by Martha Keyes
Emma laughed softly, feeling grateful for her shelter. The sound of crunching snow grew louder while the hits became less frequent, and the lieutenant half-jumped, half-slid into position next to her, tossing snow up into her face as he came to a halt.
She stayed completely still, her skin stinging under the frozen snow. She batted her eyes to rid them of the water clinging to her lashes.
Breathing heavily and grasping at his injured shoulder, Lieutenant Warrilow shot a wary glimpse over the sled. He exhaled and slumped down, turning to Emma and saying, “I believe they have exhausted”— he stopped, scanning her face with an unsuccessful attempt to suppress a smile. “Oh dear. Have I done that?”
She nodded slowly, unblinking, keeping her expression blank. Melted snow trickled down her forehead, her cheeks, and her chin.
He bit his lip and then searched in his great coat.
She couldn't resist a smile. “Is this how you treat your allies, Lieutenant?”
He pulled out a handkerchief, wiping at the small streams of thawing snow on her face. His forehead was wrinkled in concentration, but he grinned. “No, certainly not. But we are only temporary allies, after all.
He met her eyes, and his hand slowed.
Her skin tingled, and her stomach flipped erratically. Her eyes flitted to his mouth, and she forced them back up.
Was this temporary, what she was feeling? It felt like much more than the civil terms of the truce she had suggested.
She swallowed. Surely it was simply the combination of their physical proximity, the mystical landscape, the rush of the snowball fight, and the stark contrast between her recent animosity and current friendliness toward him.
It couldn't be anything more. It simply couldn't.
“Yes,” she said, turning away. “Temporary allies.”
His hand stayed suspended in the air for a moment, just in front of her face, before dropping slowly.
Emma looked up. The fog was thinning, but clouds still veiled the sky above. She looked for the brightest spot in the sky, judging it to be nearing four o’clock.
“We should be getting back. I am sure your mother is fretting over our long absence by now.”
Lieutenant Warrilow stood, nodding. His face was grave, the humorous twinkle no longer lighting up his eyes.
Alfred called out to them. “Surrendering, are you? Very wise choice. I’m afraid you two are no match for Alice and me!”
No, indeed. Emma and Lieutenant Warrilow were no match at all. Not a match for Alfred and Miss Bolton. And decidedly not a match for each other.
8
Hugh shrugged on his jacket of superfine blue cloth with the help of his valet.
His hands had finally stopped tingling from spending the better part of the day out of doors. The temperature seemed to be warming, though, judging from the sound of water dripping outside his window. It would all freeze overnight again, of course, but perhaps the temperatures would rise enough again the following day to melt a fair bit of what covered the landscape and roads.
That would mean the imminent departure of Emma, of course. Surely she wouldn’t hesitate to leave at the earliest moment possible.
He had known that the remarkably good terms that had flourished between them all day could not last. And he had seen the very moment when Emma had realized it, too.
What had caused her to look at him with such dismay, he couldn’t say.
Nor could he deny the hope he harbored: that she had felt the same pull of attraction that he had felt. But more likely, she had simply known a moment’s lapse in memory which had led her to treat him with more amiability than she had intended.
Whatever the reason, she had reverted to a distant civility toward him, politely refusing his offer to take her up in the sled for the remainder of the way home and engaging Miss Bolton—sitting in the slow-moving sled pulled by Alfred—in conversation for the final ten minutes of the walk.
He had feared that the harmony between them would be short-lived, but he hadn't been able to resist responding in kind to her amiability; to teasing her, if only to see the way her dimple appeared. Seeing her look at him, free of any reserve or anger, full of enjoyment and kinship—it felt worth any cost.
But that blissful rapport was at an end. And now he was left feeling almost desperate to recapture it.
Hugh sighed and thanked his valet, dismissing him and then descending the stairs to dinner. It would be his first Christmas home in three years. Never had he imagined spending it in the company of Emma Caldwell, of all people.
Hugh’s jaw came open upon seeing her, standing in the drawing room, smiling at his mother. Her white crepe dress was simple and elegant, set off with a gold-braided trim which shimmered in concert with her hair in the evening candlelight. She had never looked more angelic than in that moment.
In the company of a married couple and an engaged couple, it was only natural that Hugh would be left to walk beside Emma to the dining room. She seemed to face the prospect with equanimity as he offered her his arm, though there was a restraint in her eyes and in her manner that had been absent since their truce began.
He debated whether to match her reserve, but he couldn’t refrain from an attempt to provoke a smile from her. He leaned in toward her, saying in a low voice.
“And to think it was my grave expression which you feared would betray us.”
She whipped her head around, and he smiled down at her, watching with pleasure and relief as her dimple quivered in response.
“You have played your part admirably, I admit,” she said. “You are much more skilled an actor than I gave you credit for.”
His expression softened. “I haven’t required any skill. My part of the truce has been no act.”
She looked up at him, wariness and something else in her eyes which he couldn’t identify.
He would do well not to pursue that avenue of conversation.
“So,” he said in a cheerful voice, looking ahead with a large intake of breath and hoping to quench the cautious light he had seen in her expression, “if we are found out, I am afraid that the blame will be entirely yours.”
She scoffed. “Certainly not. If you provoke me into betraying myself, then the fault will lie with you.”
He smiled, gazing back down at her. “I intend to take advantage of every opportunity to provoke you, then. For how are you to develop your acting skill if you are never challenged?”
“Perhaps you are right,” she said matter-of-factly. “But so far, you have failed miserably.”
He raised his brows enigmatically. “Is that a challenge? Or an admission that you have found our truce less difficult than you anticipated? That you actually enjoy my company?”
He knew he was being bold. Too bold, likely.
They reached the doorway to the dining room, and she stopped, turning toward him to prevent their progress. “I am determined that your mother have the convivial, joyful Christmas she deserves with her prodigal son—”
Hugh opened his mouth to protest her characterization of him, but she put up her hand to silence him “—and if I must exert all my powers to pretend”— she shot him a significant look —“that I find pleasure in your company, so be it.”
He nodded his understanding but said, “And I shall use my acting skill to pretend that I believe you.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but her mouth quivered adorably.
“You have chosen an interesting place to stop,” Alfred said as he and Miss Bolton came up behind them. He indicated the top of the doorway.
Hugh and Emma both tipped their heads up, and Hugh gripped his lips together to suppress a smile.
The kissing bough hung above them, rotating ever-so-slightly.
His stomach flipped as he thought what it would be like to kiss Emma. But the kiss he imagined, the one he dreamed of would not be with an Emma who found his company distasteful—and it certainly wouldn’t be in front of his brother.
So that’s all it was, the
vision in his mind of pressing a kiss upon those lips and having the kiss returned—it was a dream, a fool’s paradise.
Hugh put up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “It was Miss Caldwell who insisted that we stop here. And”— he said, putting a finger to his lips thoughtfully —“I believe it was also Miss Caldwell who placed the bough here the other night.”
Emma looked up at him with near-betrayal in her eyes. “An unhappy coincidence, I assure you!”
He shrugged. “I suppose I must believe you.” He looked up at the bough again. Only a few of the berries remained. “In any case, I believe there were at least a dozen berries here when Emma strung it up, but only three have survived the day.” He raised a brow and looked at Alfred. “Who in the world could be responsible for such wreckage?”
Miss Bolton flushed scarlet, and Alfred smiled down at her before looking at Hugh again, his grin wide and unabashed. “Who indeed?” He pulled Miss Bolton along with him, passing Hugh and Emma into the dining room.
Alfred’s spirits were much improved since his discussion with Hugh in the library, a fact which both gladdened and unsettled Hugh. Had Alfred simply accepted that there was nothing to do but enjoy the time left with Miss Bolton? Or was he expecting Hugh to come up with a solution to the predicament?
There was not a happy end in sight for Alfred and Miss Bolton, failing some miracle. And Hugh was no closer to coming up with that miracle. If he could have given Alfred his own birthright, he thought he would even have done that. But it was not possible.
And so it was with pain that he watched Alfred and Miss Bolton’s happiness together, anticipating its inevitable, unhappy ending, feeling responsible for it.
It was eerily similar to how Hugh felt about the good terms that had flourished between himself and Emma.
And he was every bit as powerless to prevent that inevitable end.
The dining table had been adorned with extra candles, a long garland of pine, which filled the room with its invigorating scent, and more of the paper flowers created by Emma and Miss Bolton.
Spirits were high, and Hugh found himself seeking out Emma each time he laughed, hoping to share with her in the delights of a holiday he knew she loved. She was in her element—and she took his breath away as she joked and sparred through the evening, her cheeks looking warm to the touch with the cheerfulness she exuded.
When they had all finished, the women stood to leave, and Hugh found himself wishing he could walk to the drawing room with Emma’s slender arm wrapped in his; he found himself wishing he could ask her whether she still intended to follow through on her plan: to avoid his company once she left home after the snow melted. The prospect of not seeing her again made him feel a kind of grief and recklessness he hadn’t felt since the night he had decided to enter the army. It left his chest feeling simultaneously hollow and heavy.
His return home had, so far, been nothing like he had anticipated. His priority had been to visit Seymour’s family—something he had been unable to do and was unsure when he would be able to. If he waited until he garnered the courage, it might be never. He was much more of a coward than he had ever before realized.
And his intention to make amends with Lucy, to offer her the marriage he had denied her before? It was impossible and unnecessary.
Finally, Hugh had fallen even more deeply and hopelessly in love with the woman who was determined not to forgive him on any account. No matter that it was obvious to Hugh how utterly content they could be together, how lively their lives could be—Emma had built a wall and, much as she might give Hugh glimpses of what could be, she seemed to have no intention of deconstructing the wall.
Alfred stood, a glass of port in hand, and walked over to the window. Looking past the curtain into the dark vista beyond the window, he said, “I don’t know whether to be glad or upset that the temperature seems to be rising and the snow beginning to melt, but it is decidedly warmer this evening than it was last night.” He stared out of the window a moment longer and then shut the curtain with more force than was merited, walking back to the table with a knit brow as he glanced at his father. “If it keeps up, I shall have to ride to Dunmere first thing and speak with Alice’s father. I don’t at all relish the prospect.”
“And yet it must be done,” his father said without sympathy.
Hugh swirled the crimson liquid in his glass, staring down at it and remembering the similarly-colored ring he still held in his possession. He was both anxious and unwilling to be rid of it. It was his only remaining connection to Seymour, and yet it had become a reminder of the guilt he carried for Seymour’s death and the situation of his widow and children.
“Has she given you reason to believe she would like to be free of the engagement?” Hugh said.
Alfred shook his head, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on the table. “Alice has assured me that she wishes us to marry, regardless of my circumstances. She is an angel.” He made a tent with his fingers, watching them as he said, “Her father, though, is much more pragmatic than Alice. He will not accept my change in fortunes so easily. I think that deep down Alice knows that he will not allow us to marry.” He rubbed his forehead with a hand.
Hugh felt for Alfred. He had never coveted Hugh’s position as heir, but it was natural that, once he found himself in a situation to leverage the inheritance for a chance at marriage with the woman he loved, he would be loath to part with it.
“Yes, Sir Clive is unlikely to countenance the match now,” Hugh’s father said baldly.
“What of your plans for the church?” Hugh said, hoping to find some way to assist Alfred. “Would he be against the match if you had prospects for a living?”
Alfred let out an explosive breath. “Don’t misunderstand me, Hugh. I am terribly happy to have you home, but your timing is impeccable.” He sat back and stared at Hugh. “The living at Balmaker was given to Edward Campbell not three weeks ago.”
Hugh grimaced. Balmaker was the largest living for dozens of miles and one that Alfred had long wished would come vacant.
“Could you not have written, Hugh?” Alfred continued, running a hand through his hair. “To inform us that you were still alive and well? For that is the only reason that it is Campbell rather than me being installed at Balmaker. Campbell who already has the living at Holnard as well.” He shook his head in frustration.
Alfred’s words stung, making Hugh’s pent-up frustration and guilt flare suddenly. “Surely you can’t blame me for not writing when my death was clearly looked on with such jubilation.”
Hugh rubbed at his mouth, already regretting the outburst.
Aghast, Alfred walked over to him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You mustn’t think such a thing, Hugh. You can have no notion how Mama and I”—he glanced at their father and quickly added—“and Papa have fretted over your well-being. You know I have never coveted your inheritance, surely.”
Hugh nodded, only managing a grimace. Alfred’s words brought him some comfort, and yet he still felt responsible for the predicament he faced.
Hugh had genuinely convinced himself for a time that his family would be better off not hearing from him, that they would ultimately be happier simply believing him to be dead or gone. The prospect of living out his life in anonymity in Spain had been terribly enticing.
It was Seymour’s death which had persuaded him that he needed to return to England, to face the consequences of his conduct, no matter how people might misunderstand him and label him as a coward and a jilt. He loved his family too much to abandon them forever.
But he had never anticipated just how much havoc his decision to return would wreak—how coming home might multiply the problems he had to tackle, how impossible it would seem to face the Seymours, and how his return would change everything for Alfred.
Alfred had always been set on making a living in the church, satisfied with his prospects as a second son. And that fact crushed Hugh with guilt.
“I am sorry, Alfred
,” he said softly, looking up from his port.
Alfred offered no response, his expression brooding and sullen.
Hugh opened and closed his mouth. What could he possibly say? He had deprived Alfred of an inheritance and a wife in one fell swoop.
When Hugh’s father stood to indicate his readiness to enter the drawing room, Hugh had to stifle his desire to jump up from his seat, so impatient was he. The mood at the dinner table was oppressive and, for whatever reason, Hugh imagined that being around Emma might relieve some of that weight.
They entered the drawing room to the sight of Emma playing the piano while Miss Bolton and Hugh’s mother sang. The tune was unfamiliar to Hugh, and Emma paused periodically to remind the others of the words and tune. Likely it was a translation of one of the German Christmas songs the Caldwells had grown up singing.
Emma made a mistake in playing the keys, and Hugh’s mother and Miss Bolton simultaneously confused the words of the song, making for a discordant moment. The three of them broke into laughter.
“I am woefully out of practice,” Emma said, taking her hands off the keys.
“Besides accompanying a clumsy and incompetent singer,” Lady Dayton said.
“Two clumsy and incompetent singers,” said Miss Bolton.
“Let us simply agree,” Emma said, standing and pushing the bench under the piano, “that our little trio must put out of our minds the hope of ever being invited to perform anywhere more public than this drawing room.”
Hugh smiled, gratified beyond measure to see the camaraderie amongst the women—a gratification tempered by the knowledge that it was a situation unlikely to reoccur.
Once the truce between him and Emma was at an end, and if Miss Bolton and Alfred’s engagement also came to an end, well, the three women in front of Hugh were unlikely to find themselves in company together again.
If Hugh only had a short time to enjoy the sociable accord, he would take full advantage of it while he could.
“Mother, Miss Caldwell, Miss Bolton,” he said. “What do you say that we honor this Christmas evening by playing a game of snapdragon?”
