by Nina Mason
The poor girl had a rough start in life, but so did her brother. Capt. Raynalds never shared much about his early years in Portsmouth, but Christian knew the sort of squalor in which the poor of the city struggled to exist. It was a testament to the strength of the Captain’s character and ambition that he’d risen so far above his beginnings.
Christian, in contrast, had squandered the privileges of his birth, and was now thoroughly ashamed of himself. Instead of working for reforms, he’d childishly rebelled against the classism he so vehemently opposed. Well, that would change when he inherited his father’s seat in the House of Lords.
Now in the lead, his thoughts fled when he rounded the next corner. There, pitched in a ditch at the side of the road, was a carriage half-buried in snow. “Look there,” he said to his friend. “Is it yours?”
The Captain kicked his horse, driving it on through the deepening snow. Christian followed and, as they drew up on the stranded coach, he saw it was indeed a chaise. The front axle was broken and the jangle bar hopelessly twisted. There were, however, no horses attached, no one inside the passenger compartment, and no sign of the driver.
“Winnie!” the Captain bellowed at the top of the voice. “Mr. Bell! Answer if you can hear me.”
They waited on pins and needles, but the woods returned no answer.
Taking turns, they shouted until they were too hoarse to continue. Nobody answered apart from the howling wind.
Christian searched the ground for prints, but whatever tracks they might have left were covered over with new snow. “Which way do you think they went? Back to Acton Scott or on to Much Wenlock?”
The Captain’s face was too encrusted with ice to make his expression readable, but Christian could well imagine the poor man was beside himself with worry. “It is hard to say. Since they have horses, going forward would have been the wiser move.”
“I agree. Should we turn back and look for them at one of the inns?—or do you think they might have tried to make it all the way to Greystone Hall on horseback?”
“No, no,” said the Captain. “If they tried to make it home, we would have passed them on the road.”
“Of course. I had not thought of that. Shall we turn back then?”
“Not yet.” The Captain inhaled deeply. “Do you smell that?”
Christian sniffed the air, but detected naught beyond frost. “What do you smell?”
“Woodsmoke.”
Christian dismissed the smell as unimportant. “From the chimney of a nearby cottage or farmhouse, no doubt.”
“I might agree, were I unfamiliar with the area,” said the Captain in blasts of white vapor. “But having explored these parts on horseback, I can tell you the only dwelling hereabouts is a squatter’s cottage, long abandoned.”
“Is it far?”
“No. But getting there could prove difficult with so much snow and ice on the ground.”
They picked their way through the woods until they came upon the cottage. It was quite small and its timbered walls and thatched roof had seen better days. Through the unglazed windows, Christian could see nothing more than the amber glow of a fire. A few yards from the dilapidated gate, the shrill whinny of a horse broke the silence. When their mounts whinnied in reply, Christian knew at once they’d found Winnie.
More agile than the Captain, he hopped down from his saddle and went to the door, hoping she was unharmed. “Miss Raynalds? Winnifred? Are you there? It’s Christian Churchill. Your brother and I have come to take you home.”
Within seconds, the door flew open to reveal the Captain’s sister, huddled up with her maid. Both looked disheveled, though exceedingly glad to see him. With a piercing shriek of delight, Winnie jumped up and ran toward him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she cried, “Oh, Christian, how glad I am you’ve come. I’ve been so terribly afraid … and so terribly cold.”
He was cold, too—and too crusted over with ice to absorb any warmth from her embrace. When her brother joined them on the stoop, she hugged him appreciatively. “Oh, Theo. Never have I been so happy to see anyone in my life!”
“Nor have I,” the Captain told his sister. “Were you injured when the chaise went off the road?”
“No. The snow luckily cushioned the impact and kept the carriage from turning over. Or so Mr. Bell believes.”
“Where is Mr. Bell?”
“In the lean-to, seeing to the poor horses,” Winnie told her brother. “I suggested he bring them inside…so they could stay warm—and keep us warm with their heat—but he discharged it as a ridiculous notion.”
“Nonsense.” The Captain released his sister from his embrace. “Plenty of farmers bring their livestock indoors when it’s as cold as this—for the very good reasons you expressed. We cannot, perhaps accommodate all six, but two would certainly fit—and keep us warmer, I daresay, than a pile of blankets could.”
“Are we staying the night here, then?”
“I think we must—and make what we can of it.”
“I agree.”
Christian stepped past them into the cottage’s only chamber. Rectangular in shape, the room had plaster walls and a slanting timbered ceiling. Sturdy beams held up what remained of the thatched roof. A crude stone fireplace with a crane for cooking stood at one end of the space. Not far away stood a table and chairs. Though a good-sized blaze was burning at present, he saw no split logs on the hearth—and no axe to chop more if dry logs could be found.
“We’ll have to burn the chairs,” Christian told the Raynaldses, “and take turns stoking the fire through the night…but at least we have warmth and shelter.”
Winnie looked crestfallen. “Maybe so, but…we still have nothing to eat or drink.”
“Do not despair, sister dear,” the Captain said. “For there is water all around us. We need only melt some of the snow on the hearth.”
“Melted snow will not fill our bellies,” Winnie complained.
Her brother gave her a mollifying smile. “No, my dear, but fruitcake will.”
“Fruitcake?” She scowled at him in confusion.
“Indeed. I took one from the larder as I left the house.”
“But … you’ve always despised fruitcake.”
“I still do … but not half as much as I loathe going to bed on an empty stomach.”
Four
Minor disagreements never kept Georgie and Louisa at odds for long—and this evening was no different. Growing up, their father’s tyranny healed any rift in an instant. Tonight, it was shared anxiety that sealed the breach. Midnight had come and gone, and the men had not yet returned with the Captain’s sister.
“Oh, Georgie,” Louisa moaned, her face pale and drawn. “Something dreadful must have befallen them to keep them out so late in such dreadful weather.”
Despite being as oppressed by anxiety as her sister, Georgie strove to be the voice of reason. “Do not distress yourself so, dear sister. I have every confidence they are all perfectly safe.”
“I wish I could share your confidence.”
Louisa was on her feet again. Since dinner, she’d popped up and down every few minutes like a jack-in-the-box without a crank. Seated one minute, worrying her lip and wringing her hands; then up the next, pacing back and forth in front of the fire.
“Do not vex yourself so, sister dear, or you shall make yourself ill,” Georgie implored. “They have probably taken a room somewhere to escape the cold. Mark my words, they will be home tomorrow morning—no doubt in time for breakfast.”
“Oh, sister. I do hope you are right.”
“I’m quite certain I am,” Georgie assured her. “Now, please. Stop wearing a hole in the hearth rug and take your ease—and a glass of port, perhaps, to calm your nerves. For worrying yourself into a state will not bring them back a moment sooner.”
“You are right, of course,” Louisa conceded. “I must turn my mind to pleasanter things…oh, but what pleasanter things shall I meditate upon?”
“Let us talk o
f the forthcoming holidays,” Georgie suggested. “For there is nothing so merry in all the world as Christmas and Twelfth Night.”
When Louisa settled for the moment on the cushion beside her sister, Georgie got up and went to pour them both a glass of port. Returning to the sofa, she set both on the table in front of them, trying her best not to think about what had transpired over the very same table earlier in the day. Lt. Churchill’s slight was not forgotten by any means, but seemed far less important now that he was out in the cold somewhere, possibly in mortal danger. Putting the thought out of her mind, she reclaimed the seat beside her sister.
Georgie knew Louisa better than anyone, even her husband. Owing to their father’s abuse, they shared an unbreakable bond far beyond sisterly affection. In many ways, they were like men who had fought a war together and survived—by understanding, and often compensating for, each other’s frailties.
She knew, therefore, Louisa was not as strong as she outwardly pretended to be. Georgie, therefore, was the rock in their relationship. And she was determined to fulfill that role now by pretending to believe all would turn out well.
“Are you and the Captain not hosting a party here on Christmas Eve?”
“We are indeed,” Louisa replied. “Though I am increasingly concerned the weather will make travel difficult for our neighbors and friends.”
“You worry too much, Louisa,” Georgie told her. “Remember how distraught you were when the Captain did not come to Bath as soon as you hoped he would? You even talked irrationally of taking your own life, as I recall.”
“Oh! Do not remind me what I said back then. Such painful recollections will do nothing to lift my spirits. I assure you I have long been most heartily ashamed of my meditations back them—as well as my doubts about my dear husband’s constancy.”
Before Louisa could dwell too long on the Captain, Georgie asked, “And what entertainments shall I look forward to at your party? Cards? Games? Sing-alongs? Oh, I do hope there will be dancing.”
Lt. Churchill returned to Georgie’s thoughts with a painful pang. If there was dancing, would he stand up with her at the party?—or the Twelfth Night Ball, for that matter? She would not, of course, accept him if he did ask her. Unless, of course, he apologized in the meantime for his rudeness this morning.
“I share your hope, I assure you. Most ardently. Being banished from the assemblies since my confinement, the Captain and I have not danced together since…well, since he waltzed me about the room on our wedding night.” Louisa’s countenance visibly brightened as a faraway look came into her eyes. “Oh, Georgie. It was so romantic. He gave me the most beautiful silver box that played Lady Nelson’s Cotillion, which I may have told you had special meaning for us. And then he gave me the most wonderful surprise by waltzing me around the room.”
“You are fortunate indeed to have such an agreeable husband,” Georgie observed, hiding her envy. Would she ever have a husband as devoted to her as the Captain was to Louisa? Or any husband at all, for that matter?
“And you will be equally fortunate, too, one day.” Louisa sighed heavily before sipping her port. “Just as soon as you put your hopes with regard to a certain Lieutenant behind you.”
Resentment bled from the wound Louisa’s words inflicted upon her sister’s heart. “Which I could do much quicker, I daresay, if you would only tell me what you are keeping from me with regard to that gentleman.”
“I have explained my reasons for not telling you, which I must insist you respect.” Louisa’s words were as stern as her countenance. “And I have given you a book to enlighten you about his character. What more would you have me do short of betraying my husband’s confidence?”
Picking up her glass of port, Georgie sipped the sweet wine as she considered her sister’s challenge. At length, she said, “Will you at least tell me the name of the character from whose behavior I am to take my clue?”
Louisa thought this over for several moments before saying, “Since I do not see any harm in naming the character, I will do so—under one immutable condition.”
Georgie licked the syrupy port from her lips. “Which is?”
“You must promise never to importune me on the subject again.”
Georgie was sure she could figure out the rest for herself if she had the name—and the book. “Very well, Louisa. I shall agree to your terms if you, in turn, will agree to mine. Give me the novel, along with the name, and I shall never broach the subject again. For you cannot expect me to be satisfied with a clue for which I have no point of reference.”
“I am no conjurer, who can snap her fingers and produce a book out of thin air. For if I could, I daresay I would have read Pride and Prejudice two years sooner.”
Georgie smiled at her sister’s overdramtization. “I hardly expect you to be, sister dear. But did you not say Miss Raynalds also has a copy of Sense and Sensibility?”
“I did say that, yes,” Louisa confirmed. “But after we spoke, I checked the bookcase in the escritoire in her room only to find a gap where the volume I sought—and all the other books by the same author—normally reside. Thus, I can only deduce that she took the novels with her to boarding school.”
Georgie, oppressed in equal measure by frustration and agitation, downed her port. As she rose to refill her glass, she said to her sister, “That being the case, I reject your terms. For what good is the character’s name to me without any context?”
* * * *
Upon returning to Greystone Hall the next morning, Christian received from Miss Bennet a reception as cold as the night he’d just passed in the squatter’s cottage. Not that he’d expected a warm welcome after his unforgivable slight—or, he’d daresay, deserved as much. All the same, he had hoped his worrisome absence might soften her heart toward him a little.
Even if only a very little.
But alas, such was not the case. So, Christian did everything in his power to sidestep a disagreeable exchange. When he could, he kept to his chamber and the billiard’s room, avoiding her company altogether. When forced to be in the same room with her, over meals and games of cards, for example, he refrained from making eye contact or uttering more than the requisite pleasantries.
This, unfortunately, only made her hostility toward him more palpable. But momentary tension, he reasoned, was preferable to permanent animosity. So, the less said, the better, right?
Yes, he was aware how cowardly he was behaving, but he had good reason to be afraid. For, as a very wise playwright once penned,
Heav’n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd
Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d.
At the present moment, he and Miss Bennet were partnered in a game of Whist. Fortunately for him, the rules of the game demanded absolute silence. Players could not comment upon the hand they were dealt, about their or another player’s fortune or misfortune, or signal to their partner in any way, shape, or form.
Thus, he was safe, despite the uncomfortable proximity to Miss Bennet. Capt. Raynalds and his wife completed the foursome while Miss Raynalds admirably entertained them on the piano-forte. At present, she was playing the rather haunting Adagio in B minor by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, one of Christian’s favorite composers.
Mozart had used the B minor key only one other time in his vast oeuvre of instrumental works: in the slow movement from the Flute Quartet No. 1 in D Major.
“Does not Winnifred play admirably?” the Captain asked, breaking the oppressive silence.
“She does indeed,” Christian remarked, genuinely impressed with the lyricism of her interpretation of the piece.
“Did you know my sister also plays the piano-forte very well?” Mrs. Raynalds asked him.
“Does she?” Christian kept his eyes fixed on his cards. “How interesting.”
“Perhaps I can persuade her to play for us one of these evenings,” the Captain’s wife persisted. “And sing! Oh, yes. For she has a voice like an angel. What say you, Georgie? Will you not delight
us with a song while my sister-in-law takes her turn at cards?”
“Louisa is too excessive in her compliments,” Miss Bennet demurred. “Neither my voice nor my playing are above middling, I promise you.”
“You are too modest, I am sure.” Christian, meeting her gaze across the table for the first time that evening, felt a spasm in his chest. But was it a stitch of guilt or a spark of attraction? “I, for one, would like nothing better than to hear you sing and play.”
“And I second the motion,” the Captain put in with an encouraging smile. “For I do so long to hear a Scottish air before we all turn in.”
“Very well.” Miss Georgianna sighed her capitulation. “Since you gentlemen insist, I shall sing once this hand is played. But do not say you were not forewarned!”
As they continued to play, Christian wondered whether Miss Bennet would choose to sing something light or more poignant and meaningful—or even shocking. For, in a confounding contradiction of social etiquette, young ladies were at liberty to sing about subjects forbidden to them at other times. Subjects as bawdy as lust, sexual longing and frustration, and enthusiasm for strong drink, to name but a few.
In song, furthermore, gentlewomen could take on an endless variety of unladylike personae: soldiers, sailors, shepherds, and gentlemen, among other lusty characters. They also could make tawdry jokes and express political views deemed inappropriate in polite conversation. And, bewilderingly, no one passed judgment upon this queer practice. In fact, many such songs were scored with the female voice in mind.
When the hand was played, Miss Bennet gave up her seat at the card table to Miss Raynalds, whom the dice-roll teamed with her brother for the next round of Whist. Miss Bennet, meanwhile, took her place at the pianoforte and teased an introduction from the keys.
Christian recognized the melody—and her intentions—at once. She meant to sing Queen Mary’s Lamentation to express her displeasure with him.
