Goodwill for the Gentleman (Belles of Christmas Book 2)

by Martha Keyes

  Lady Dayton smiled and sighed contentedly. “Yes, though I believed at first that my eyes were deceiving me. I haven’t felt such joy in years.” She turned to Emma, and her brows drew inward. “I know it pains you to be in his presence, and I am only sorry that my joy must necessarily include your suffering.”

  Emma squeezed Lady Dayton’s arm. “Nonsense. You needn’t worry about me.”

  “But I do,” she said, and her eyes returned to her son. “I worry about both of you.”

  Emma pursed her lips. Lieutenant Warrilow hardly looked like the type of person one needed worry over. Those broad shoulders and powerful arms seemed more than capable of carrying their own burdens. “Worry about his injury, you mean?”

  As if to confirm Emma’s question, Lieutenant Warrilow winced and put back the poker, bringing a hand to his shoulder and rubbing it.

  “A bit,” Lady Dayton replied with a worried frown. “More than his physical wounds, though, I worry about the other wounds he carries.”

  Emma was silent. She wished to commiserate with Lady Dayton, to comfort her. But she found it difficult when the object of compassion was someone who had behaved so deplorably.

  “He entered the war wounded, in many ways,” Lady Dayton said, watching him, “and I know that he must have experienced even worse in battle. I believe he entered the army as a form of penance.” She turned her head to Emma. “For what he did to Lucy.”

  Emma controlled her face as much as she could. She had always assumed that his abrupt departure had been a coward’s way out of the stir he had caused. Was she wrong? Or was his mother simply inclined, as all mothers were, to believe the very best of her son?

  If the latter, Emma couldn’t fault her for it. It was what one liked in Lady Dayton—she was always charitable in her reading of character. Emma came away from her company wishing to be better and do better, if only to live up to the image Lady Dayton seemed to have of her.

  “Well,” Emma said, “surely nothing is more likely to heal his wounds—physical or otherwise—than spending the holidays with you.”

  Lady Dayton put a hand on Emma’s. “Perhaps it will do Hugh good to spend time in your company, as well. I know he has great respect for you.”

  Emma blinked rapidly, her eyes flitting to him. He was speaking with Miss Bolton, the grave tilt to his brow gone.

  Hugh Warrilow respected Emma? What had she given him to respect? She had been nothing but unkind to him since he had made it clear that he didn’t intend to marry Lucy.

  Emma had liked him well enough before that, to be sure. They had found themselves in opposition to one another on a number of occasions during childhood, but nothing outside of the ordinary disagreements and quarrels between girls and boys who play together.

  “You look surprised, my dear,” said Lady Dayton with a note of humor.

  Emma’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, yes. That’s because I am surprised.”

  Lady Dayton turned toward her and regarded her with narrowed, searching eyes. “You don’t know, then,” she said with wonder.

  Emma drew back slightly. “I don’t know what?”

  Lady Dayton’s eyes moved to her son once again, and she pursed her lips, as if trying to decide whether or not she should voice her thoughts. She sighed and smiled at Emma. “Nothing, my dear.”

  Emma was too bewildered to respond. And since Lord Dayton came shortly after to escort his wife to bed, Emma was left to wonder at Lady Dayton’s meaning.

  When Emma woke in the morning, she was grateful to see the fire lit in her grate. Even with its warmth, she pulled the covers more tightly around her for a few minutes before stepping out of bed and shivering. The fire provided heat to the immediate area around it, but the further away she was, the more her skin prickled in the icy air.

  She rang the bell and searched her portmanteau for a shawl, which she hurriedly wrapped around her shoulders before stepping toward the window curtains and pulling them back.

  The sight was dazzling. Through the ice crystals which clung to the tall window pane, Emma could see a landscape blanketed in white—the hedgerows which lined the drive to Norfield were one, undefined mass of billowing snow clouds; the trees sagged under the weight of their burden, periodically dropping streams of glittering powder onto the snow beneath.

  The undisturbed quality of the view struck her until she realized what it likely meant. The roads wouldn’t be passable. Not even for the short distance she needed to cover to arrive at Marsdon House.

  She sighed and slumped against the window sill, drawing back again as the frozen glass pierced through all the layers she wore. She would have to trust that the sun would break through the clouds and melt the thick cloak of snow, though it seemed a shame to wish for such a thing. How many times had she and Lucy wished and prayed for snow during holidays past?

  She smiled, remembering how they would pray at the bedside and then race to the window, looking up at the night sky as if their prayer might be immediately answered with a shower of white flakes.

  Lucy would already have arrived at Marsdon House with Mr. Pritchard, and tomorrow would be Christmas Eve, the day Emma had been looking forward to for weeks. She closed her eyes and imagined the smell of the fresh garlands of greenery which would be strung up all over the house; the glowing light of the Christbaum; curling up in a blanket by the fire with Lucy; the intoxicating and cozy atmosphere.

  She couldn’t bear to miss it.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the scene outside, sighing resignedly. She hardly had a say in the matter.

  Dressed in her favorite white muslin dress and with the India shawl her mother had given her wrapped around her shoulders, Emma walked down the wide staircase to the sitting room later that morning. There was only one occupant within: Miss Bolton. She sat in a chair nearest the fireplace, reading a book. One of her chestnut curls bounced as she looked up to see Emma.

  “Miss Caldwell,” she said with a smile. “Good morning.”

  Emma returned the greeting and hesitated for a moment, trying to decide which seat to take.

  “Do come sit,” Miss Bolton said, indicating the chair opposite hers. “I don’t remember the last time it was so cold, and these seats provide the best chance at warming up.”

  Emma took her seat in the green, velvety chair, letting out a breath as the heat of the licking flames spread over her body. “It is very cozy, isn’t it? Such a comfort to have a fire’s warmth when the world outside is covered in snow and ice.” She let out a little laugh. “I would be thrilled if I didn’t despair of ever getting home.”

  “I hope you shan’t dislike it,” Miss Bolton said in a shy voice, “if I confess that I am a little pleased that you are held hostage here by the weather.” She smiled sheepishly. “I am glad not to be the only guest.”

  Emma laughed softly. “I am flattered! But Lord and Lady Dayton never make one feel anything but perfectly at home, in my experience.”

  Miss Bolton’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes! To be sure, they are nothing but kind and welcoming. Lady Dayton is so very gracious. And though I hadn’t known to expect Lieutenant Warrilow, I find him to be very affable and obliging, besides his return being the most unexpected surprise for Alfred.”

  Emma cleared her throat and inclined her head with a forced smile.

  Miss Bolton tilted her head and bit her lip, regarding Emma for a moment. “Perhaps it is too forward of me, but”— she lowered her book onto her lap, —“it seems that you and the lieutenant are not on good terms. May I ask why?”

  Emma’s mouth opened and then closed, and her eyes narrowed. “You aren’t familiar with the history between him and my sister, then? I thought everyone knew.”

  Miss Bolton shook her head. “But I am only just out, you know, so I am naturally ignorant of many things that happened before my arrival in town.”

  Emma adjusted her shawl, stalling for time. How much should she tell Miss Bolton? It seemed unfair to speak ill of Lieutenant Warrilow when they were gu
ests of his family, under the same roof as him. Besides, Miss Bolton had made it clear that she thought well of the lieutenant after their short acquaintance. Emma might be angry with the lieutenant, but she wouldn’t stoop to sullying his reputation with his future sister-in-law.

  “He seems far too kind,” Miss Bolton said with a wrinkled brow, “to have done some of the terrible things I have heard of men doing—killing each other in duels at dawn and the like.” She shivered.

  “No, nothing like that,” Emma said, shifting in her seat as she recalled how she had demanded that her brother challenge Lieutenant Warrilow to a duel. Looking back, she was relieved that he had not complied with the demand. She suspected that Lieutenant Warrilow was a fine shot, while her brother was several years his junior and hardly a sportsman—he had much more of a turn for literature and education.

  Emma looked at Miss Bolton, whose eyes watched her with curiosity. If she refused to indulge her, Miss Bolton could easily discover the state of things from someone else. It was only a matter of time until she knew, and perhaps it was better that she hear it from someone near to Lucy.

  “The lieutenant and my sister were meant to marry—an understanding between our families since childhood—but Lieutenant Warrilow decided against the match.” She shut her mouth tightly, refusing to allow the melodramatic words “leaving my sister to nearly die of a broken heart” to escape her lips.

  Miss Bolton’s posture relaxed, and her eyes glazed over for a moment. “But why?” she said.

  Emma suddenly felt impatient. How could she respond to that question? Saying that the lieutenant was selfish? Unsympathetic? A coward? “I am sure only he could answer that.”

  Miss Bolton looked troubled, as though she needed to reconcile what she was learning with the gentleman she had met the night before. “I am sure there must be some reason.”

  A floorboard creaked, and Miss Bolton jumped in her chair.

  Lieutenant Warrilow stood in the doorway, a disturbed look in his eyes, which were fixed on Emma.

  Her cheeks grew warm, and a glance at Miss Bolton’s red face confirmed that she, too, was mortified to be discovered in this particular discussion. Emma knew a desire to clarify that it had been Miss Bolton’s curiosity which had led to the conversation and not any malevolent desire on Emma’s part to speak of the lieutenant’s behavior to strangers.

  “Breakfast awaits,” the lieutenant said.

  Unable to bear another moment of silent embarrassment, Emma stood, one side of her shawl dropping down her arm in her haste to stand up. She picked it up, arranged it quickly about her shoulder, and nodded at Miss Bolton. “I think I shall go to the breakfast room.”

  She felt her heart pick up speed as she neared the doorway where Lieutenant Warrilow still stood. He inclined his head and opened the door wider for her.

  “Good morning, Miss Caldwell.”

  “Good morning,” she replied, slipping past him and into the corridor. She took in a deep breath, only to realize that he was walking behind her and, soon enough, abreast of her.

  “I shan’t trouble you for long,” he said, “but I wished to speak with you about your plans to continue to Marsdon House.”

  His voice had a sharp quality to it. Was it because he had overheard her and Miss Bolton? How much had he overheard, anyway?

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I hope you will not attempt it, Miss Caldwell.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand. “I know that you likely wish to be anywhere but here, particularly at this time of year, but the temperatures have dropped dangerously. There is a thick layer of ice beneath all the snow you see.” He indicated the snowy scene beyond the tall, frosted windows lining the corridor. “I shall endeavor to relieve you of my presence whenever possible, but I could never forgive myself if you came to harm attempting to travel these roads simply to avoid me.”

  Emma wrapped her shawl more tightly around her, feeling caught off guard by his direct acknowledgment of her sentiments. She laughed shakily. “What a character I should be to ask such a thing of you under your own roof.”

  “You haven’t asked it of me,” he said blankly. “But I believe I understand your sentiments well enough to conclude what you would wish.”

  She scoffed softly, turning to him and stopping. “What would you know of my sentiments? Or of anyone’s sentiments but your own?” She bit her lip and swallowed, torn between defiance and embarrassment at her outburst.

  His jaw clenched, but she thought she saw a flash of hurt in his eyes before he smiled wryly. “I don’t believe anyone could be unaware of your sentiments toward me.”

  She thought of Lady Dutton’s ball and the stricken look in Lieutenant Warrilow’s eyes when she had ignored his request for a dance and walked away, leaving him mortified in front of dozens of people. She had felt justified at the time, her anger and desire to defend Lucy eclipsing any other consideration.

  But now? Now she knew a small seed of doubt. Had she been too rash?

  She seemed to be the only person who insisted upon continuing to punish Lieutenant Warrilow for his actions. Everyone else seemed to have moved past what he had done.

  “Never mind that,” he said softly, ending the silence between them. “I beg you not to leave until the roads are in a state fit for travel.” He bowed to her and strode down the corridor, turning into the dining room.

  Emma’s brow wrinkled. She had assumed that they had a shared destination: the breakfast room.

  Was he avoiding her?

  Still feeling rattled from the encounter, she took in a deep breath and then exhaled before walking down the corridor to the breakfast room.

  4

  Hugh tapped his quill impatiently on the desk in front of him, looking out the library window where the landscape seemed to be frozen in time. He had attempted to open the front door earlier, but it was no use. The snow had piled in front of it and then hardened with the deep freeze of nighttime air. Beautiful though it might be, it was its own kind of prison.

  Not since his injury had he felt so enclosed, unable to escape—stuck in the field hospital as he had been after the battle at Vitoria, with a raging fever, only to then spend weeks convalescing in the home of a Spanish family, hovering between life and death.

  He certainly owed his life to the army surgeon who had retrieved the ball from his shoulder and to the Spanish doctor who had tended to him later. But at the time, in his more morose moments, he had often found himself wishing it had been him and not Seymour who had died on the battlefield.

  Seymour had been with him from the beginning, since Hugh’s first campaign, inspiring him with grit and determination, helping him forget the dark days behind him, and encouraging him when the opportunity for promotion to lieutenant presented itself. Hugh had even arranged for Seymour to join him in his new regiment. If he hadn’t been so selfish and insisted on doing so, Seymour would very possibly still be alive.

  A phantom pang shot through Hugh’s shoulder.

  Those were dark days after Seymour’s death.

  The door opened, and Alfred paused on the threshold, catching eyes with Hugh. Hugh smiled feebly, but he received no smile in return.

  Alfred’s jaw tensed, and Hugh’s eyebrows snapped together.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” Alfred replied. “I didn't know you were in here. I will leave you.”

  “Come, Alfred,” Hugh said, motioning to a chair nearby. “Have a seat. You have something you need to say to me. Come say it.”

  Alfred scoffed.

  “What?” Hugh said, nonplussed.

  Alfred shook his head. “Unbelievable. You come home after we haven't heard from you for a year—after even Mama has given you up for dead— and you immediately start ordering everyone and everything around?”

  Hugh’s jaw slackened, and his brows knit. Alfred’s joy upon his unexpected arrival had only been eclipsed by their mother’s joy. But it since seemed to have soured. Evidentl
y Alfred had been laboring under strong emotions inside since their initial reunion.

  Hugh had no response for his brother’s words, only a tight feeling in his stomach. Had he made a mistake to come home? He had suspected that his family might be better off without him, and Alfred’s behavior seemed to confirm that suspicion.

  The silence lengthened, and Alfred began pacing the room, running his hand through his hair as Hugh watched.

  “What have I done to upset you, Alfred? Whatever it was, it was certainly done unintentionally.”

  Alfred let out another scoffing noise. “Oh, nothing is ever intentional with you, is it, Hugh? You just can't help but harm everyone in the wake of your selfishness.”

  Hugh swallowed, weighed down by the sick feeling that descended into the pit of his stomach. It was not like Alfred to act this way—so resentful and angry. It must be more serious than Hugh had realized.

  He leaned forward, staring at his interlocked fingers, and then looked up to say softly, “How have I harmed you, brother?”

  Alfred stopped his pacing, turning to face Hugh, his anger morphing into a kind of helpless frustration. “Happy I am to have you home, Hugh, but this entire situation is unbearable. Miss Bolton accepted my offer of marriage, believing me to be the heir—her father believed me to be the heir. And now that I am not...” he trailed off, pulling at his hair as he looked up at the ceiling.

  Hugh opened his mouth to respond, but what could he say? He stared down at his fingers again. His return had deprived Alfred of an inheritance he had come to believe belonged to him. And now he would have to clarify his changed fortunes to Miss Bolton’s father.

  “I am sorry, Alfred.” It was all he could say. “It was thoughtless of me indeed not to anticipate how this all would affect you.”

  Alfred sighed. “How could you have known what was afoot?” He came and sat across from Hugh, staring wistfully to the windows. “I love her, Hugh. And I had her for a brief moment—I caught a glimpse of a future together.” His brows drew together, and he dropped his head into his hands.