by Carla Kelly
He pulled David out first, and thrust him at her. She locked her arms tight around the sleepy child. “We’ll wait right here for your uncle,” she whispered into his hair.
Lucinda came next, her eyes wide with fear, and Janet followed, wailing about her clothes. “Shut up, Janet,” her uncle ordered. “Take Lucy’s hand and hold mine.”
With his free hand he grabbed Cecilia around the waist and started down the stairs. David coughed and tried to pull away, but she clutched his hand. She put her other arm around Lord Trevor and turned her face into his nightshirt so she could breathe. No one said anything as they groped down the stairs and across the foyer. In another blessed moment the footman, who must have been in front of them in the smoky darkness, flung open the front door. They hurried down the steps into the cold.
Still he did not release her. She kept her face tight against his chest, shivering from fright. If anything, he tightened his grip on her until his fingers were digging into the flesh of her waist. He must have realized then what he was doing, because he opened his hand, even though he did not let go of her.
She forced herself to remain calm, if not for herself, then for the children, and perhaps for Lord Trevor, who surely had more to do now than hold her so tight on the front lawn. She released her grip on his waist then, and stepped back slightly, so he had no choice but to let go.
Before he did, he leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. Because he offered no explanation for his curious act, and no apology, she decided that emergencies did strange things to people who were otherwise rational.
“Keep everyone here, Cecilia. No one goes back for anything.” He turned and hurried up the steps again.
What about you? she wanted to call after him as he disappeared inside. She gathered his nieces and nephew around her. “We’ll be fine, my dears,” she told them, reaching out her arms to embrace them all. They stood together and watched the manor. Although smoke seeped from the front door, she saw no flames.
They endured several more minutes of discomfort, then Lord Trevor and the household staff came around the building from the back. The footman, more dignified with trousers now, carried the grip she had thrown out the window. Lord Trevor had also taken the time to find his own pants and shoes, although he still wore his nightshirt. To her amusement, the housekeeper was fully dressed. I’ll wager you would rather have burned to a crisp before leaving your room in a state of semi-dress, she thought.
Lord Trevor hurried to her, the housekeeper and footman following. “Mrs. Grey will escort you and the children to the dower house for the night. It’s in that little copse.”
“Can you save our home, Uncle?” Janet asked, clutching his arm.
He kissed her cheek. “I rather think so. The servants are inside the kitchen now, where the fire appears to have originated. We’ll know more in the morning, when it’s light.” He looked over Janet’s shoulder at Cecilia. “If you can keep things organized, I’ll be forever in your debt.”
They followed Mrs. Grey to the dower house, which she hadn’t even noticed yesterday when they arrived at Chase Hall. All the furniture was shrouded in holland covers, which made David cling even tighter to her. He relaxed a little when the footman flung away the covers, and then dumped coal in the grates and started fires.
She decided that the dower house gave new meaning to the word cozy. A trip upstairs revealed only two bedchambers, one with a small dressing room. Since it was so late, Cecilia directed Mrs. Grey to pull out blankets. “I think proper sheets and coverlets can wait for morning,” she explained as she handed each girl a blanket. “You girls take the chamber with the dressing room, and I will put David in the other one. Come, Davy,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder, “I think that you and your uncle will have to share.”
“He snores.”
Cecilia laughed. “Then you will have to get to sleep before he does, won’t you?”
Below stairs, Mrs. Grey had already made room for herself. “I’ll send the footman to the manor for food, and you’ll have a good breakfast in the morning,” she assured Cecilia. “Where are you planning to sleep, Miss Ambrose?”
She took the blanket Mrs. Grey held out. “I will wait up for Lord Trevor in the sitting room. Perhaps tomorrow we can find a cot for the dressing room.” She looked around, already anticipating a busy day of cleaning ahead. If Janet keeps busy, she won’t have time to complain, Cecilia thought. If Lucinda keeps busy with her sister, they might even remember all those things they have in common. If Davy keeps busy, he won’t have so much time to miss his mother. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, savoring the heavy warmth. She thought at first that she might sit up on the sofa, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to lie down just until Lord Trevor returned. She closed her eyes.
When she woke, the room was full of light. Lord Trevor sat in the chair across from her. She sat up quickly, then tugged the blanket down around her bare feet.
“I thought about covering them, but reckoned that would wake you.” He coughed. “Lord, no wonder chimney sweeps seldom live past fifteen,” he said when he finished coughing into his handkerchief that was already quite black.
“Let me get you something to drink,” she told him, acutely aware that she was still in her nightgown, her favorite flannel monstrosity that was thin from washing.
“Mrs. Grey is bringing in coffee, and probably her latest harangue about the way I take care of myself.” He sighed, then gave her a rueful look. “Lord spare us from lifelong retainers, Miss Ambrose! They must be worse than nagging wives.”
She laughed, and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. If ever a man looked exhausted, she thought, it is you. He was filthy, too, his nightshirt gray with grime, and his hair black. Bloodshot eyes looked back at her. When he smiled, his teeth were a contrast in his face.
He held up his hand. “No harangue from you, Miss Ambrose, if you please.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied serenely. “I don’t know you well enough to nag you.” She paused and thought a moment. “And even if I did know you better, I do not think I would scold.”
“Then you are rare, indeed.”
She shook her head. “Just practical, sir! Don’t we all pursue our own course, no matter what people who care about us say?”
She could tell that her words startled him; they startled her. “I mean ….” she began, then stopped. “No, that was exactly what I meant. Anyone who does what you do in London’s courts doesn’t need advice from a teacher.”
He sat back then, his legs out in front of him, in that familiar posture of men who feel entirely at home. “Miss Ambrose, you are wise, as well as clean,” he teased.
“And you, sir, are dirty,” she pointed out. “Mrs. Grey can arrange a bath for you.”
She wrapped her blanket around her and started for the door. As she passed his chair, he put out his hand and took hold of hers. “That I will appreciate, Miss A. Do one thing more for me, please.”
He did not release her hand, and she felt no inclination to remind him. His touch was warm and dry, and standing there in the parlor, she realized that she was still shivering inside from last night. “And that would be ….”
“Reconsider your resolve to leave us on the morning coach, Miss A,” he said, and gave her hand a squeeze before he released it. “I need help.”
“Indeed you do, my lord,” she replied quietly. She left him, spoke to the housekeeper, then returned to the parlor.
She thought he might be asleep, but he remained as she had left him, leaning his chin on his hand, his eyes half closed. He had tried to dab some of the soot from his eyes, because the area under them was smudged. Without comment, she took his handkerchief from him and wiped his face carefully. He watched her the whole time, but for some unaccountable reason, she did not feel shy.
When she finished, she sat down again. “How bad is the damage to the house?”
“Bad enough, I think,” he said with a grimace. “When the Rumfor
d was installed, the place where the pipe runs into the chimney must have settled. Ashes have been gathering behind it for some time now, I would imagine. It’s not really something a sweep would have noticed.” He shook his head. “That portion of the house is three hundred years old, so I can not involve the builder in any litigation.”
She smiled at him. “I’m glad you can joke about it, Lord Trevor. It didn’t seem so funny last night, standing on the lawn.”
“No, it wasn’t.” His face grew serious. “Miss Ambrose, I’m a little embarrassed to ask you, but I hope I did not leave bruises on your waist.”
“You did,” she replied, feeling warmth on her own face. “I put it down to your determination to get me down the stairs in a strange house.”
He sat back. “This isn’t shaping up to be much of a Christmas, is it?”
It seemed a strange remark, one that required a light reply. “No, indeed,” she said. “I mean, you were planning to spend it in the City, weren’t you, going over legal briefs, or ….”
“Depositions, my dear, depositions,” he corrected. “And now we have cranky children on our hands, and a broken house.”
How quickly he seemed to have included her in the family. “You needn’t try to appeal to my better nature,” she teased. “I will stay for the duration, bruises or not. Only give me my orders and tell me what you want done here today.”
“That is more like it!” he said. He stood up and stretched. “Let Mrs. Grey be your guide. I am certain there is enough cleaning here to keep the children busy. If they complain, remind them that the servants are involved at the hall.”
“Very well.” Cecilia stood next to him, noting that she came up only to his shoulder. “Perhaps you could take David with you to York, Lord Trevor,” she suggested. “He so misses his mother, and he told me that he has already had the measles.”
Lord Trevor shook his head. “I dare not, Miss Ambrose. What I did not tell anyone last night was that the letter was from their mother, and not my brother Hugo, who is ill from the measles himself. I am riding to York most specifically to see how he does.”
“Oh, my!” Cecilia exclaimed. “Is his life in danger?”
Lord Trevor shrugged. “That is the principal reason I’m leaving here as soon as possible, and without the encumbrance of a little boy, who would only be anxious.”
“I promise to keep everyone quite busy here,” she assured him.
“Excellent!” He stretched again, and then placed his hand briefly upon her shoulder. “Don’t allow any of the children near the manor, either, if you please,” he said, his voice quite serious. “I do not trust the timbers in that old place yet, not without an engineer to check it for soundness. The servants will bring over whatever clothing and books are needed.” He wrinkled his nose. “And it will all smell of smoke.”
He stopped in the doorway, and put his hand to his forehead. “Hell’s bells, Miss Ambrose! Do excuse that … I don’t see how we can possibly have that annual dinner and dance on Christmas Eve.”
“A dinner!” she exclaimed.
“It is the neighborhood’s crowning event, which I have managed to avoid for years.” He rubbed his eye. “My sister-in-law used to trot out all the local beauties and try to convince them that I was a worthy catch.” He shuddered elaborately, to her amusement. “Maybe that is why I have never stayed for Christmas. No, the dinner must be cancelled. I will retrieve the guest list from the manor, and you can assign the imperious Janet the task of written apology to all concerned.” He started for the door.
“Or I can go get the list while you bathe.”
“No!”
His vehemence startled her. Before she could assure him that she didn’t mind a return to the manor, he stood in front of the parlor door, as though to bar her way. “Miss Ambrose, I’d really rather no one from this house went to the manor. The soot is a trial, and the smoke quite clogs the throat.”
“Very well, then,” she agreed, gratified not a little by his concern. “I’m hardly a shrinking violet, my lord,” she murmured.
He smiled at her, and she could have laughed at the effect of very white teeth in a black face. “Well, then, you may get your list, once you have bathed,” she said, acutely aware that she had no business telling the second son of a marquis what to do.
“What a nag you are, Miss Ambrose,” he told her. He turned toward the hall. “I will wash and then get the list. If that does not meet with your whole approval, let me know now.”
She laughed, quite at ease again. “And comb your hair, too! My father used to tell me that if you can’t be a good example, you can always be a bad one.” Lord, what am I saying? she asked herself.
Lord Trevor seemed to think it completely normal. He nodded to her, and winked. In another moment she heard him whistling on the stairs.
She was finishing her eggs and toast in the breakfast room when Lord Trevor came into the room. He lofted the guest list at her, and it glided to her plate. He then leaned against the sideboard with the bacon platter in his hand and ate from it.
“You have rag manners,” she scolded, “or is this a typical breakfast in the City?”
“No, indeed,” he assured her. He finished the bacon, and looked at the baked eggs, then back at her. She raised her eyebrows and handed him a plate. “Breakfast is usually a sausage roll from a vendor’s stall in front of Old Bailey.” He put two eggs on his plate and sat beside her. “This is Elysian Fields, Miss Ambrose. I should visit my dear brother more often. Not only is the food free, it is well cooked and must be eaten sitting down.”
He finished his eggs, then tipped back in his chair and reached for a piece of toast from the sideboard. “Do I dare wipe up this plate with toast?” he asked.
“Would it matter what I said?” she countered, amused. He was the antithesis of everything that Miss Dupree attempted to teach her select females, and quite the last man on earth for any lady of quality. Why that should be a concern for her, she had no clue. The idea came unbidden out of some little closet in her mind. “Do you really care?”
“Nope.” He wiped up the plate. “I did ask, though,” he said, before finishing the toast. “I probably ought to get a proper cook in my house, and maybe even a butler,” he said, as though he spoke more to himself.
She thought he was going to leave then, but he turned slightly in his chair to face her. “Since we have already decided that I have no manners, would you mind my comment, Miss Ambrose, that you really don’t look English?”
Her face felt warm again. When the embarrassment passed, she decided that she did not mind his question. “People usually just stare, my lord,” she told him. “Politely, of course. My parents went to Egypt to study old documents, and do good. Perhaps you have heard of philanthropists like them. They found me on the steps of Alexandria’s oldest archive. They could only assume that whoever left me there had seen them coming and going.” She smiled. “They suspect that an erring Englishwoman from Alexandria’s foreign community became too involved with an Egyptian of unexalted parentage.”
“How diverting to be found, and at a dusty old archive,” he said, without even batting an eye. “Much more interesting than the usual garden patch, or ‘tucked up under mama’s heart’ entrance.”
Is there anything you won’t say? she thought in delight. “It’s better. There was a note pinned to my rather expensive blanket, declaring I was a half-English love child.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “That certainly trumps being a duty!”
“Yes, certainly,” she agreed, trying not to laugh. “My foster mother named me Cecilia because she is a romantic doing homage to the patron saint of music.” She looked at him, waiting for him to draw back a little or change the subject. To her delight, he did neither.
“Which means, as far as I can tell, that you will always look better in bright colors than nine-tenths of the population, and you probably will never burn in the sun, and should curly hair be in vogue, you are in the vanguard of
fashion.” He stood up. “Miss Cecilia Ambrose, you are quite the most exotic guest ever to visit this boring old manor. Do whip my nieces and nephew in line, and render a thorough report this evening! Good day to you, kind lady. Thank you for rescuing me from utter boredom this Christmas.”
He left the room as quickly as he had entered it. For the tiniest minute, it seemed as though he had sucked all the air out with him. She was still smiling when she heard the front door close behind him. My lord, you are the exotic, she thought, not me. She took a final sip of her tea. I think it is time I woke the sleeping darlings in this lovely little house and put them all to work.
She got off to a rocky start. Lady Janet had no intention of turning a hand to dust or sweep the floors after the footman removed the elegant carpets to beat out the dust. “Lysander would be aghast,” she declared. “I shan’t, and you can’t compel me.”
Lucy gasped at her sister’s rudeness. “I always do what Miss Ambrose says.”
“You’re supposed to,” her sister sniffed. “You’re still in school.” She glared at Cecilia. “I have a grievance about this, and I will speak to my uncle when he returns. I will remind him that I Have Come Out.”
“From under a rock,” David muttered. He looked at Cecilia. “I do not know why my Uncle Trevor did not let me accompany him.”
“Nor I,” replied Lady Janet with a sniff. “Then we would be rid of a nasty little brother who would try a saint. I am going to write to Lysander this instant! I know my darling will rescue me from this … this ….”
“Your home?” Cecilia asked quietly. “Very well. Do write to him. Lucinda and I will dust, and then we will make beds.” She noted the triumphant look that Janet gave her younger sister. “Lady Janet, when you have posted your letter to your fiancé, your uncle specifically asked me to have you write to your family’s guests and tell them the Christmas dinner is canceled.”
