by Mary Balogh
If he had been able to think consciously, he would have almost expected to be able to turn his head to find the two of them standing on either side of the bed, shining as they had seemed to shine through the blinding snow the previous day.
But not as people. As . . .
But he had fallen with his wife beyond ecstasy into sleep.
“Elliott?” She feathered kisses across his chest, which was warm and still damp from the exertions of lovemaking—they had slept deeply through the night but had woken together in the early morning, wanting each other again.
“Mm?” His chest expanded beneath her mouth as he breathed in deeply and then let the air out on a long sigh of lazy contentment.
“Elliott,” she said, “it is Christmas morning.”
“Mm,” he said sleepily. “Happy Christmas, sweetheart.”
“And we have no gifts,” she said.
He chuckled softly. “The one you just gave me was priceless beyond measure,” he said. “I cannot think of one I would value more unless it is more of the same tomorrow night—or do I mean tonight?—and in the coming nights.”
“And the same goes for me,” she said. “If I could have known what gift this Christmas had to offer me, I would have been too delirious to leave home to receive it.”
He chuckled and his arms closed more warmly about her.
“I was thinking of Mrs. Parkes and Joss, though,” she said. “We have nothing for them, Elliott. And Joss is a child. He ought to have presents. Do you think his grandmother has any for him?”
She had his full attention now. She could tell that he was no longer hovering between sleep and consciousness.
“Strange,” he said. “He seems such a cheerful and contented lad that I had not thought of it. He cannot be more than eight years old. When I was eight I thought the sole purpose of Christmas was to provide me with gifts.”
“I have money,” she said unhappily. “But money makes such a dull gift for a child.”
“What do you have with you that you could give to Mrs. Parkes?” he asked.
She thought for a while. She did not even have a change of clothes with her. “The purse I keep my money in,” she said. “It is silk and I embroidered the design on it myself only last month. It is new.”
“Can you bear to part with it?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “Oh, yes, it will be just the thing. It will be something personal. Something I made that she can remember me by.”
He found her mouth with his and kissed her. “Yes, love,” he said. “Problem solved.”
“But what about Joss?” Her unhappiness was back.
“Let me see,” he said and she gave him time to think. There was nothing she could give the boy. Her comb? Her little vial of perfume? Some of her jewels? There was nothing.
“There is my whittling knife,” he said. “My father gave it to me when I was a lad and it has followed me about almost everywhere ever since. When Joss tried using it yesterday he looked very happy.”
“He always looks happy,” June said. “Have you ever seen brighter red hair, Elliott, or more prominent freckles? He is such a sweetheart. If he were mine . . .”
He kissed her again.
“Is it a safe gift?” she asked.
“I was nine years old when my father gave it to me,” he said. “He trusted to my sense of responsibility with it. I have no doubt I can trust to Joss’s.”
“Of course,” she said. “You are quite right. I think he will like it, Elliott, especially if you tell him how precious it is to you. I believe you are his hero. He scarcely takes his eyes off you and there is always such a brightness in his face.”
“The same could be said of Mrs. Parkes and you,” he said. “I believe she sees you as a daughter figure, June. I wonder if it was Joss’s mother or father who belonged to her. Neither of them has said.”
“No.”
They lapsed into silence. June was almost asleep when he spoke again. At the same moment he slid his arm out from beneath her head and rolled over to sit up on the side of the bed.
“I have an idea,” he said. “There should be time. It must be very early. I probably have a couple of hours before Joss gets up. I am going out to the shed, June. I saw tools out there. If he does get up before I have finished, try to keep him away from the shed, will you, love?”
“What are you going to do?” She was not enjoying being deprived of his body heat.
But he merely leaned down and kissed her once more. She could see his grin in the dark.
“Secrets,” he said. “Something for Joss. But the best gifts are always those that are a secret from everyone except the giver. Go back to sleep.”
“Elliott,” she said after he had dressed in the darkness and was in the doorway on his way to the other room and the outer door.
He paused and looked back at her.
“I love you,” she said. “I love you so very much. I always have.”
“Temptress,” he said softly. “Say that again tonight when I am at liberty to reply suitably.”
She smiled as she listened to him let himself quietly out of the house. Then she turned into the faint warmth he had left behind and went back to sleep.
Joss’s cheeks and nose were as bright a red as his hair, but since they were a different shade entirely, they clashed horribly with it. Fortunately, perhaps, his hair was all but hidden beneath the capacious hat.
He would not hear of going inside even though June and his grandmother had decided to go in search of a hot cup of tea and a mince pie.
Joss was still shrieking and laughing and bounding about. He had all the exuberance that a young boy should have, Elliott thought, and then some. One would almost swear that the child had never played in his life and was now furiously making up for lost time.
The sled was not expertly made. There had not been enough time or quite the right tools. But it clearly delighted Joss beyond measure. The two of them had been outside—and Mrs. Parkes and June had been out too for well over an hour—since two minutes after the time the gift had been brought inside and revealed to a curious threesome who had been barred from the shed for almost an hour after they had risen and dressed.
Joss had been up every snowbank in sight at least two dozen times each and had screeched his way down to the bottom. He had made Elliott sample each hill. He had coaxed June into trying three of them. He had wheedled his grandmother and there had been a great deal of laughter between the two of them, but she had declined the treat.
Joss could not have been better pleased if he had been given the costliest toy fort with a whole army of tin soldiers—the great dream of most little boys. Not that Elliott would ever give such a gift to any son of his. Toy soldiers always looked rather too like real soldiers for his comfort.
Joss, who for all his sweetness, had never seemed quite like a typical child, now seemed to epitomize all the joy and exuberance and carefreeness of childhood.
Elliott stood and laughed at him and picked him up when he fell off his sled, as he inevitably did at least one out of every three times, and slapped the snow off him and sent him on his way again.
The child was inexhaustible.
But he was not the only one who was bubbling over with happiness. Elliott could have done some whooping and capering of his own if behaving so had been consistent with the dignity of his seven-and-twenty years. Just looking at June as she appeared when she stepped outside made his heart leap and his loins ache. Though it was not lust he felt for her but love pure and simple. For though there was definite physical desire in the feeling, there was far more to it than that. There was the knowledge that they were one in that indefinable way that husband and wife are supposed to be one—that they shared physical bonds and friendship and deep affection and a future.
He knew whenever their eyes met—as they frequently did—that she shared his thoughts and his feelings. They did not need words this morning. Or even privacy.
Even after she had gone inside he was wa
rmed by his memories of last night and by the knowledge that from now on she was to be at his side, his wife in every possible way, that he would never again have to know loneliness or uncertainty.
Joss slid with an ear-piercing shriek to his feet and somersaulted into the snow in the opposite direction from his sled.
“You are going to have to make one of these for your own son, mate,” he said breathlessly.
“I have no son,” Elliott said, reaching out a helping hand.
Joss bounced to his feet. “But you will,” he said. “You make him one of these. I had no idea they could be such fun.”
Elliott chuckled as the boy raced off again. But the words had caused a certain somersaulting sensation in the region of his heart. He had not thought of that. Perhaps he would be able to put away the five-year belief that he would never have children of his own body.
Perhaps . . .
“Watch me!” Joss yelled and he launched himself and his sled off the highest bank in what looked to be a suicide dive.
Elliott laughed and strode to the rescue.
“This has been so pleasant.” June sipped on her tea and leaned back in her chair. She smiled at Mrs. Parkes. “The most wonderful Christmas ever. I hope we have not been too much of an imposition on you.”
“Christmas is for love, dearie,” Mrs. Parkes said. “Indeed, life is for love, but sometimes we forget. Christmas helps us remember.”
She ran her fingers over the silk purse she held on her lap and over the even silkier surface of the embroidered design. She had actually shed a few tears when June had given it to her earlier.
“All will be well now, dearie.” Her face glowed with her own unique brand of happiness.
“You have said that a number of times,” June said. “Is it your philosophy of life?”
The older woman rocked gently in her chair and folded her hands across the purse. “Neither of you must blame yourselves any longer for what is past,” she said. “You were too young. You knew too little of life. And he was too old for his years and knew too much of life. It was too soon for the two of you. Now is the right time.”
June stared at her fixedly. “Elliott has been telling you about us?” she asked. Or was it just a lucky guess given the fact that their estrangement must have been obvious at first?
Mrs. Parkes continued to rock, the picture of contentment and quiet wisdom. “Now is the right time,” she said again. “All will be well now. It will be a son.”
“What will be a son?” June’s eyes widened.
“Your firstborn,” Mrs. Parkes said. “Conceived at Christmas. A good time to conceive, dearie.”
June felt dizzy. And horribly embarrassed. They had been heard last night. The bed springs had not seemed squeaky but then perhaps on both occasions she had been too intent on other matters to notice. And she could remember that the first time Elliott had covered her mouth with his own—just as she was crying out with the wonder of what was happening. They had been heard.
“I am so sorry,” she said. She could feel her cheeks flaming. “Was it very tasteless? It was just that—”
But Mrs. Parkes was smiling her comfortable, almost radiant smile. “Love is never tasteless,” she said. “Not in any way it may show itself.”
But she did know. She clearly knew that they had made love here in this cottage, in her bed, last night. June sipped on her tea again, though for a moment it seemed too hot. But her embarrassment gradually receded. Love is never tasteless, Mrs. Parkes had said.
Mrs. Parkes thought June had conceived last night. She thought they were going to have a son. She could not possibly know, of course. It was purely conjecture. But the very possibility of it washed over June. It was something she had not really thought of. She had been so intent on the wonder of their reconciliation and the discovery that intimacy with Elliott was no longer a fearful thing but something of infinite beauty that she had not considered the possibility that she might be conceiving.
But she could remember both times she felt the warm gush of his seed inside her. What if . . . Oh, what if they were to have a child? A baby. A son. It would not matter whether it was a son or a daughter except that he would have his heir if they had a son.
A baby.
Perhaps she had conceived last night.
She laughed softly. “Now I know how Mary felt,” she said, glancing at the carvings beneath the window. “Being told by the angel that she was going to have a son even before she knew it herself. How do you fancy yourself as an angel, Mrs. Parkes?”
She expected the other woman to laugh heartily. Instead, she merely rocked in her chair and smiled gently. Something deep inside June turned over.
And then the outer door opened and a draft of fresh air came inside with Elliott and Joss. Elliott looked quite as boyish as the child, June thought, turning to look at them. He was grinning and bright-eyed. He was carrying the child up on his shoulders. Joss was ducking his head so that he would not bump it on the door frame.
“Gran,” he called in his eager, piping voice, “I never knew what fun it was to be a little boy.”
They were endearing, rather sad words to June, but they set Mrs. Parkes off into gales of laughter. Joss, in the process of being swung down from Elliott’s shoulders, joined her. The mingled sound of their merriment was pure joy.
“I thought I had better bring him inside, ma’am,” Elliott said, “before he turned into a block of ice.” He took off his gloves and hat and greatcoat and came over to the fire to warm his hands. But he set them first flat against June’s cheeks and grinned at her when she winced from the shock of the cold. And since Mrs. Parkes had got up to fill the kettle and Joss was already examining his new whittling knife, Elliott bent his head to hers and kissed her swiftly and openmouthed.
“Hello, my love,” he whispered.
She could feel herself blushing again. She felt all the world like a new bride.
He was sitting at the kitchen table with Joss, giving him some instruction on wood carving and watching his efforts. The child’s tongue had appeared out of one corner of his mouth and a line of concentration had formed between his brows. He kept tossing back an errant lock of hair that had a habit of hanging down in his line of vision.
He loved the child dearly, Elliott realized. And he realized too that he wanted a child of his own. Children. Today the longing was a pleasant thing because his marriage had begun again last night and would continue into the coming days and weeks and years. In all probability they would have children.
But he would always love Joss. He must keep in touch with the child. Perhaps he could do something for his future.
June was sitting at the table too, quietly watching until she got up, went into the bedroom, and came back with her comb in hand. She combed the lock of bright red hair back from Joss’s brow in such a way that it would not fall forward again and then she bent and kissed the boy’s bare forehead.
“My hair is in my eyes too,” Elliott complained, and with a smile she did the same for him, even down to the kiss on the forehead. She was blushing like a girl, he noticed with interest.
Mrs. Parkes was standing by the window, looking out.
When he was first married, Elliott thought, all he had wanted was to take his wife to bed, to bury his pain and his guilt and his knowledge in the pure innocence of her body. Now it was different. The thought of the coming night was pleasurable anticipation, it was true, but he was content just to be close to her, sitting quietly with her, though they were not alone and were not talking a great deal.
She felt like the peaceful, other half of himself that had been missing all his life. He was feeling incredibly happy though this was a very untypical Christmas Day.
“The snow is melting,” Mrs. Parkes said.
“Good.” Elliott looked up. “We will be able to be on our way by tomorrow then, perhaps.” It was not an entirely pleasurable thought although part of him was eager to take his wife back into the world they knew so that they coul
d begin the life together that they had tried to begin more than five years ago.
June got up to stand beside Mrs. Parkes. They were both silent for a while.
“It is incredible, Elliott,” June said at last. “The lane-way seems perfectly clear already and I can see where it joins the road. The road looks clear too. It seems not even to be muddy.”
That could not possibly be. He got to his feet and joined them at the window. The snow was as thick everywhere as it had been for two days. Except on the laneway and the road, quite visible in the distance, to one side of the cottage. And June was right. There appeared to be no mud.
“I believe,” Mrs. Parkes said quietly, “that your family will be expecting you for Christmas dinner. It is a pity for families not to be together for the most joyful feast of the year.”
She had her arm about June’s waist, Elliott noticed at the same moment as he felt a small hand creep into his. He squeezed it and looked down at the child.
“I will sweep the snow off your curricle while you get the horses ready, mate,” Joss said.
It was only the middle of the afternoon. Even if they were farther from Hammond Park than he had thought when the snow came—and they must be or he would have recognized both the cottage and its inhabitants—they would still arrive there in plenty of time for dinner and for the ball that always followed it in the evening. If the guests could travel through all this snow, of course.
How could the snow have disappeared so fast from the road and how could the road have even dried? It was a strange mystery. But there was work to be done. He shrugged into his greatcoat again while June went through to the bedroom to pack his shaving things and fold up his spare shirt.
Less than half an hour later they were taking their leave of the two who had saved their lives and opened up their home so cheerfully to strangers. It was not an easy thing to do. He shook hands with Mrs. Parkes and kissed her cheek while June was hugging and kissing Joss, and then he stooped down on his haunches and drew the child into his arms, into a bear hug. He felt very close to tears.
“I’ll come back, lad,” he said. “I’ll make sure that you never want for anything. I’ll make sure you have schooling and that when you grow up you have the chance to do something interesting and fulfilling with your life. I promise. I’ll never forget you.”
