by Nina Mason
“I’m glad to hear it … and cannot wait to meet her again … or to hear her play.” Not to mention, parade her before that new curate to divert his attentions from Miss Bennet, who deserves far better than a humble cleric for a husband. “What a merry little party we shall make for the season’s festivities.”
“When listing the possible entertainments,” said the Captain, “my wife failed to mention that we will be hosting a small evening party here on Christmas Eve.”
“How delightful.” Christian grinned at his friend. “Will there be dancing?”
“That will depend on the number of couples,” Mrs. Raynalds answered. “Though we can promise you games and good company … provided the weather doesn’t keep people at home.”
“Pray, will one of the games be Snapdragon?”
“Of course,” she said. “As well as Blind Man’s Buff. For what is a Christmas Eve party without those old favorites?”
The prospect of such a gay evening was just the tonic Christian’s spirits needed. “Will we also dine on roast goose and sing carols around the piano-forte?”
“We will indeed,” she said with cheer that seemed genuine, “if Winnifred will play for us.”
Christian arched an eyebrow in her direction. “Do you not play, Mrs. Raynalds?”
“Only a little … and very ill. Georgie, it would seem, got all the musical talent in the Bennet household.”
“It all sounds charming,” Christian said, hopeful the forfeits in Blind Man’s Bluff might be kisses. For nobody could fault him for demanding a kiss from Miss Bennet in a parlor game.
When a footman came in with a tray of tea and sweets, Christian welcomed the arrival of both. The tea would warm him, while the cakes might take the edge off his hunger. Not having eaten since breakfast, he was famished.
The servant set the tray before him, displaying a selection of fruitcake, gingerbread, and mincemeat pie. None were his favorites, as he preferred sweet cakes to spiced ones, but he hid his disappointment behind a smile of delight. “You have outdone yourself, Mrs. Raynalds. It all looks so scrumptious, I know not which to choose.”
“Have the gingerbread,” the Captain suggested, sharing his disdain for fruitcake. “It’s exceptional … and, with luck, still warm from the oven.”
“Very well,” said Christian to the waiting footman. “I shall have a small slice of the gingerbread with my tea.”
“Cream or sugar, sir?”
“Cream, please. But only a splash.”
The footman prepared each of their plates in turn and, when they were alone once more, Christian felt hard pressed to make amiable conversation. Fortunately, the awkward silence was of short duration before someone rang the front bell.
Mrs. Raynalds, clearly as relieved by the interruption as he was, got quickly to her feet. “That must be Winnie now.”
As she hurried out of the room, Christian wondered fleetingly why Winnie would ring the bell at her own home. Now that her brother was married, was she more careful about her comings and goings? The Raynaldses were, after all, still newlyweds, and might not confine their amorous displays to the bedchamber.
He certainly wouldn’t if he had a whole house in which to cavort with his a wife. If, that was, he felt as much passion for her as the Captain did for his.
Christian sipped his tea and nibbled his gingerbread whilst waiting for Mrs. Raynalds to return with her sister-in-law. He genuinely looked forward to seeing Winnie again, as he could not have been fonder of her if she were his own sister. She was such a pretty, affable, sweet-tempered girl, how could any man find her objectionable?
There was a time not so long ago when he considered her a prospect for marriage. In the distant future, of course, when both of them were ready. His feelings for her, however, refused to develop beyond friendship, so he’d abandoned the notion—much to her brother’s relief, he’d daresay.
For Theo never did approve of his tomcatting ways.
Such were the meditations occupying Christian’s mind when Mrs. Raynalds returned—not with her sister-in-law, as all expected, but with somebody whose appearance startled him to such a degree, he upset his teacup.
As the scalding liquid seeped through his trousers, he leapt to his feet. The plate of gingerbread flew forward and crashed into the tea tray. Mortified, Christian surveyed the damage caused by his inelegance. Not only was his plate broken, but two others were as well. And the poor fruitcake now lay spoiled upon the carpet.
“Forgive me … I-I will clean up the mess … and pay for the damage, of course.”
The Captain, more amused than alarmed by Christian’s clumsiness, said, “You will do no such thing in either case.”
Despite his host’s objections, Christian began to tidy the mess he’d made, feeling as foolish as it was possible to feel. All the while, he could feel Miss Georgianna’s eyes upon him, willing him to meet her gaze. Much as he longed to, he could not bring himself to look up. Doing so, he well knew, would do to his heart what his gracelessness had done to the dishes on the tray.
“Here, let me help you,” said Miss Georgianna, rushing to his aid.
As she restored the mangled fruitcake to its platter, she said, sotto voce, “Why will you not look at me? Have I done something to offend you?”
“You’ve only just entered the room,” he said, attempting to laugh it off. “So in what way could you have offended me?”
“Then why are you acting so peculiarly?”
“Am I? I wasn’t aware.”
“You spilled your tea and broke my sister’s dishes when I came into the room,” she reminded him. “Do you not call that strange behavior?”
“No.” He forced the word past the lump in his throat. “I call that clumsiness.”
“Clumsiness might explain the spilled tea and broken dishes,” she hissed in reply, “but it does not explain why you have refused to look at me since I entered the room.”
Forcing his head to rise, Christian unwillingly lifted his eyes to meet hers. His feelings for her rushed to the fore with overwhelming force. Under their power, he longed to speak to her, to explain the feelings of his heart, and to confess how deeply, how dearly, he loved her.
Regret and self-loathing surged through his bloodstream. “There. I’ve looked at you. Feel better?”
Rather than answer, she burst into tears and ran out of the room. Before he could think how to respond, Mrs. Raynalds dashed off in pursuit of her sister.
“Good God, Churchill,” the Captain bellowed when the ladies were gone. “What the devil did you say?”
“N-n-nothing.”
“Well, it must have been something,” he insisted. “Because Georgie is not the sort of woman who weeps without just cause.”
Christian, close to tears himself, dropped the broken dishes on the tray with a terrible clatter. “I-I only looked at h-her, I s-swear it.”
Three
When Georgie first fled the room in tears, she considered returning to her sleigh and heading back to Craven Castle as fast as the horse could run through the snow. But the time it would take to put on her cloak, bonnet, and gloves was greater than she cared to be exposed in her fragile state of mind.
So, she decided it would be wiser to hole up somewhere until she regained her composure. That way, she might return to the parlor, take Lt. Churchill aside, and speak to him with more privacy and effect. For leaving this house without an explanation—either from him or Louisa—would, in the long run, only make her more wretched. It would also make it that much harder to face the Lieutenant when next they met.
Rather than venture upstairs to one of the guest rooms to have her cry out, she chose the Captain’s library as her solace. By the time someone knocked on the door, Georgie had gotten tolerable hold of herself. She was still upset, of course, terribly so, but she was at least no longer sobbing like an injured lover.
For she was not such a one, she reminded herself as she strove to pull herself together. She was only a friend with
disappointed expectations that were perhaps unfair to begin with. Lt. Churchill (she could no longer think of him as “Christian” now that he had snubbed her so cruelly) had never given her reason to hope. That he might return her love was merely a figment of her own imagination.
Yes, yes. But why would he not look at her? And then was so flippant when at last he did? These behaviors, along with the spilled tea and broken dishes, were inexplicable. For he could not have read her thoughts even before she’d entered the room.
No, something else had discomposed him. But what? And why was his manner so guilty?
The knock sounded again. “Georgie, I know you are in there,” Louisa said through the door. “Shall I fetch some lavender water or hartshorn to revive you?”
“I do not need reviving—beyond, perhaps, a glass of port,” Georgie replied with pique. She fancied herself a rational creature and could neither account for nor abide her sudden, uncharacteristic emotional outburst.
The only explanation she could offer for the change was that love brought on fits of madness in the form of sudden, violent changes in mood.
Louisa rattled the knob. “I will ring for some port if you will give me leave to speak with you.”
“Why? So you can drop more hints?”
“I have good reasons for my discretion.”
“Such as?”
“That I shall withhold until you let me in.”
With a heavy sigh, Georgie rose from the high-backed chair and turned the key to unlock the door. When her sister came in, she reclaimed the chair behind the desk. She waited for Louisa to speak, but she only paced the floor, wringing her hands and worrying her lower lip.
Impatient for answers, Georgie said, “Well …?”
Louisa’s troubled green eyes met her sister’s blue ones across the desk. “Have you yet read the book I loaned you?”
“I’ve read … a few chapters.”
Louisa’s eyebrows drew together. “Why have you not read more?”
“You know very well I am not fond of novels,” Georgie attempted to explain. “For I read to acquire new knowledge and insight, not to amuse myself. Besides, I do not see why you cannot simply tell me what you know.”
“I cannot tell you because I gave my word to my husband I would not repeat the information he shared,” Louisa explained, discomposed. “And if you knew how long and hard I worked to gain his trust—and how fragile that trust still is—you would understand how important it is that I not to betray it under any circumstances.”
Georgie scowled at her sister. “Not even to warn your own dear sister away from a rogue?”
“No, not even then,” was Louisa’s obstinate reply. “In fact, I was wrong to even hint about that which I was told in the strictest confidence. But since I cannot take it back …”
“Will you at least tell me if the hint has to do with Lieutenant Churchill?”
“No, though I would very much like for you to tell me what happened between you two in the parlor just now.”
Determined to be as headstrong as her sister, Georgie stuck her nose in the air. “If you will not confide in me, why should I confide in you?”
“I only want to help.”
“Right,” Georgie snipped. “You want to help. By keeping secrets from you.”
“Oh!” Louisa stamped her foot. “You can be so infuriating at times!”
“Says the kettle to the pot.”
“Stop behaving like a child!”
Georgie stuck out her tongue at Louisa. “Takes one to know one.”
This adolescent tete-a-tete went on for several minutes before Capt. Raynalds came into the room. “Ladies, please. Put your claws away. We can hear you plainly in the parlor … and so upset was poor Churchill by your rowing, he has taken refuge upstairs.”
“She started it,” Georgie cried, pointing her finger at Louisa.
“I did no such thing.”
“Did too.”
“Did not.”
The Captain looked to be at his wit’s end. “Stop this at once or … or I shall lock you in separate quarters—the way I used to do when my crewmen could not get along.”
“There’s no need for that,” Georgie said huffily. “For I was just leaving.”
When Georgie attempted to carry out her threat, the Captain blocked her way. Looking up at him questioningly, she met the gaze of a very different man than the one she’d come to know.
This, she knew instinctively, was the harder side of her brother-in-law; the side that looked upon the horrors of battle with an unflinching gaze, commanded ships with an iron hand, and demanded obedience from his crew under threat of the lash.
No wonder Louisa refused to cross him, even to spare her favorite sister disappointed hopes. Not that Georgie believed for a moment the Captain would raise a hand to her sister. For Louisa would not love him as much as she did if he was disposed to strike her in anger. Or even raised his voice to her the way Papa so often did.
“Captain … please let me pass. For I wish to leave this house at once.”
“I’m afraid I cannot allow that.”
When Georgie’s hubris rose, she swallowed it back down. Challenging Louisa was one thing. They sometimes had words, as siblings were wont to do. But to argue with the Captain, under his own roof no less, was impolitic in the extreme.
“Why not?”
“For the simple reason that it has begun to snow—too hard to make travel either prudent or safe. And I cannot, will not, allow you to put yourself in peril over something as frivolous as a sisterly spat.”
The thought of staying for dinner—or for the night, heaven forbid—mortified Georgie. If she stayed, she would be in company all evening with Lt. Churchill—and that she could not abide. “But … my mother will be expecting me.”
“Lady Bennet, I am certain, would not approve of me sending you home in a blizzard.”
“He is right, Georgie.” Louisa touched her sister’s arm. “You must stay here with us until it is safe again to travel.”
Stepping away from her brother-in-law, Georgie turned toward the window. Finding the drapes closed, she resisted the inclination to open them, as doing so would suggest she doubted the Captain’s word. “How long is the storm expected to last?”
“A few days, at least,” he replied.
Resigned to her fate, Georgie turned to Louisa. “I do not suppose you have a duplicate copy of Sense and Sensibility in your library, sister dear.”
“I do not, but I do believe Winnie—” Stopping mid-sentence, Louisa looked to her husband, her face gone pale. “Oh, Theo. Your poor sister is out there somewhere, caught in the storm.”
Alarm registered on the Captain’s face. “I will ride out to look for her … to ensure she gets through safely.”
As he made to quit the room, Louisa grabbed his arm. “Do not go alone, dearest—or I shall worry myself sick over both of you.”
“I shall take Churchill along, if doing so will ease your mind.”
At that, the Captain and Louisa both exited the room. Georgie, now free to do so without giving offense, went to the window and pulled back the drapes. The Captain had not exaggerated the peril to travelers. The falling snow formed a curtain so thick she could hardly see the shrubs in the back garden.
* * * *
Christian jumped at the chance to join the Captain in the search for his sister’s carriage. In addition to being genuinely concerned about Winnie’s safety, he was vastly relieved to have an occupation. Especially one that took him out of Miss Georgianna’s line of fire. For keeping to his room, as he’d done since that shameful scene in the parlor, only depressed his spirits further.
Agreeing they would travel faster on horseback, they saddled two of the Captain’s sturdiest horses and set off. Making slow progress, they followed the road toward the village, hoping to meet Winnie’s carriage along the way.
But alas, they met no carriages along the way. Nor farm carts. Nor fellow horsemen.
Chr
istian shivered—from cold as well as eeriness. It was unnerving to be out alone in what felt at the moment like a vast white wilderness. The wind howled in his ears and stripped the trees bare of their winter frosting. They stood on either side of the road, black and skeletal in the fading light. The frozen vapor of his breath clung in crystals to his face and eyelashes, making it harder to see the road.
They toiled on, their clothes and horses so crusted with ice they were barely discernible through the falling flakes. They did not speak, for the silence seemed too sacred to violate with the blasphemies of human speech. In this hallowed place, man, despite all his invented superiority, was naught but an animal struggling to survive against the greater forces of God and nature.
Yes, civilization was but a stone’s throw away—if one could rightly call Much Wenlock civilization—but where was the adventure in that?
They passed through the village, which was as still as a graveyard.
“Where the devil could she is?” the Captain lamented.
“Delayed by the weather, let us hope, rather than some misfortune.”
The snow was deep on the ground and falling so thickly Christian could see no more than a few feet ahead. An hour went by, then another and still no sign of the chaise-and-four the Captain sent to fetch his sister that morning.
As sunset approached, the temperature dropped and the thaw on the road began to freeze. They climbed the hill on the far side of the village, their horses slipping more than once.
“Perhaps we should turn back,” Christian suggested through chattering teeth. “By now, she’s probably hunkered down somewhere for the night.”
“If she has, she will be snowbound until Christmas at least,” the Captain replied, his voice raw with distress. “And if she has not—and some evil has befallen her?” He visibly shuddered, and not from the cold. “No, let us carry on—at least to Acton Scott. If we get that far, we can sleep there for the night and continue our search at first light.”
Christian, though frozen through, would never dream of deserting his friend in his hour of need. Winnie was both sister and ward to the Captain, who had raised her after finding her in an orphanage upon returning from the war.
