The Last Waltz

by Mary Balogh

  “He is still living,” she said and tried to think of some other topic with which to change the subject. Nothing presented itself to her mind.

  “I am most dreadfully sorry for not asking until now,” he said. “It was very remiss of me. Perhaps you would have liked to invite him to join the house party. Would you have had him here for Christmas if I had not suddenly announced my intention of coming to Thornwood? Or would you have gone to spend the holiday with him? He must enjoy seeing his granddaughters.”

  “No,” she said, “there were no plans. I believe he had made other arrangements.”

  “I see,” he said. “He was an amiable gentleman, Christina. I liked him. Everyone did.”

  Yes, everyone had liked Sir Charlton Spense.

  “That letter was from him,” she said abruptly. “The one you handed me a few days ago.” She remembered too late how he had witnessed her reaction to that letter, how she had asked for an advance on her allowance soon after reading it.

  His silence told her that he remembered too.

  “He is living at home,” she said. “He is in good health.”

  She could tell that his eyes were watching her closely. “When did you last see him?” he asked.

  She considered not answering at all. Or lying. She laughed instead. “Ten and a half years ago,” she said, “on my wedding day. After that I was forbidden to communicate with him or even to speak his name—just as I was forbidden to speak yours.”

  “Ah,” he said softly as the carriage was drawing to a careful halt before the horseshoe steps outside the house. “There was more to it than I ever knew, then, was there?”

  It was not phrased as a question that required an answer. He did not wait for one. He opened the door even before the coachman could descend from the box, and vaulted out onto the snowy terrace. He set down the steps and reached up a hand to help her down.

  “We will speak of it before I return to London,” he said. “It is time the truth was spoken, Christina. But not today. Or tomorrow. It is Christmas.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Let us enjoy it,” he said, his eyes looking directly into hers. “We are both in need of some good memories, I believe.”

  “Yes.”

  She half ran up the steps ahead of him and proceeded directly through the great hall to the staircase arch without looking back. She might have disgraced herself and burst into tears if she had done so. It was not a day for tears. It was a day for joy.

  And part of her, strangely enough, was bursting with it.

  It was Christmas. And she was spending it with her children, her aunt, her sister-in-law, congenial house guests, and—and him.

  It was a time for gathering good memories.

  Not everyone went skating during the afternoon. Some protested their need for quiet rest in preparation for the evening’s concert. Others chose to stay to rehearse. But a sizable group of young people and children trekked off to the lake in the wake of three grooms, each of whom carried a large box of skates.

  The Earl of Wanstead walked with Margaret. He had watched with interest and approval her transformation from the restless, almost petulant girl who had greeted him on his arrival at Thornwood to the smiling, exuberant young lady of the past few days.

  “You are enjoying Christmas, Margaret?” he asked her.

  “Oh, yes,” she assured him, her eyes aglow. “I have always hated it until this year. You must remember what it was like when Papa was living.”

  There had never been gifts. Never anything to make the day much different from any other except that there would be goose for dinner and rowdy, drunken adults to be avoided at all costs.

  “It did not change when Gilbert was master here?” he asked. He partly knew the answer, but he was curious to know more. If he had thought of Christina at all during the lost years—and despite himself he had thought of her, of course—it had been to imagine her living in the proverbial lap of luxury, all her whims indulged. Though Gilbert had never been the most amiable of boys, it was true.

  “Oh yes, it changed,” Margaret said with a grimace. “Totally. Gilbert discovered God soon after he married Christina—that was how he described it to us, anyway. I did not say so while he was alive, but I really had no wish to discover or worship his God. All was sin and penance and sobriety and morality and—oh, I could go on and on. Rodney was fortunate. He was old enough to leave home. He went traveling. Though that did not turn out to be fortunate for him in the end, of course—he drowned in Italy. But I was a girl and still a child and stuck here. It was dreadful, Cousin Gerard. I even used to long to have Papa back—and you. You were always kinder to me than anyone else after Mama died.”

  He hated himself for asking the question. It seemed somehow underhanded. “Christina did not try to make Thornwood a happier place?” he asked.

  She looked at him and then straight ahead through the trees. “No,” she said at last. “Except occasionally when Gilbert went to London. He never took her with him. He would not take me either when I was old enough to make my come-out. He called it the most sinful and the most extravagant city in the world, unfit for either his wife or his sister. Sometimes we used to have picnics when he was gone. Sometimes we used to laugh.”

  “You have laughed a great deal in the past week,” he said. “As you used to do when you were a child.”

  “It is good to have you home again, Gerard, and to find that you have not changed.” She smiled at him. “Is skating as difficult as waltzing?”

  “The essential difference,” he said, “is that there is no shame in having to lean on your partner when you are skating. Do you want me to teach you? Or is there someone on whom you would prefer to lean?”

  Her eyes danced with merriment. “I believe,” she said, “Lizzie Gaynor would be severely disappointed if I monopolized your attention, Cousin Gerard. Before we left the house I overheard her telling at least half a dozen people in a group together that she was terrified of ice, that she would never in a million years be able to skate, but that you had promised to teach her and to keep her safe. She trusts you to do just that—you are so strong, you know.” She batted her eyelids at him in a fair imitation of Lizzie.

  It was true. He had said that, or been maneuvered into saying it. He had given up all thought of courting Lizzie with a view to marriage. Indeed, he had given up all thought of marriage to anyone—ever. But he was painfully aware that her interest had been piqued by the invitation to Thornwood and that both she and her mother were eager to bring him to the point over Christmas.

  “And has anyone promised to keep you safe?” he asked Margaret. “Is there any one special gentleman?”

  “Not really,” she said after tipping her head to one side and thinking for a few moments, “though I like Mr. Frederick Cannadine exceedingly well and I believe he likes me. You cannot know how wonderful it is to meet and mingle with people of roughly my own age, both ladies and gentlemen. And to know that enjoying oneself is not prohibited. I do not want to make the mistake of fixing my interest on one single gentleman too soon, Cousin Gerard. Did you mean it when you said I am to have a Season this coming spring?”

  “With all my heart,” he said. “It is a crime that you have not already had one.”

  “But then I would not have it to look forward to,” she said, smiling brightly. “Perhaps it is frivolous to long so much for a Season with all its balls and other entertainments, but if it is, then I am frivolous and do not care. I want to be free when I go there, Cousin Gerard. I want my hand and my heart to be unattached. Perhaps I will bestow both eventually on Mr. Cannadine—if he is willing to bestow his on me. But I want to be quite, quite sure first.”

  It had been his opinion on meeting Margaret a week and a half before that she was immature for her years. But he could see now that he had mistaken innocence and naivete for immaturity. She had a great deal of common sense, even wisdom.

  “As the daughter of an earl,” he said, “you could probably snare
a duke, Margaret, if there is one available.”

  They both laughed.

  “If he is young, handsome, wealthy, kind, and inclined to love me to distraction,” she said, “then I will grab him.” She laughed again. “Provided I love him to distraction too, of course.”

  But they had arrived on the bank of the lake. The gardeners had done a superb job of sweeping the snow from a large expanse of the lake’s surface so that the ice was smooth and gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. There was a great bustling as everyone rummaged through the boxes to find skates the right size for each pair of boots.

  Some of them could already skate well and took to the ice with effortless confidence. Several had tried it before and were willing to venture out on their own to slide gingerly forward, arms outstretched, legs braced apart. A few had never before had the opportunity or the courage to skate.

  Frederick Cannadine, a competent, if not an accomplished skater, offered his assistance to Margaret. Andrew Campbell took both Susan Gaynor and Clara Radway out, one on each arm. Geordie Stewart took Christina’s arm firmly through his. Jeannette, laughing, not with derision but with the sheer pleasure of the occasion, took a wobbling Ralph Milchip by the hand. John and Laura Cannadine were instructing the children, he on the ice, she safely on the bank, though Rachel had gone off on her own to one end of the skating area and had quietly set about teaching herself.

  The earl looked into the wide, nervous eyes of Lizzie Gaynor and smiled. “I will not let you fall,” he promised her.

  But not letting her fall, he discovered over the next hour, involved holding her left hand with his left while his right arm circled her waist, held her close against his side, and supported almost the whole of her weight. She was small and shapely, his body told him, as his eyes had done before. Very feminine. She was timid and trusting and bright and laughing. Very alluring, he thought dispassionately.

  “I do not know how you can possibly be so steady on your skates, my lord,” she said admiringly as they glided together across the expanse of the ice, half turning her head toward him so that her pretty profile showed to advantage framed by her fur-trimmed hood. “I know that I could trust my life to you.”

  “With practice,” he said, “you would be just as steady, Miss Gaynor. There are certain techniques to successful skating, but mainly it involves a combination of balance and confidence.”

  “I could never have either, I do declare,” she said. She laughed lightly. “And why should I when I have such a steady partner to lean upon?”

  Milchip, he noticed, had just taken a tumble to the ice, pulling Jeannette, a surefooted skater, down with him. They were both finding the situation vastly amusing and were being teased mercilessly by Luttrell and John Cannadine, who was also offering to haul them both back to their feet. Christina still had her arm through Stewart’s and was moving slowly, but she was using the supporting arm merely for confidence. She was doing the skating herself. She was frowning slightly in concentration.

  Life with Gilbert had been undiluted gloom, he thought— but of course he had suspected that even before Margaret had confirmed it. Christina had never tried to lighten the gloom. She had never laughed except when Gilbert went away, leaving her behind. He should be gloating, the earl thought. It should give him a fierce sense of satisfaction to know that she must have been unhappy. But he could only wonder that he had not realized before this morning that there must have been more behind her sudden rejection of him and acceptance of his cousin than had appeared at the time. Gilbert had never allowed her to mention his name— or her father’s. Why her father?

  Rachel fell, picked herself up without a murmur, and kept on trying to skate. One day he would teach her, he thought.

  Jeannette had skated ahead of Milchip, goaded by the teasing though she was still laughing. She performed a few graceful spins and then a twirling jump. She was moving at some speed too. She stopped and executed a deep curtsy in response to the applause and whistles that greeted her performance.

  “Oh,” Lizzie said, “how I wish I could do that. I suppose I could if only I had the courage.”

  “It is usually advisable,” he said, chuckling, “to learn to walk before one tries running. Miss Campbell grew up in Canada and is accustomed to long winters and frozen rivers and lakes. She has been skating since she was a child.”

  “You are telling me that I am incapable of skating well, then, my lord?” Lizzie said, pouting prettily up at him. “I must certainly prove you wrong.”

  At first it seemed that she was merely going to try to do what Christina was doing. She shifted her weight over her feet and slid her arm through his. She performed a few sensible glides, using his arm for a prop. But then she laughed gaily and released her hold altogether.

  “Watch me!” she commanded him and pushed off alone, extending her arms gracefully.

  Fortunately for her he had the presence of mind to increase his own pace so that he was close enough when she lost her balance to catch her before she fell all the way to the ice. But she bit her lower lip and lifted her right foot from the ice as he held her up.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “You have hurt yourself?” he asked in some concern. Deuce take it, he had promised not to let her fall.

  He held her tightly to his side while she gingerly moved her foot and winced.

  “It will be better in a moment,” she assured him.

  But there was no point in taking any further risks even though she set the foot back to the ice and smiled bravely at him.

  “I do not want to spoil anyone’s fun,” she said, her large eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears.

  “Nonsense!” he told her. “You will spoil everyone’s fun only if you insist upon making a martyr of yourself. Look— the bonfire has been lit and the chocolate brought down from the house.” And on his instructions broad logs had been drawn up as close as possible on three sides of the fire, so that they might sit in some comfort to remove their skates and consume their hot drinks. “We will go and warm ourselves and you can rest your foot.”

  “I can sit there alone, my lord,” she assured him as he guided her slowly toward the bank. “You must come back and skate longer. There are other ladies who would welcome your escort, I am sure. You cannot possibly wish to skate only with me—or to sit beside me and watch everyone else. It has been selfish of me to take all your time.”

  “Nonsense!” he said again briskly, stepping up onto the bank and bending down to scoop her up into his arms and carry her across to the fire.

  But they were not the only ones leaving the ice. The fire and the arrival of the chocolate pots were enticing some. Others had realized there had been an accident and came to inquire.

  “I was attempting to skate alone,” Lizzie explained gaily. “I had already taken too much of Lord Wanstead’s time. I would have fallen and perhaps broken a leg but for him— silly me. But he came skating after me and saved me.” She bit her lip as he unstrapped the skate from her right boot though he did so carefully without moving the foot. “Oh dear, I fear I must have sprained my ankle. How fortunate for me that his lordship was unwilling to let me leave him.” She winced—and smiled bravely with watery eyes.

  She would not hear of spoiling everyone’s enjoyment by allowing the earl to take her back to the house immediately. Her ankle would surely be better if she but rested it and warmed it at the fire, she insisted. But after they had all drunk their chocolate and were warm again inside and out and had sung some Christmas carols at Laura Cannadine’s suggestion, it was clear that the ankle really had sustained some damage.

  “If you will but give me your arm to lean upon, my lord,” Lizzie said, “I shall contrive quite well.”

  But he could not allow her to walk the distance to the house. She was no featherweight, but he had grown accustomed to heavy manual labor over the years. He instructed her to set her arm about his neck and carried her home. She talked cheerfully the whole way to the rest of the party, raising her voice
and protesting that the accident had been entirely her own fault and not at all his lordship’s. Indeed, but for his devotion in following her when she skated away from him, her injuries might have been considerably worse.

  “How romantic it is,” she said gaily, “to have such a sturdy champion.”

  He was very glad—for more than one reason—to reach the house at last. But of course he would carry Miss Gaynor all the way up to her room, he insisted when she told him in the great hall that he must set her down. She laughed merrily and looked back at everyone else as they stripped off scarves and gloves and hats.

  “And no one is to be naughty and accuse us of doing anything improper,” she said, raising her voice again to carry over the hubbub of noise. “Billings will send for my maid and my mama to come to my room immediately, will you not, Billings?”

  The earl’s eyes met Christina’s across the hall and he raised his eyebrows in mute appeal.

  “Of course no one would say or even think any such thing, Miss Gaynor,” she said with all her usual cool dignity. “We have far too high an opinion of your integrity. Lady Gaynor will come without delay when she hears of your mishap, I am sure. In the meantime I will come up with you and see that you are made comfortable and have everything you need.”

  The earl half smiled at her as she swept past him and through the stairway arch. He followed her with his heavy burden.

  Chapter 15

  THE guests assembled an hour earlier than usual for Christmas dinner, which was to be taken in the state dining room. It was a very splendid setting indeed, everyone agreed. Christina, gazing about the table, remembered words that had been spoken to her that morning—It is Christmas. Let us enjoy it. We are both in need of some good memories, I believe.

  All day she had tried consciously to enjoy each passing moment. She had tried to store away memories.

  In some ways neither was difficult. This was Christmas as she had never celebrated it before. With the exception of Lizzie Gaynor’s accident, which had not after all been serious enough to keep her from the dinner table, the day had been perfect. It had seemed that everyone was happy, that everyone was in harmony with everyone else. If there were such things as peace on earth and goodwill among men, they had been found at Thornwood this year.