“That is exactly what I meant,” Sybil exclaimed. “How beautifully you have stepped into the role of lady of the manor. You have everything in hand. And now you’re about to make another great change, and it doesn’t faze you.”
“If anything, I shall be much more comfortable when I’m no longer the lady of the manor, as you put it.” I nodded toward a full-length painting propped against the opposite wall, near the door leading to the entrance hall. “That was my predecessor, the late Lady Telford, and I’ve no wish to have anything in common with her, even the title. I was never meant to be mistress of an estate—as she would be quick to say if she were still alive.”
Sybil approached the portrait, whose cold, painted blue eyes were almost on a level with her gaze. The artist had portrayed the late baroness, Atticus’s mother, in a white organdy dress and with her light blonde hair arranged in ringlets at each side of her face that touched her shoulders. The hairstyle and demure dress did nothing to mitigate the coldness of her gaze or her rigid, unbending posture—both of which signified the character of the subject.
“What a gorgon,” Sybil said cheerfully. She would not have been intimidated by such a mother-in-law. “How is it that you came to succeed her, anyway? You never told me how your marriage came about, other than that you and the baron were friends when you were children.”
Even after all these years, it was difficult to reveal this part of my past to her. “‘Friends’ is rather an overstatement,” I said slowly. “I was a servant here. My mother was housekeeper, and Lady Telford there in the painting was our employer. She sent me away when I was seventeen, so I went to London—”
“Sent you away? Why?”
This part was even harder to reveal. “She learned that I had been meeting in secret with Atticus’s twin brother, Richard. He was a scoundrel, I later learned, but I loved him.”
“A brother! Where is he now?”
“Dead.” As much as I trusted her, I could tell only a portion of the truth. “He was in the Crimea. I—I mourned him for a long time.” Poor lovesick child that I had been, I had believed the man worth mourning, but there was no need to go into that. “In fact, the name I took when I entered your service was another way of reminding myself of my past here.”
“Graves for Gravesend? I had no idea! But how did your marriage come about?”
“Atticus remembered me after I went away, and when he was able, he came for me.” The fact that I had neither desired nor deserved his love at that time still reproached me, and rather than go into further explanations I simply said, “He was, and is, the best and dearest of men.”
Her face was a study in emotions: shock, delight, incredulity, curiosity. She was a most satisfying confidante. “So your husband is the twin brother of the man you loved and lost?” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that...well...odd?”
“No odder than marrying one’s stepson,” I said dryly, and she laughed.
“You’re right, that’s none of my affair. It’s plain that you are wildly devoted to each other, and that is what matters. Only...why did you never tell me all of this, Gr—Clara?”
“Well, it was painful, and not easy to talk about. And...”
“And I never asked,” she said in a wondering tone. “I considered you a close friend, yet I knew nothing of this.”
“Because that is how I wished it to be,” I said firmly. “But now I can tell you—and you can see why I shall find it most satisfying when Lady Telford is boxed up and put into storage. She was a hard-hearted woman, not only in her treatment of me, but in her treatment of Atticus as well.”
An impish smile brought out Sybil’s dimples. “I imagine she would be utterly furious to know that you, a servant she cast off, is now mistress here.”
“Indeed she would!” And equally furious, though I did not say so, to know that her despised, “deformed” son had become a beloved husband and soon to be father, and moreover a landlord who was taking pleasure in undoing his parents’ harsher dictates as regarded his tenants. “Though I know paintings have no emotions, it will be a relief to shut her away so that she isn’t glaring at us any longer. The house won’t be hers anymore.”
For the first time she seemed to hesitate. Then she asked in a different voice, “Are you happy here, Clara?”
Startled, I could only ask, “Don’t I seem happy?”
“Happier than I have ever seen you. Perhaps that’s why I’m worried.” She seemed undecided about whether to continue, but then took a breath and plunged onward. “I have learned over the years to trust my intuition,” she said, “and I fear that there is danger here for you.”
I almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea, but her serious tone urged a serious response. And when I thought back over the past year, I had to admit that there were times when she would have been right.
“There was danger,” I said slowly, “and not just for me. Quite serious danger, in fact. But that is over now.” She looked unconvinced, so I added, “Completely over. Truly, you have no reason to worry on my behalf.”
“I am so relieved to hear you say that. Does that mean—forgive me, but I shall keep worrying if I don’t ask—does that mean Gravesend is no longer cursed?”
I felt my face go stiff. It was the question I had been dreading. As she regarded me with concern, I struggled to find the words to respond.
Then came my husband’s voice merrily calling, “Ladies! Where are you?” and we heard his footsteps, and those of Roderick Brooke, approaching the door behind us.
Sybil laid her hand on my wrist and looked searchingly into my eyes. “Clara?”
I shook off my numbness. “Please don’t speak of it again,” I said, and then our husbands joined us, and the time for serious subjects was over.
III. Sybil
“There’s something more to the story, I know it,” I said to Roderick as I tied the ribbon at the throat of my nightdress. I had already sent the maid away, so we were alone and could speak freely. “You should have seen her face, Roderick—it was like a shadow came across her eyes. Mentioning the curse definitely distressed her.”
“Perhaps she’s merely weary of people asking her about it.” His voice was muffled as he pulled his shirt off over his head. “I know I should be, in her position.” Emerging from the garment, his dark curls were ruffled, and I fought back an almost irresistible urge to plunge my hands into his hair and rumple it even further. That could wait.
“It’s more than that,” I said, stretching out on the bed with my chin cupped in my hands as he continued to undress.
“Are you concerned about the class difference between them? The baron seems quite a decent sort, and it’s plain that he adores her.” Seating himself next to me on the bed, he leaned over to kiss me before removing his shoes.
“I like him enormously,” I said. “And I’ve never met anyone less snobbish. He seems to have helped her become less guarded and more at ease. It isn’t the baron I’m worried about.” I remembered her expression when I had mentioned becoming a medium. Was she worried that I was a charlatan—or that I could actually produce a ghost?
Roderick made swift work of the rest of his disrobing, a process that was exceedingly pleasant to watch, and joined me in the bed. I was happy to slip beneath the goose-down counterpane and feel the delicious warmth of a hot-water bottle meeting my toes. Of course, once Roderick drew me close to him, I had no need of further warmth, but it was still a thoughtful touch on our hostess’s part. I nestled my head against his chest, the silky dark hairs tickling my cheek, and thought about all that I had learned for the first time about a woman who had once been among my closest friends.
But also a paid employee, and that did make a difference. Perhaps I shouldn’t have let it make that difference, though.
“What do you think of Clara?” I asked, curious to see her through a man’s eyes.
He did not have to give it a moment’s thought. “I like her. Serious on the whole, but with a sense of humor, as you said. She h
as great dignity and poise.” Then he grinned. “She’d have little patience with a scoundrel like me as a husband, so it’s just as well she wedded the baron.”
“I just hope she won’t regret it,” I murmured.
Roderick ran his fingers along my arm. Even through the thin batiste of my nightgown, his touch sent shivers of pleasure over my skin. “Why don’t you try just enjoying being here without waiting for an axe to fall,” he said, his husky voice low and warm. “Tomorrow is Christmas day, after all. How about giving yourself the Christmas gift of not worrying?”
Curled up in a warm, soft bed with my husband, it was difficult to summon up my former anxiety. Perhaps it was a spell he wove with his touch. “Maybe you’re right,” I sighed, snuggling closer, and received a kiss on my brow in reward.
“Telford said the almanac predicts a great deal of snow,” he murmured, his hand now moving to stroke my hair. “Imagine how picturesque this place will be, surrounded by drifts of snow.”
“Ugh.” I made a face. “Snow and I are not on good terms. Do you remember the day we met, at Brooke House? I had just been for my first country walk in the snow. It was a disaster.”
His burst of laughter broke the drowsy mood. “I do indeed remember. You were sitting on the staircase with your skirts hiked up so that you could look at your boots. Spectacular boots they must have been, considering all the colors of dye that were dripping into puddles beneath your feet.”
“So they were!” I said wistfully. “White suede embroidered with pink and blue flowers, trimmed in gold leather. Utterly destroyed, since Mrs. Tully hadn’t seen fit to tell me that there was such a thing as snowshoes. I’ve never seen their like again, not even in Paris.”
There was no point mourning them, though. I was so fortunate a woman in every way that it seemed silly to waste another thought on them. I stretched up to kiss Roderick’s chin, and the rasp of stubble made my lips tingle. Roderick was one of those men who ought to shave twice a day, but he rarely troubled to do so. “I shall never forget what a dramatic entrance you made,” I said. “You were the most magnificent man I’d ever seen.”
He grinned. “You did your level best to prevent me from knowing you thought so,” he said, moving to prop himself on one elbow so that he could gaze down into my face.
“Just as you were resolved not to show that I touched your heart as much as I stirred your blood.”
He bent his head and kissed me with a deep, slow kiss that guaranteed we would not be sleeping anytime soon.
“And how you do stir my blood,” he said softly. “Then, now, and always.”
The events that followed testified that the feeling was mutual.
CHRISTMAS DAY DAWNED sunny and bright, with snow adding a picturesque frosting to the landscape. Though it was not deep at first, downy flakes swirled around our coach on the journey to and from church, and they were falling steadily as the baron set out in a wagon to deliver gifts to those of his tenants who were infirm or otherwise unable to make the trip to Gravesend Hall.
To my astonishment, Roderick detained him long enough for a brief, muttered conversation, and then announced that he was accompanying our host. He winked when he saw my consternation. “We’ll be back all the sooner with twice the number of hands.”
“That won’t make the horses any faster,” I returned, but he only laughed and waved goodbye.
Soon, however, I was too busy to devote any more time to wondering why he had decided to join the baron. Clara had a thousand things to oversee, it seemed, and I enjoyed trailing after her to witness the bustle of preparations. Holly and evergreen boughs had already been arranged on every mantel and windowsill, and garlands bright with berries wrapped the great stair’s banister and decorated the dais at one end of the ballroom. Silver and crystal had been polished to a high gleam, and parcels for all of the guests were heaped beneath the tree. I knew that the ones for the Blackwood Homes women contained warm and gaily colored India shawls specially selected by Clara. Everywhere there were tantalizing fragrances of cooking, and above all there was an air of festivity different from anything I had known, never having spent Christmas at a great manor house before.
“Neither have I,” Clara admitted when I voiced this thought. “That’s one reason I’m so relieved that we won’t be entertaining the local gentry.”
“You won’t?”
She shook her head. She was simultaneously directing the trimming of the great fir tree in the ballroom, consulting with the housekeeper about the dinner, and sorting through wrapped parcels, checking that they were all labeled. “We held a house party earlier this year, soon after our marriage. That was quite enough social scrutiny for me, thank you very much! No, today we’re hosting people of our acquaintance who don’t generally get to enjoy lavish holidays. The women from the Blackwood Homes will be coming with their children, and many of our tenants as well. Then of course after dinner there will be the carolers and mummers—”
“How exciting! I’ve not seen a mummers’ play in years.” I remembered the traditional garish costumes of knights, heroes from history, and dastardly villains from foreign parts. Probably the actors would be mostly children, and the script so familiar that if any of the young actors forgot their lines the adults could cue them.
In time Roderick returned with Clara’s husband, smelling like snow and with melting flakes on his coat, but the outing must not have been an entirely pleasant one, for he seemed distrait. No such subdued spirits afflicted our host, however. Atticus greeted Clara with a kiss that was anything but perfunctory and two baskets full of gifts from the tenants who were unable to come to the manor. “Everyone asked after you,” he said. “I made sure to tell them that you would have joined me if it was possible. Soon enough they’ll understand why a ride in a jouncing coach is not advisable for you now.”
Drawing aside the cloth covering one basket, she reddened slightly. “I imagine they already know the reason. Look at these tiny garments they sent.”
Her husband laughed. He looked very attractive when he laughed, with endearing crinkles showing at the corners of his guileless blue eyes, and once again I felt that Clara had found a good husband. “Blockheaded male that I am, I thought that was a stack of dish towels,” he said. “I’m afraid I do have some bad news, though. The photographer I engaged wired to say he has been delayed.”
“Photographer?” I asked.
Clara explained. “Atticus thought our guests might enjoy the opportunity to have portraits made. In the normal way of things, many of them might never be able to justify the time and expense of a visit to a photographer’s studio, or at least not without the excuse of marriage or death. We had hoped to give them a treat.”
“And with luck, we still may,” her husband added. “Just not as soon as we had hoped. The weather is probably interfering with the trains.” The snow was coming down strongly now.
Luncheon was light fare, since we would have a magnificent dinner. Afterward we only just had time to open our gifts before the guests began to arrive. Clara gave her husband a jaunty caped coat of her own making (“from before I became too big to sit at the machine”) and a book on agriculture that I gathered must have been rare, to judge by his jubilant reaction to it. In return he had exquisite ruby bracelets and a length of antique brocade for her, and he told her that her sewing machine had been replaced with a new one, for whenever she was next able to use it. For Roderick they had a handsome dresser set monogrammed, alas, with his stepfather’s initials, but Roderick laughed mightily and said he would use it with pleasure.
“I’ll pretend the initials stand for Always Lucky,” he said.
For me they had selected a most beautiful antique miniature of Sarah Siddons, which touched me greatly. I had brought a dashing Parisian hat for Clara and was delighted when she declared it perfect to go with her visiting dress. The gold pen I had chosen for Clara’s husband was greeted warmly. (Roderick had been at a loss as to what to give him, but I had reasoned with myself tha
t it was hard to go wrong with a gold pen.)
Roderick’s gift to me actually had to be carried in by two footmen, so large was the box—and when I tore the paper away I discovered that the box itself was, as it were, the gift, for it was a handsome new traveling trunk with many clever drawers and compartments, some of which he had already filled with pretty fripperies from Paris.
My gift for my husband was a triumph of engineering. Knowing how confining he found most clothing to be, especially when performing, I had consulted with a tailor in Paris to create a new tailcoat that made use of cunning features like hidden plackets and bias cutting and various other things that I did not understand but that Clara pronounced to be quite ingenious. The final result was a coat that would be less constricting for Roderick when he played. To say he was delighted would be an understatement.
The fun of exchanging gifts ended just in time, for as we threw the last of the discarded wrappings into the fire we heard wheels on the gravel drive.
The Blackwood Home ladies—or women, more accurately—arrived by the wagonload, and with them their children, rambunctious and excited. I confess I rather gawked at the women. I had seen women of ill repute before, of course, but rarely reformed ones. I was somewhat surprised to find them for the most part demure and modest in their demeanor, tidily dressed and beaming with pleasure as they removed their bonnets and cloaks. Some of them were the Homes employees, of course, including a woman with a gap-toothed smile and a mangled right hand, which made me wince. To my surprise, Clara fell into conversation with her and then, seeing me close at hand, drew me near to introduce me.
“It is high time that two of my oldest friends became reacquainted,” she said. “Sybil, you may not remember, but Martha here was a friend from my time in the factory. The very day that you approached me about sewing for you, Martha was with me. Now that she cannot sew much herself, she instructs others in the use of the machines.”
Christmas at Gravesend Page 2
