proudly. ‘The one she ran away with Papa wearing.’
‘I can quite see why he wanted to run away with your mother,’ Hugo said.
Emilia laughed. ‘You are all arrant flatterers, but I will wager I am the only lady at the feast with three gentlemen to escort me. Shall we go?’
He helped with boots and cloaks and lanterns, banked up the fire safely and doused candles. He was reaching for his own cloak when he found himself staring blankly into the shadows of the taproom.
‘Hugo?’
Emilia was waiting by the door with the boys. He shook off the thought that this cottage was home and that he dreaded returning to the forty rooms of Long Burnham Hall, the dozens of servants, the comfort and the privilege. ‘Coming,’ Hugo said and picked up his lantern.
Chapter Seven
The snow was lit up by a dozen lanterns bobbing through the night as the inhabitants of the hamlet wound their way through the narrow trenches in the snow towards the barn. Voices called greetings and, despite his introspection, Hugo felt his spirits rise. The thought of a party composed of virtual strangers, with whom he had little in common, all with traditions he did not share, would normally have filled him with horror at the prospect of boredom and the unpleasant feeling of loneliness within a crowd.
But he found himself waving and smiling at the men he had met in the taproom, bowing to women he had come across when he had been out and about during the day. They grinned or waved or blushed as was their individual natures and he shepherded his little party into the barn on a wave of goodwill.
His first thought was to recall that he must explain this to the barn’s owner on the morrow, the second that, even if they managed to burn the place down with all the candles and lanterns, let alone the roasting pit steaming outside by the wide doorway, it would be worth paying for.
Benches had been set up all round the walls with makeshift tables in front. An ill-assorted band was attempting to tune up in one corner: two fiddles, an ancient serpent that was probably part of the church’s music, a flute and a drum. At the opposite end the women were laying their contributions to the feast on cloth-draped trestles and two barrels of Emilia’s ale stood next to an array of mugs and beakers.
The smell of roasting beef drifted through the doors every time someone entered, the children were shrieking with excitement as they played tag up and down the central space and bunting and evergreens decorated every corner. From the central beam hung a great swag of mistletoe.
‘Now this is what I call a party,’ Hugo said to Emilia.
‘You can help me with the special mulled ale,’ she said when they had disentangled themselves and the boys from their outdoor clothing, changed their shoes and Emilia had tied her new shawl carefully around her shoulders and then behind her waist to keep it out of the pot. Two of the men brought the cauldron in from the fire pit.
‘There are bottles of rum and brandy back there. I need one of each.’ She was stirring in brown sugar, cloves, spices. ‘All of both bottles,’ she said with a grin as Hugo raised a questioning eyebrow. As he poured them in she stirred the pot and then grated nutmeg over the top, companionably close, nudging him out of the way as she reached for a spoon to taste.
Was he forgiven? he wondered and then realised that of course he was and that made no difference. Emilia would forgive him for his thoughtlessness, his clumsy failure to see what was in front of his nose and that forgiveness would make no difference whatsoever to the feelings he had stirred up in her and the loneliness those feelings threw into sharp relief.
‘Mulled ale’s ready, Billy,’ she called to one of the men. He rang a battered hand bell and the adults began to crowd round and dip ale into their mugs.
‘What happens now?’ Hugo carried steaming, fragrant ale for both of them over to one of the benches.
‘When the band sorts itself out they’ll begin to play and there will be dancing for an hour until the roast is ready. Then we’ll eat and people will take it in turns to sing or recite and then, once the feasting is over, they’ll draw the boards and the dancing will start again until everyone is exhausted.’ Emilia’s eyes were sparkling with anticipation as she sipped her ale and the band finally stopped tootling and scraping and launched into a jig.
Hugo thought about the ton parties and balls he had attended and the carefully cultivated ennui of the ladies with their attempts to appear sophisticated. Emilia expected to enjoy herself and that showe
d in her smile and her laughter and her tapping toes.
He drained his mug recklessly and stood up. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’
‘Do you dance?’ She looked up at him. ‘This sort of thing, I mean? It is hardly Almack’s.’
‘And thank heavens for that,’ Hugo said with real feeling. ‘One thing about fighting with Wellington, the man loves to socialise and he expects his officers to as well. We’ve held dances in hay barns, castles, inns and under the stars and the measures are more likely to be country style than anything else.’
There were a dozen couples making up two sets, enough not to make Emilia conspicuous dancing with him, he calculated. Once they formed up and were off, he realised that she did not care and, in any case, was probably set on dancing with every man present before the evening was out.
They wove and twisted, promenaded and spun, laughing when they bumped into people as more and more of the company came on to the floor and the rafters rang with the thump of feet on the beaten earth floor, the beat of the drum and the sound of laughter.
‘The mistletoe!’ someone called. ‘Kisses as we go under!’
He looked down at her, worried about her reaction, but Emilia was laughing and held her face up for his kiss as they whirled underneath. Time stood still for a moment as their lips met and their eyes locked. Under his feet the floor of the barn seemed to shift. The onlookers clapped and cheered as they did for every kissing couple and then they separated and joined hands with the next pair.
* * *
An hour later, dizzy with dancing and mulled ale, Hugo collapsed on to a bench with his latest partner, the miller’s buxom daughter. ‘I am exhausted!’
‘Here’s the roast coming in,’ she said. ‘Cor, that’s a fine beast and no mistake. Time to eat now, Major.’
He wondered whether he should sit away from Emilia, but the boys found him and towed him off to take his place with them.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ Emilia asked as they passed platters and forks along the table and then helped distribute the plates of food for everyone to help themselves.
Snowbound Wedding Wishes: An Earl Beneath the MistletoeTwelfth Night ProposalChristmas at Oakhurst Manor (Harlequin Historical) Page 7
