A Gamble on Love

by Blair Bancroft

  And who had a better right? asserted the other part of him that he tried so hard to ignore. Holding the candle high, Thomas parted the satin hangings with his other hand and peered in.

  She was there—Mrs. Aurelia Trevor Lanning, his wife—sound asleep, her braids trailing from beneath a nightcap that was a rather amazing confection of ribbons and lace. Ah . . . so there was a bit of vanity beneath all those ugly mourning gowns. She stirred. Thomas dropped the bedhanging back in place, turned his back to shield the candlelight. But not before he had the memory of what he had seen firmly fixed in his rapidly sobering mind.

  He had married a beautiful woman, an intelligent woman. One capable of appealing to the more gentle senses he had long ignored.

  And capable of making him take to the bottle.

  What he had was a wife who was bravely upholding her share of the devil’s bargain they had made, however repugnant she found it. And when she discovered the rest of it? Thomas shuddered. He had always thought himself a brave man, but . . .

  After the holidays was soon enough. The joyousness of the season seemed to be spawning a few brief moments of rapport between himself and his wife. Yes . . . in spite of Charles’s admonitions, the fall of the axe could wait.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Thirteen

  By evening of the following day Pevensey Park’s elegant entry hall was engulfed in greenery, from genuine laurel wreaths adorning the brows of the classical statues, peering down from their niches, to trailing vines wound round the banisters on staircase and gallery, while evergreen boughs, swagged with red velvet, were suspended in great splashes of color against the pale green walls. Although it had been many years since Pevensey had worn so much green, Relia could still hear her mother’s cautions quite clearly. What goes up must come down! Frequently, in showers of unwanted tiny needles well before Twelfth Night. Therefore, following the principles laid down by Lady Ralph, decoration in the state rooms consisted solely of trailing vines and red bows over mantles and doorways, thus avoiding a daunting clean-up of Aubusson, Axminster, and Persian carpets.

  The entry hall, however, with its tile floor and direct access to the outside, could be decorated with near reckless abandon. With a shake of her head, Relia finally gave up all attempts at supervision when it became apparent that the three Lannings, aided and abetted by a full compliment of footmen and a bevy of housemaid, had plunged hip deep into exercising their creative imaginations. Retreating once again to the gallery, Relia simply stood and watched. Truth to tell, the hall looked quite lovely. If it brought back bittersweet memories, then she alone should suffer them, for the Lannings had not known her parents. Nor was she so unreasonable as to think they, too, should mourn.

  Mr. Lanning’s voice rose above the excited buzz below, giving orders. Then he stood with his head cocked to one side, clearly pondering what to do next. A question from Nicholas, remarkably handsome with the sullen look gone from his face. A consultation between Thomas and Olivia. Quick smiles between brother and sister, then off Livvy went to drape a garland around the shoulders of one of the more forbidding Roman generals.

  “It is all right, you know,” Gussie said as she joined Relia on the gallery. “You will notice even the servants have taken the Lannings to their hearts. All this”—Gussie arced a hand around the bustling and colorful entry hall—“is so much better than finding they have acquired a new master who does naught but sit on his high horse and scowl.”

  The idea was so ludicrous when applied to the tall man handing up greenery to a footman, who was standing on a ladder laid against the gallery balustrade, that Relia could not suppress a giggle. It was true. As annoying as he could be at times, Thomas Lanning possessed a good nature. Although in her presence that nature was well hidden beneath a forbidding façade or a mask of faintly derogatory humor, her husband was . . . well, rather appealing, with his hair rumpled and his cheeks still pink from the cold. With his gray eyes sparkling with something besides annoyance . . . or his latest effort to urge her in a direction she did not wish to go.

  He should not be down there, of course, doing what he was doing. No matter what Gussie said, he should not be enjoying himself in such a plebeian fashion. And stealing her servants’ approbation. Cit! Had he no proper notion of how to go on?

  Relia stepped away from the back wall of the gallery and, hiding herself behind a column wound with greenery, focused her gaze on her husband alone. He was . . . strong, dynamic, a true dragonslayer.

  He was replacing her authority in her very own household. Filling it with strangers. With noise, laughter . . . perhaps even joy.

  And she hated him for it.

  No, she did not.

  Shoulders slumping, Relia turned and headed blindly toward her bedchamber, her feet finding their way to the room of her childhood, now stripped of everything that had been hers. She sat, shivering, before the cold grate, her mind lost in a confusion of contrary emotions. Was this what was meant by that old saying about winning a battle, only to lose the war? Was that what she had done? She had saved Pevensey Park . . . by losing it.

  Or was it she herself who was lost?

  Excitement hummed at breakfast the next day, for the great Yule Log expedition was about to commence. Relia, nagged by her conscience, rose early to see them off. Fortunately, Olivia had conceded that two days of winter cold were quite enough and did not insist on joining what was generally an exhausting all-day male event. So the ladies enjoyed the comforts of home—Relia making a list of the amounts to be given to each servant on Boxing Day while Miss Aldershot and Olivia worked on the boxes to be given to the poor. Thomas, however, rode off on the bench of a farm wagon, with Nicholas tucked up behind among a collection men that included Pevensey Park’s gamekeeper, two gardeners, two stableboys, and three footmen, all wearing their oldest and warmest clothes. They were also accompanied by a long two-handed saw, plus an intimidating array of sharp axes. Behind them trudged a farmer, leading the team of heavy workhorses that would be needed to haul the great log home.

  What was that old nursery rhyme? Thomas thought as they bounced along the road, wheels clattering and harnesses clanking in the cold crisp air . Something about Lawks-a-mercy me, can this be I? Said by an old woman, as he recalled, but the words were all too apt. If his friends from the City could but see him now. And the friends from Mayfair? Thomas laughed aloud. His true friends, like Charles, would rejoice for him, even while shaking their heads. The others did not matter.

  His wife, of course, thought him an ill-bred lout. Yet disconcerting her by demonstrating his Cit ways was remarkably enjoyable. And yesterday, Nicholas, in a moment of unrestrained excitement while teetering on a ladder, had actually addressed him as Thomas. A good lad beneath his sullens, Thomas surmised. Perhaps being sent down from school was not such a bad thing, after all. It was high time he became better acquainted with the child not born until he was at university.

  Thomas judged that with the most of Pevensey’s people, if not his wife, he had made considerable progress. Next . . . next must be Squire Stanton and his family, important acquaintances to steer him through the maze of county neighbors. Mourning or no mourning, Thomas determined, there must be some sort of social mingling this holiday. Perhaps Miss Aldershot could advise him.

  A shout went up as a likely log was found, already felled by lightning and lying conveniently on the ground. Thomas gave the gamekeeper an inquiring look. But it seemed the log was too dry and would burn too quickly, unable to last the proper length of the twelve days of Christmas.

  Oak, declared the head gardener. Ash, countered the gamekeeper—all knew the Yule Log must be ash. The argument lasted off and on for half a day until the perfect tree was found and felled, its branches lopped off. Thomas, asserting his rights with a good-natured grin carefully calculated not to offend, confirmed the gamekeeper’s measurements by pacing off the length for himself. The entry hall of Pevensey Park was not the ideal place to discover another two inches must be sawn off befor
e the log would fit. He tended to offend his bride all too easily without being blamed for a mound of sawdust or—heaven forfend!—nicks in the tiles.

  The early dark of the winter solstice was beginning to settle over Pevensey Park before the Yule Log party was heard jingling up the drive. The ladies, throwing on their heaviest cloaks, stepped out onto the broad landing to watch as the horses were brought to a halt, leaving the great log they were dragging directly before the front steps. The men piled out of the wagon behind, and in a short time, the heavy ropes hitching the log to the horses had been transformed into three loops for pulling the trimmed tree trunk up the twelve imposing steps.

  In spite of the lowering light, Relia had no trouble finding Thomas, as he topped the tallest of the other men by at least three inches. And Nicholas . . . she smiled to see the boy rushing in, right at the forefront of the work and the men cheerfully making room for him. With three men who sported the most stalwart shoulders pulling, and the bravest pushing from below, the Yule Log bounced slowly up the steps, Relia, Olivia, and Gussie retreating before it. Inside at last, with their goal in sight, the men dragged the log across the tiles with renewed vigor. As they were removing the ropes before the final shove into the fireplace, Relia looked up to discover a good portion of her household ringing the room, including her housekeeper.

  “Mrs. Marshcombe,” she asked, “is it possible you still have the remains of our last Yule Log put by? It has been so long—” Relia added, hoping she had not put her housekeeper out of countenance by asking.

  “Of course, ma’am,” Mrs. Marshcombe declared, as if the proper storage of a five-year-old charred bit of wood was a foregone conclusion. “Wrapped in stout canvas and still where I placed it when Lady Ralph last celebrated Christmas.”

  “Thank you,” Relia murmured just as a shout arose behind her.

  “It fits!” Olivia cried. “With scarce an inch on each side. Oh, well done!”

  Relia swept through the crowd about the fireplace. Indeed, the Yule Log fit to perfection. And high time she shook off the sad echos of nostalgia and did her duty as lady of the manor. “The Wassail Bowl is ready,” she declared, raising her voice to be heard over the happy noise of satisfaction and congratulations. “My thanks to you all!”

  The men swiftly doffed their caps, offering her appreciative grins and salutes before sweeping off in a general rush for the table set against the far wall that held a huge silver punch bowl, steaming with hot spiced wine. The table also groaned under a layer of meat pies, tarts, and other pastries that could be easily devoured by men who had done a hard day’s work. Swiftly, Relia grabbed Nicholas and Olivia, pointing them toward the pitcher of spiced cider. But where was Thomas?

  Being offered the first mug of wassail, of course. He raised his drink high, in salute to all those who had helped, before lowering his dark head to take a swallow of the heady brew. Another triumphant shout echoed through the festive hall.

  Miserable man! Only a few days in Kent and he had won the men’s good will. Dear God, his hands! Relia charged straight through the men crowded around the trestle table. “What have you done to yourself?” she hissed at Thomas, tugging on a cape of his greatcoat to get his attention.

  “My dear, there you are!” he exclaimed, admirably playing his role in their charade.

  “You’re covered in blood,” Relia snapped. “Come with me!”

  Thomas held up both hands, one still clutching his mug of spiced wine. “An exaggeration,” he proclaimed, regarding his hands with interest. “Nothing but a few scratches.”

  “Men have lost hands, even arms, for little more,” Relia returned, transferring her grip to the sleeve of his greatcoat. “You may keep your wassail, but those cuts must be cleansed at once.”

  Meekly, and to the accompaniment of urgings from all those around him, Thomas Lanning allowed himself to be led away. But, once out of earshot, he said to his wife, “I am surprised you did not cart me off by the ear, my dear.”

  “I cannot reach that high,” she retorted as she plunged down the stairs to the basement, still holding fast to his coat.

  “Are you taking me to the dungeons?” Thomas inquired amiably as they continued down the long corridor, marked by closed doors on each side, barely visible in the dim light of a few tallow candles.

  “Palladian houses do not have dungeons.”

  “I am relieved.”

  As the smell of roasting meat grew stronger, indicating they were approaching the kitchen, Relia opened a door and swept inside, still dragging her husband behind her. “Sit,” she told him, indicating a plain wooden chair set under a long deal table whose finish had long since disappeared under numerous vigorous scrubbings. “No, wait!” Relia amended. “I will help you off with your coat, else you will have blood all over it. If you have not already,” she added, casting a swift glance over him. But the room was lit only by what little light there was in the hall, and she could see nothing.

  When her husband was seated, she took a spill from a jar and, obtaining a light from the hall candle outside, she soon had a candelabrum and an oil lantern casting their glow over the table. Visible now, though lurking in shadows, were row upon row of wooden shelves, lining two walls of the stillroom and holding a massive collections of glass jars filled with jams, herbs, spices, and medicaments reflecting the wavering light from the candles. From ropes strung across an ell near the fireplace depended a variety of plants, brought in from outside drying racks as winter approached. On a short third wall were two ceiling-high cupboards, filled with miscellaneous supplies. And along the outside wall was a cast iron double sink with its own pump, plus a long drainboard and a cooling rack.

  Although Relia did not consider herself an expert, she was proud of Pevensey’s stillroom. Here, she and her staff were capable of maintaining a long tradition of efficacious remedies without having to rely on the area’s aging doctor for every minor ailment. In fact, now that the only younger doctor in the neighborhood had gone off to the Peninsula, Relia suspected Pevensey Park was better off following the old ways than allowing the doddering doctor to come through the door bearing his box of leeches or with his lancet at the ready.

  Thomas watched with interest as his wife retrieved clean cloths and a towel from one of the tall cupboards. She pumped water into an earthenware basin, which she laid on the table . . . and then she disappeared out the door, leaving him wondering. Somehow he doubted she had gone to find help, for she seemed surprisingly at home in this strange room with its heady mixture of intriguing odors. Stillroom. He had never seen one before, but the name popped into his head. A traditional part of country living. He should bring the children here. They had no idea—

  Relia interrupted his thoughts, dashing back in, a steaming kettle held fast in huge pads that seemed much too large for her hands. Thomas winced as the kettle wavered, the spout all too close to his lap, then heaved an audible sigh of relief as the boiling water made it into the basin. Relia set the kettle onto the table, tested the temperature of the water in the basin, added a bit more hot.

  “Well done,” Thomas murmured. “I had no idea doctoring was among your skills.”

  “Lighting a lamp? Pouring water in a bowl?” his wife scoffed.

  “Ah—but I suspect you will manage the rest of it just as competently.”

  “If you did not have such soft hands, this would not have happened,” she scolded as she dipped a cloth into the warm water.

  “I must appear very feeble to a young lady accustomed to hearty country gentlemen,” Thomas offered humbly as his wife picked up his hand and began to wipe off the blood.

  “If you’d ever done a day’s work—”

  “As titled gentlemen do,” Mr. Lanning supplied.

  Relia dropped his hand a shade too swiftly and took her time rinsing out the cloth before reaching for his other hand. “Many go to Gentleman Jackson’s,” she countered primly. “They fence, shoot, hunt.”

  “Make asses of themselves.”


  “Mr. Lanning!” Relia flung the bloody cloth onto the table.

  “My apologies, my dear,” Thomas sighed. “I could not resist. Please continue, for without the blood I can now see some of the cuts are a trifle deeper than I had thought.”

  Somehow the devil to whom she was married managed to assume a look so humble and woebegone that Relia found it quite impossible to stay angry with him. Or at least impossible to walk away and leave him to his own devices. But she had to repress a wicked smile as she reached for a bar of yellow soap that was far from the lavender-scented variety made for the bedchambers upstairs. Dipping a fresh cloth in water, she applied the soap liberally. This was going to hurt.

  Blasted female! Thomas grumbled to himself. This was going to hurt, and he probably wouldn’t even notice, as he was so distracted by the feel of Relia’s hands on his, the nearness of her—the two of them bathed in a pool of light in the center of a dark room seemingly cut off from the rest of the household. How strange that he should be alone with his wife in such conditions of intimacy, and he had not even planned it.

  He could not quite repress a flinch as she attacked his right hand with the cloth. Nor did he fail to notice his wife’s grimace of satisfaction. But, still, he could not think of a single place he would rather be. It was possible marriage had advantages he had not yet considered.

  Other than the obvious.

  If his wife was nearly seven months into her year of mourning when they had married, and he had stayed in London for six weeks, then her period of mourning must be—

  His other hand screamed in outrage, but Thomas was too busy counting to pay attention. Three more months, or close enough to make no difference, before . . .