Goodwill for the Gentleman (Belles of Christmas Book 2)

by Martha Keyes

  She looked at the lieutenant, but he was staring at the door, unperturbed by the lack of response.

  A muffled thudding emanated from the house, growing louder as it approached, and soon enough the door opened, revealing a short, bearded man with a balding head and a wooden leg. He looked at Emma first and then to Lieutenant Warrilow. Recognition lit up his eyes.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, saluting him even as his eyes welled with tears.

  “Banks,” Lieutenant Warrilow said in a gruff voice, closing the distance between them and embracing the man heartily.

  Emma blinked, wondering what she was witnessing.

  “Well,” said Banks in a jovial voice, “don’t stand out there! Come in!”

  With a quick glance behind him at his brother, Lieutenant Warrilow smiled and accepted, allowing Emma to pass in front of him.

  Though still nowhere near the temperatures Emma was accustomed to indoors, the house was decidedly warmer than outside, and she felt her frozen nose begin to thaw and then run.

  Lieutenant Warrilow, too, was sniffling sporadically, but Emma couldn’t be sure how much of it was due to the change in temperature and how much was the result of whatever emotion the sight of Mr. Banks had elicited. He introduced Emma to Mr. Banks who expressed his pleasure at the honor of making her acquaintance and then invited them to sit down on the only two chairs in the room.

  Emma thanked him and took a seat, but Lieutenant Warrilow insisted that Mr. Banks occupy the other chair, maintaining that he would be comfortable enough on the wood floor.

  “Injured in the war?” Mr. Banks asked, indicating the lieutenant’s arm.

  Lieutenant Warrilow nodded. “At Vitoria,” he said as he lowered himself to sit against the wall near the fire, stretching one leg out and bending the other.

  “Is it healing?” Banks asked.

  Lieutenant Warrilow tipped his head from side to side and shrugged. “Well enough, though it dislikes this cold.”

  “Can you blame it?” Mr. Banks said with a chuckle. He looked at Emma. “This man saved my life, you know.” He nodded toward Lieutenant Warrilow who shook his head.

  “It’s true, admit it or no,” Mr. Banks continued. “I’d have lost much more than this leg if not for you.”

  “You’re becoming a bit of a bore, Banks,” said Lieutenant Warrilow, draping his arm over his knee. “Tell me, though, how have you fared since your return?”

  Mr. Banks shifted in his seat, and his wooden leg thumped on the floor as he moved it. “Better than I could have hoped, thanks to you.” He turned toward Emma. “You’ve found the finest gentleman in all of England, Miss.”

  Emma felt heat flood her cheeks and stuttered, but Lieutenant Warrilow intervened, saying with a wry smile, “You’re off the mark, Banks. And if she weren’t so polite, Miss Caldwell would heartily disagree with you.”

  Mr. Banks’s head drew back as he looked at Emma. “What do you mean?”

  She shot Lieutenant Warrilow a fulminating glance, but his eyes sparkled back at her, full of humor.

  Mr. Banks let out a “hmph” and scooted his chair closer to Emma’s. “Let me tell you something about that man there.”

  Lieutenant Warrilow made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Have done, Banks.”

  Mr. Banks ignored him, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s a good man that saves another man’s life once; but what do you say of a man who saves the same man’s life twice?”

  Lieutenant Warrilow pushed himself up off the floor with a scoffing noise. “If this is your idea of pleasant conversation, Banks, I can tell you that it is not mine.” He shrugged his great coat back on and wrapped his scarf around his neck. “I must go tell my brother and Miss Bolton to join us here, as I’m sure they’re wondering what has happened to us.” He looked at Emma with one eyebrow raised. “You mustn’t pay any heed to what Banks says, Miss Caldwell.” He nodded and opened the front door. “I won’t be but a moment.”

  Emma’s eyes lingered on the door as it shut behind the lieutenant before she turned back to Mr. Banks. “Lieutenant Warrilow saved your life on two separate occasions?”

  Mr. Banks nodded decisively. “That’s right. When all the other soldiers were fleeing, he risked his life to come to my aid; carried me across the field to safety until he could find a doctor.”

  Emma grimaced, her eyes moving to Mr. Banks’ wooden leg and then back up to his face. “And the second time?”

  Mr. Banks raised a hand, indicating the room around them. “Who do you think provided me a place to come home to after I was discharged?” He cleared his throat, and Emma thought she saw his eyes take on a watery sheen. “I’ve no family to speak of, and losing my leg meant losing the livelihood I had before becoming a soldier.” He leaned back down on his knees and gazed into the dying fire. “The good lieutenant offered me a home and work, and I’ve been here ever since. Almost two years now.” He looked up at Emma. “Lieutenant Warrilow is the best man I know. Whatever your quarrel is with him, remember that.”

  Emma bit the inside of her lip and swallowed. She was finding it harder to maintain her critical opinion of Lieutenant Warrilow.

  The door opened, and the lieutenant walked in, with Alfred and Miss Bolton trailing behind, kicking off the snow from their boots.

  Miss Bolton was all kindness to Mr. Banks, expressing her gratitude for a chance to warm her hands, ears, and feet.

  Mr. Banks moved to stand. “Please, Miss Bolton,” he said, attempting to vacate the chair for her to sit in.

  “Oh, no,” she said, taking a step backward. “I am very comfortable standing, only I think I should like to move closer to the fire if no one minds.” She smiled and moved toward the grate where only a few small flames danced on the charred logs within.

  “That pitiful fire won’t do, Banks,” Lieutenant Warrilow said, striding over to the items they had transported from the sled. He picked up two logs and placed them into the fire, brushing his hands off after. “We will send more tomorrow. What else do you need? Only say the word.”

  Emma was silent, observing the lieutenant more carefully than ever before—the way he treated Mr. Banks kindly yet without condescension; how he seemed at his ease in the small, sparsely-furnished home; his ability to use humor to set others at ease.

  He and Mr. Banks entertained the group with their adventures and mishaps in Spain, Mr. Banks teasing Lieutenant Warrilow for his pitiful Spanish.

  “Sadly, it is all true,” Hugh laughed. “More than once I found myself explaining to a local how we were in search of sustenance because we were all married. What I wished to say, of course, was that we were tired.”

  “Casados and cansados,” Mr. Banks explained to the others, a large grin on his face.

  The lieutenant shrugged. “My French, too, was always less-than-satisfactory. I wish I could say that my Spanish had improved in the two years since I last saw you, but it is every bit as atrocious as it was then.”

  When Emma and the others left, there were smiles on all of their faces, and Lieutenant Warrilow embraced Mr. Banks with a promise to send more supplies the next day.

  With their sleds empty of their burden, the four of them began traipsing through the cold back toward Norfield Manor.

  “How is it that it seems even colder than it was when we left earlier?” Emma said, hunching her shoulders and shivering.

  Lieutenant Warrilow smiled down at her. “I believe it has actually warmed outside. It is the contrast of the cold so soon after sitting near the warm fire which makes it seem colder.”

  Emma tried to wiggle her toes inside her boots. “I gained feeling in my feet just in time to lose it again. How, precisely, does one walk without any sensation in one’s toes?”

  “By relying on habit, I suppose.” He glanced behind him at the sled and then back to Emma, a half-smile inching up one side of his face. “But it isn't the only option available, you know.”

  Emma looked at the sled with misgiving
mixed with curiosity. “What? And you would pull me along?”

  He stopped, bowing slightly. “I am at your service, señorita.”

  Emma raised her brows. “At my service? That is a brave offer.”

  He narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. “Do your worst.” He nodded toward the sled, and she stepped toward it with a provoking arch to her brows.

  The sled was meant for someone much younger and smaller than Emma, and the number of layers she was wearing meant that getting in and settled was not as elegant as she had hoped it would be, somewhat undermining the calm dignity she was attempting.

  Seeing her struggle, and with only the slightest trembling of his lips, Lieutenant Warrilow assisted her in and executed a flourishing bow.

  Once Emma was situated, the fit was snug but comfortable enough. Certainly more comfortable than walking on frozen feet.

  Lieutenant Warrilow stepped back to survey her and covered his mouth with his hand, his shoulders shaking.

  “What?” Emma said, her chin up as she smoothed her skirts with great affectation.

  He schooled his expression into a grave one. “Nothing at all. You look very…regal.”

  She looked at the sled, noting how large she seemed in the confines of the small, carved pony that would have held the lieutenant when he was a young boy. Her mouth trembled for a moment as she imagined the picture she presented.

  She shifted in her seat, trying to look down her nose at the lieutenant—an awkward feat, as he was taller than her even when she stood. “I am accustomed to my sled being pulled at a clipping pace, I will have you know.”

  Lieutenant Warrilow’s feigned great interest. “Ah, being, as you are, in the habit of traveling by sled?”

  She inclined her head in a formal confirmation of his question.

  “I shall make every effort not to disappoint you,” he said, securing the rope in his hand and beginning to pull her cautiously forward.

  Emma looked ahead where Alfred and Miss Bolton had stopped, largely concealed by the fog. They were looking back toward her and the lieutenant.

  “What a capital idea,” said Alfred as they approached. He took Miss Bolton’s hand to assist her into the sled.

  “Oh,” she said, allowing him to lead her with some hesitation, “are you certain it is quite safe?”

  “If,” Emma interjected, “he is anything like my own steed”— she indicated the lieutenant with her head —“you are much more likely to freeze to death awaiting arrival at your destination than to risk injury due to speed.”

  The lieutenant whipped around to face her, and Alfred threw his head back. “A blow to your pride, Hugh. And a challenge perhaps? I am determined that Alice shall find nothing to complain of in her transportation.”

  Lieutenant Warrilow’s eyes held Emma’s, and she pursed her lips to keep from smiling. “If it is speed you wish for,” he said, “then speed you shall have.”

  Alfred rubbed his hands together in delight. “A race, then!” He ensured that Miss Bolton was safely deposited in the sled, then put one foot in front of the other, readying himself for a quick start.

  The lieutenant seemed to enter into the spirit of things, pulling his gloves on more snugly and tugging the tops of his boots upward before setting his feet in order.

  “Now, Alfred,” he said, “mind you I haven’t the advantage of pulling with my strong arm.”

  Alfred chuckled. “Making excuses for losing already, Hugh?”

  The lieutenant scoffed and grabbed for the rope with his uninjured arm. He looked to his brother with an exaggerated challenge in his eyes and called, “Ready, steady, go!”

  The sleds jerked forward, and Emma exclaimed in surprise, gripping the sides and feeling thankful that the fullness of her clothing prevented her from flying from her seat as she otherwise might have.

  The cold air whipped at her bonnet and scarf, making her eyes sting; puffs of snow landed on her face and clothing, kicked up from the careless steps of the lieutenant and Alfred. Her mouth stretched into a wide grin, a laugh full of relish and surprise escaping her.

  Miss Bolton seemed to be in a state of half-terror, half-delight, her eyes wide and alert, and her mouth displaying teeth in turns clenching and smiling.

  The Warrilow brothers were all concentration as their boots poked holes into the snow below with the force of their running. Lieutenant Warrilow looked back toward Emma, his full smile on display as he called to her in a breathless shout, “Is this more to your taste, Miss Caldwell?”

  With his eyes on Emma instead of the terrain in front of him, he veered closer to the other sled, misstepped, and collided with Alfred. They collapsed in a hectic tangle, puffs of snow springing into the air, while the position they landed in caused the ropes to pull awkwardly at the sleds, tipping Emma’s onto its side.

  She cried out, still laughing, as she toppled over with the sled, completely at the mercy of forces beyond her control, sliding into the snow.

  Alfred was laughing breathlessly, and Emma heard the sound of crunching of snow nearing as her laughs died out. The lieutenant was crawling toward her with an anxious expression.

  “Miss Caldwell,” he said between breaths. “Are you hurt?”

  She offered no response, trying to catch her breath from laughing as she turned to lie on her back, spreading her arms to each side as her cheeks ached from smiling. She looked upward at the foggy skies above, feeling completely enveloped in a world of white.

  Lieutenant Warrilow’s face came to hover over her, obstructing her view. His knit brow relaxed upon seeing her expression, and his mouth stretched into a wide smile.

  “You almost killed me,” she said breathlessly, noting how his eyes were alight with the glow of the snow behind her so that she could see her own reflection in them.

  “But I didn’t kill you,” he said significantly. “In fact, you seem to be in very high spirits.”

  She laughed, her eyes shifting to the hazy skies that surrounded him. “I feel very much alive.”

  “Ah,” said the lieutenant, leaning back so that he could follow her gaze upward. “Sometimes it takes the prospect of death for one to appreciate life, I think.” He looked at her with a teasing grin. “You are welcome.”

  She laughed again, grabbing a fistful of snow in her gloved hand and throwing it at him.

  It was shockingly unladylike, but there was something so invigorating about the cold and the fog which gave Emma the impression that they were in another world entirely.

  Lieutenant Warrilow dodged the worst of the fistful of snow, watching where it landed behind him and then turning slowly to Emma with faux-offense. “It is unwise to provoke someone whose skill is greater than yours, you know.”

  “Is that so?” she said, pulling another handful of snow toward her.

  He raised a brow, watching her steadily as he clutched a fistful of his own, his mouth threatening a smile.

  “Hey ho!” Alfred said, and Emma looked at him just in time to see him lob a snowball at Lieutenant Warrilow. To her utter surprise, Miss Bolton raised a timid arm and threw a fistful of snow toward Emma, uttering a small squeal as she did so. Only a few flecks made it to Emma’s face, sprinkling her cheeks and nose with bits of cold.

  “Oh dear!” Miss Bolton cried out. “I am terribly sorry.”

  “We are under attack, Miss Caldwell,” the lieutenant said, grabbing for more snow, which he packed tightly between his two hands and then sent flying in the air.

  A moment later, a snowball returned from Alfred’s position, grazing Emma’s arm and landing in the space between her and Lieutenant Warrilow.

  “Come,” the lieutenant breathed urgently, a large grin spread across his face, making him look like a young boy. He grasped her hand and pulled her up to her knees, leading her with rushed, crunching movements toward the tipped sled, which he crouched behind.

  She debated whether she should protest his high-handed ways or simply embrace the fun, but a snowball whirred past her head, and
she hurriedly ducked down next to him.

  He let go of her hand, reaching for more snow to pack into compact balls and periodically peeking over the sled. Snowballs landed regularly in the area around them, creating pockets in the snow, and Emma began adding to the growing pile of white balls, glittering in the dispersing fog.

  The assault suddenly stopped, and Emma cocked an ear, saying, “What has happened?”

  She stretched her head to look over the sled, but Lieutenant Warrilow grasped her hand, pulling her down and putting a finger in front of his lips.

  “It is calm before the storm,” he said, leaning in to whisper. His breath grazed her face, and her heart tripped as she felt herself wanting to lean into the sweet scent rather than away from it, as she should. They were close enough that she could see that his eyelashes were darker than his brows; that they curled upward and skimmed his eyebrows when he opened his eyes fully. “We must have a strategy.”

  She nodded, slightly breathless.

  He looked at the pile of snowballs, packing another in his hands as he contemplated their arsenal. “I shall run out in this direction”— he pointed toward Norfield —“drawing their attack. I will run in a circle, returning once I feel confident they have used most of their stock. And then....”

  “And then we attack,” said Emma, unable to hide the mischief in her eyes and smile.

  Lieutenant Warrilow nodded, his eyes twinkling.

  She took her lips between her teeth, her breath catching as she realized how clearly she could see the grey that rimmed his irises and how the clouds their breath created mixed together.

  Pretending to be on good terms with Lieutenant Warrilow was turning out to be far easier than she had imagined. Too easy.

  His brows flicked up in a question, and she pulled herself together, nodding her readiness. Their eyes held for a moment, and the lieutenant popped up into a run, calling out a battle cry and leaving her with a lap full of falling snow in his wake.

  She stayed low, her heart rushing in a way she decided to attribute to the thrill of the battle rather than the proximity to the lieutenant. She heard the rhythmic crunching of his boots in the snow, the soft thumping of snowballs both hitting and missing their target, the rallying cries of Alfred, and the much more timid ones of Miss Bolton.