A Christmas Kiss (29 page)

“Sam'l!” cautioned the innkeeper sharply. “Mind yer tongue.”

Philip ignored the interruption. “Are you saying you don't want to help me find them?” he asked Sam'l bluntly.

“Not tonight I don't,” Sam'l answered with equal bluntness. “Nor should
you
want to neither. We'd have to move about too slow in all this snow, and when you don't know where yer going, 'twould be plumb foolish. We'd never get there. Take the word of an old man, me lad, that y're stuck here 'til the snow stops, and that's a fact.”

Philip went to the window and looked out. The lantern burning atop the post at the entrance to the inn showed the snow deepening steadily. In the light of the lantern he could see the large flakes swirling about in thick profusion. The sign of the Bull was completely whitened, and a high drift was already covering the lower half of the window from which he was looking. The old man was right, of course. It would be foolhardy to do anything but wait for the storm to pass. Even the gods seemed to be mocking him, for at that moment the force of the wind strengthened, its howl penetrating clearly through the panes and shaking them with unprecedented fury. When the gust died down, the snow-flakes in the light of the lantern appeared to be falling in even greater concentration than they had before. To Philip it seemed that they would never stop.

Twenty

Mr. Caldwell was the owner of a rambling country house halfway between Ashwater and Hatherleigh which he had inherited, along with a more than modest competency, from a childless uncle. The news of his inheritance came to him in his twenty-fifth year, when he had been living in London, struggling to make ends meet as the owner of a badly situated bookshop and tail-over-top in love with a redheaded young Irishwoman employed as a milliner in a shop down the street. As soon as he learned of his good fortune, he sold the shop, married the redhead and carried her off to a house in Devonshire which neither of them had ever seen.

The house had a good number of bedrooms, and the happy couple promptly proceeded to fill them up. The first-born was Charles, followed in a year by Catherine. Then came Sean, Mary, and Meggie in quick succession. After Meggie was born, there was a three-year hiatus, but at last, to everyone's delight, another little boy was born. He was named Michael, but thus far he was called “baby.” Baby was a delight to the entire family and to the cook, the nurse, and the neighbors as well. Only Meggie, her nose out of joint because she had been replaced as the youngest of the household, regarded the infant with growing chagrin. She wined and nagged and wept and pouted, but baby would not go away.

This was only one of the problems encountered by the new governess on her arrival, late on Christmas Eve, at the Caldwell home. The house was loosely run and carelessly cleaned. The children were disciplined mainly by pleadings or scoldings from their loving Mama. Their father withdrew from household crises by riding off to the nearest public house. But the most severe problem facing Evalyn was the elderly woman affectionately called Nurse by everyone in the household. Nurse had taken one look at Evalyn and, contrary to the expectations of Mrs. Caldwell, had become as smitten by jealousy of the new governess as little Meggie was of the baby.

The four days following their arrival had not been easy ones for Evalyn. The baby's fever had risen alarmingly the first night, and Nurse would permit no one near the child but Mavis Caldwell and herself. She rejected out-of-hand any suggestion made by Evalyn for his care. Mavis, however, had instantly felt an affection for Evalyn, and as each day passed grew more and more to respect her good sense and rely on her judgment. By tactfully consulting Evalyn when Nurse was not present, Mavis managed to pull her baby through.

Evalyn was in some ways glad that her position was so difficult and challenging. It left her little time to brood over the pain that hovered like a cloud at the back of her mind. The night of her arrival, after she had helped to put the over-tired, quarrelsome children to bed, she had found herself alone in a tiny bedroom under the eaves. The room was dusty and smelled stale with disuse, and it measured only six paces from the doorway to the opposite wall. She had surveyed the cheerless little window set in a deep dormer, the stained Holland bedcover and the smoking fireplace, and a recollection of the room in which she had slept the night before overwhelmed her. Memories and misgivings attacked her, and the realization that she had buried her tracks, that she had irrevocably turned her back on Gyllford Manor, and that she would never again lay eyes on Philip Everard suddenly became too much for her to bear. For the second time in her life, she gave way to her emotions and wept until sleep finally came. At dawn, she had looked at her face in the little mirror on the wall at the foot of her bed. The worn silvering of the glass had emphasized the look of weariness and pallor of her face. She knew that self-pity, even more than lack of sleep, had given her face that hollow look. Then and there she had made a vow to busy her mind with her work and avoid any situation which would encourage idle reflection. Mavis Caldwell had been a godsend to her, and, in gratitude, Evalyn would give to the Caldwells all her waking thoughts and energies.

Now, four days later, Evalyn was beginning to feel that her efforts in the Caldwell establishment were having an effect. Charlie and Cathy, the oldest children, were starting to take seriously the course of study she had laid out for them. Sean and Mary were becoming less quarrelsome. And Meggie, who had adored Evalyn from the first moment at the inn, followed her about the house contentedly, the mended doll dangling from her left hand and her right thumb in her mouth.

The snow had stopped the day after Christmas, but the sun had not made an appearance until today. Evalyn, lifting her eyes from the history book she was reading to the children, looked out of the schoolroom window to see an unfamiliar brightness in the sky. “Oh, look!” she exclaimed. “The sun's come out!”

The children ran to the window. The sun sparkling on the unmarked snow dazzled their eyes. The sight was overpoweringly inviting. Evalyn did not need much persuasion that an hour or two of play in the snow would be more beneficial to children who had been cooped up in the house for four days than the best of history books. In less than a quarter of an hour, five pairs of galoshes had been donned, five pairs of mittens had been fetched, and five throats had been securely bound with mufflers. The children ran outside with squeals of delight, Evalyn following behind.

They chose the expanse of space at the back of the house as the scene for their play, and their laughter covered the sound of a horse riding up to the front door. It was not until Evalyn heard Mavis calling her name from the kitchen window that she became aware that a visitor had arrived at the house.

“There's someone here to see ye, Evalyn,” Mavis called with an air of suppressed excitement. “Hurry inside! Charlie can take care of the children, can't ye, Charlie boy?”

Mavis shut the window before Evalyn could ask the identity of the visitor. Who it could be she could not imagine. The only possibility was that Mrs. Caldwell wanted to introduce her to a neighbor who had dropped in. Evalyn came in to find Mavis waiting for her. “Be quick, girl,” she said breathlessly. “Here, ye'd best give me y'r cloak, I'm thinkin', and brush y'r hair back a bit, m'dear. Ye'll be wantin' to look y'r best.” With that, she pushed Evalyn before her into the sitting room.

Mr. Caldwell stood at the fireplace, speaking with considerable deference to a gentleman seated with his back to the doorway. Mavis, entering behind Evalyn, clarioned eagerly, “Here she is!” And the visitor rose from his chair and turned. Evalyn, at the first glimpse of the tousled black hair shot with grey, began to tremble at the knees.

“Philip!” she gasped in unthinking gladness. Then her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh … I m-mean, Lord Gyllford,” she added awkwardly.

Philip, who had been waiting for this moment with mounting tension, felt a burst of laughter break through the knot of nerves that had been tightening his chest. “How do you do, Miss Pennington?” he asked with an amused gleam in his eye.

Evalyn, searching his face with an eagerness born of four nights of trying to recapture just that look in her mind's eye, felt a surge of emotion, but whether it was joy or dismay she could not tell. In this small room he seemed taller and more imposing than she remembered, and the look in his eyes was so warm and comforting that she would have liked nothing better than to cast herself in his arms and weep away the loneliness of the past four days. But the unexpectedness of his sudden appearance was quite as disturbing as it was miraculous. Why he had come was as much of a mystery as how he had managed it. “I never expected … that is, I cannot imagine how you f-found me!” she managed to say.

The smile faded from Philip's eyes. “I don't know why you imagined I would not!” he responded with some acerbity, his momentary amusement giving way to a feeling of resentment. He had waited for two days for the snow to cease, and it had taken two more days to find her. They had been dreadful, agonizing days. He had managed to endure them by dreaming of the moment of their reconciliation. But this scene was not being played at all as he had dreamed. He looked at her sternly. “Did you really think I … we … would let you run away—and in such a storm!—without attempting to assure ourselves of your safety?”

“I hoped my letter would relieve you of that obligation,” Evalyn answered in distress.

“That hope was quite ill-judged,” he said curtly. “All of us at Gyllford, the family, the staff, and the guests, have been concerned about your welfare.”

“I'm very sorry to have c-caused so much trouble,” Evalyn said in a voice which sounded suspiciously close to tears.

“And so you should be,” Philip heard himself growl. He had heard the quiver in her voice, and he wanted nothing but to take her in his arms and soothe the hurt he knew they both suffered. But the vexation caused by the presence of two strangers watching them with rapt attention seemed to force him to react with a gruff coldness that was quite unlike him.

Evalyn heard only the bitterness of his tone, and the sound weakened the last of her self-control, already badly undermined by the shock of his presence. She turned her face away so that he might not see the tears which had begun to drip down her cheeks.

Mavis, who until this moment had only felt the excitement of entertaining a real Earl in her own sitting room, suddenly realized that her dear Evalyn was under attack. She rushed to the girl's side and put a protective arm around Evalyn's shoulder. “So that's the way ye talk to this darlin' girl, is it? No wonder she ran away from ye!” she accused. “Ye must've treated her like a little slavey, I'm thinkin', to make her run away from a situation in a home such as y'rs. Sure, 'n' a body has a right to leave her employer if she's a mind to. Besides, she's employed by us, now, she is, and I'll not have 'er bullied!”

Philip reddened under the unexpected attack. “Bullied!” he retorted angrily. “Do you think I've scoured this countryside through wind and snow for four agonizing days because I wished to find and berate a recalcitrant
employee
?”

Evalyn lifted her head and stared at Philip dumbfounded. Had he truly been searching for her ever since her absence had been discovered? Mr. Caldwell, observing this unexpected scene from his place at the fire, blinked at Philip in confusion. “Are you saying, Lord Gyllford, that Miss Pennington was
not
in your employ?”

“She certainly was not,” Philip answered shortly.

“I see,” said Mr. Caldwell, reddening. He crossed the room to his wife. “I think, my dear, that this is something which does not concern us. It seems to be a private matter. We had best leave the room to Miss Pennington and her … guest.”

Mavis looked at her husband questioningly. Then a glimmer of understanding lit her eyes, and she glanced quickly from Evalyn to Philip and back again. Her eyebrows lifted. “Ooooh!” she said in a long breath. “Lord bless me soul! Aye, o' course, m'dear, we'll be goin'. There's … er … the tea things to see to, anyway.” She smiled encouragingly at Evalyn, ignoring her husband's tug on her arm. “Please make y'rself at home, me lord,” she said with another quick glance at Philip. She permitted her husband to lead her to the doorway, but there she stopped and turned again to his lordship, resisting Mr. Caldwell's persistent tug. “Sure'n' we hope, Lord Gyllford, that after you and Evalyn have … er … finished … that ye'll stay to tea.” And her embarrassed husband pulled her from the room and shut the door.

Philip's eyes had not wavered from Evalyn's downcast face. Mavis's lengthy exit had given him time to regret the testiness which had so upset the usually calm Miss Pennington. For a long moment neither of them moved. Then Philip went to her and lifted her chin. “What a clodpole I am!” he said regretfully, as he wiped her cheeks with his handkerchief. “The last thing I wanted was to make you cry.”

Evalyn forced a small smile. “You could not know I would behave so foolishly. Once I told you I never cried.”

“So you did,” Philip agreed gently and led her to the sofa, drawing her down beside him. “Only an ogre could cause the redoubtable Miss Pennington to cry. I should be horsewhipped for speaking to you so harshly. Please forgive me.”

She shook her head. “No, there's nothing to forgive. It's I who … I never dreamed you would go to the trouble of finding me. I cannot fathom why you should have done so, or how you managed it.”

“I've already explained the why. You underestimate the esteem in which you are held at Gyllford. As to the how, I encountered a very clever and observant old fellow at the Bull by the name of Samuel who had seen you leave in the carriage of a red-headed Irish lady with a large brood of children. Such a personage is bound to be noticed, and it was not long before we were able to ascertain her identity.”