Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) (17 page)

“Take Neely's coach so you won't have to walk through the snow in those clothes.”

David was so alarmed about Cathy, he hadn't even considered his own comfort, but he was grateful Neely's coach would be available to him.

It took less than five minutes to reach Stoneyway, but when he did, his heart fell. Not a single window was lighted. In front of the dark stone cottage sat his brother's coach, the coachman on the box.

And there was no sign of Cathy.

Chapter 6

David had hopped up on the box beside his brother’s coachman and directed him to the Williamson cottage. Riding on top would allow him to better search the countryside for signs of Cathy—if she were out there alone in the wilderness.

It would be bloody difficult to see anything, though. Night had fallen, and it was a black night with barely a sliver of moon notched into the darkness that wrapped around them. A thin coating of snow covered the ground, making everything black, white, or an eerie gray.

His thundering heartbeat rhythmically pounded with each hoof printing the crunchy snow. He had requested the driver follow along the river, though he’d been incapable of giving voice to his worst fear: that Cathy may have fallen into the swollen, frigid waterway.

Dread filling him like a vile poison, he kept remembering how pitiable she had looked when he last saw her, kept remembering how worried he had been about her, kept remembering that he’d wanted to draw her into his arms and comfort her. What if she had stumbled again?

He was reminded, too, of that first evening he'd returned to Ramseyfield and of the lone young woman pushing through the snowdrifts that wretched night. The strong-willed, big-hearted, foolhardy, maddening girl should have more regard for her own wellbeing!

“It be a mighty cold night, guvnah.”

Until the coachman spoke, David had not realized how badly his ears stung or how numb with cold his hands were. He hadn’t given a second’s consideration to his own discomfort because his fears for Cathy outweighed everything else. “Yes, it is.”

His feeling of unease had begun back at the assembly. There he had stood, surrounded by those people he had known all his life, the people he loved best, yet he'd been melancholy. Why was he not happy to be home, happy to be surrounded by those who meant so much to him? Suddenly he had realized that the person who meant most to him wasn’t there.

The face he cherished most did not belong to Elizabeth Balfour. It belonged to her younger sister.

Cathy was the truly beautiful sister for she was beautiful on the inside. And wasn’t that what counted above everything? She was perhaps the most admirable person he had ever known. She possessed a rare ability to make those around her feel as if they were the most important person in her life. He most certainly was not singular in that belief. He supposed she even had the same effect upon the dogs and cats she fussed over.

But I know I am special to her
.

Hadn’t she once confessed that she wanted to wed him? His pulse pounded. Dare he hope she still felt the same?

She had followed his naval career with a keen interest. She had admitted that she worried about his safety during the years of his absence. Could he allow himself to hope he was the only man who could win her heart?

Could he actually be in love with Cathy Balfour? Was love what made his worries spread over him, sickening his whole body like some vile poison? Was love what made
her
face the only one that could gladden his heart?

It suddenly became abundantly clear to him that he could navigate the globe and never find a woman who could mean more to him than Cathy. Her equal could not be found in another city, country, or continent.

When he finally saw the Williamson cottage off in the distance, his heartbeat accelerated. He knew it was the Williamson cottage though all he could see of it in this darkest of nights was a buttery square of light. He prayed she would be there.

It seemed as if these last five hundred yards took as long to traverse as the five miles they had already covered. Would they never reach the cottage?

The coachman must have sensed David’s urgency for he never let up on the speed as he brought the coach almost up to the front door of the little stone cottage.

David leapt from the box, raced to the weathered timber door, and knocked.

The door opened slowly. Then he saw Cathy.

And hauled her into his arms.

Chapter 7

Nothing in her entire nineteen years had ever felt so good as being wrapped in David's strong embrace. When she peered up into his face, wondering what she could possibly have done to deserve such happiness, she discovered something even better.

His mouth closed over hers, gently at first, then after her ardent response, he kissed her more hungrily. It was as if she were in one of her own dreams! She had often dreamed of finding herself in David's arms. But David in the flesh—a real, live, warm, musky smelling, heavily breathing David—was so much better than any of her dreams had ever been!

She knew they stood there in the open doorway. She knew it was a chilling night. But she felt nothing but warmth.

And overwhelmingly love.

Until this moment she had never realized how intimately a kiss connected two people. She experienced the oddest sensation that their two beings were merging into one. She thought of the words her father read from Scripture when he presided over weddings. Dare she even allow her thoughts to drift in that direction?

When the kiss finally terminated, he continued to hold her close. “My dearest Cathy, I've been so worried about you.”

Her first coherent thought was. . .
He is not in love with my sister
. She could hallelujah! the heavens.

She had no desire to respond for fear he would come to his senses, beg her forgiveness, and storm away because this had all been some terribly disappointing mistake. Instead, her arms encircled his powerful body, and she nestled the side of her face into his broad chest.

“I have no right to do this,” he murmured, “yet nothing I've ever done has felt more right.”

Her hold tightened. Still, she said nothing. When she was twelve and half, she had tossed pride to the wind and declared her love to him. Nothing had changed—except her resolve to not humiliate herself—even if it was painfully difficult not to tell him he was the only man she would ever love.

“I know I've only been home a few days, but I know my feelings for you are deep, and they are irreversible. I know that I could circumnavigate the world and never find a woman I could love as much as I love you, Catherine Balfour.”

“Oh, David,” was all she could say before she started to weep.

Then she remembered poor Mrs. Williamson. “Oh, David, will you send the coachman to fetch the midwife over in Cloverling?”

He pulled back, his firm hands planted at her shoulders, his dark brows lowered. “Not until you tell me why you're crying. Have I offended you, my dearest love?”

Her tears gushed. She really wished they wouldn't because then her eyes would get all red, and she'd look ugly, and she didn't want to look ugly, not when David made her feel as if she were as lovely as. . .as lovely as Elizabeth. She did so want David to think her pretty. She shook her head. “It's just that you've made me very happy.”

His hands still gripped her shoulders, but ever so gently, and his thumbs began to sweep into gentle circles against her flesh. “Happy enough to become my wife?”

She launched herself once more into his arms. “Oh, yes! I told you I'd wait.”

* * *

At dawn, he heard the babe's cry. He had stayed at the Williamson cottage, seeing that the fires did not burn out. During the previous night, he had sent the poor coachman crisscrossing the countryside. The coachman had not only brought back the midwife, but he had also gone to tell Mr. Balfour that his younger daughter was safe at the home of Mrs. Williamson, whose time had come. Then later, David sent the coachman back to Rosemary Hill to deliver a quickly scribbled letter to Michael—and ordered the coachman to stay home and spend Christmas morning with his loved ones.

David's letter notified his brother of his pending nuptials but asked that he not tell anyone until David received official permission from the vicar.

David was determined to be with his beloved on this Christmas morning, their first together. He was so filled with joy. Cathy loved him! Cathy had agreed to marry him. He never wanted to ever again separate from her. Not even to go back to Rosemary Hill.

That the babe's cry was lusty must give comfort to its mother for she'd obviously given birth to a healthy child. The babe would not only give comfort, but it would also dispel her loneliness.

A moment later, an exhausted looking Cathy slipped out of the room and faced him with a smile on her face. “Mrs. Williamson has a fine son. He's sleeping now in his mother's arms.”

She moved to him, and his arm naturally draped over her shoulder. “Has she given him a name?”

Cathy nodded, then somberly answered. “Frederick.”

As a lad, Frederick Williamson had been a playmate of David's. How happy it made him that part of his old friend would live on in this child.

“This shall be my favorite ever Christmas,” she whispered.

“Mine, too. Your love is the most precious of gifts.”

“I feel the same, and I believe Mrs. Williamson will come to realize what a wondrous Christmas gift she has been given.”

His heart swelled with love of Cathy, with thoughts of the children they would one day have, with how privileged he was to return to Ramseyfield and settle down with this remarkable woman.

Chapter 8

One year later. . .

David had thought last Christmas his happiest, especially coming as it did after so many years when he'd been deprived of his loving family. How happy he'd been just to be home for Christmas. Then, the most perfect of beings had consented to become his wife.

But this year's Christmas was even better. He and his wife sat there in the family pew at the Christmas morning service. How their families had expanded! He cast a quick glance at Cathy. How he loved to see her holding their sleeping daughter. How dearly he and Cath had come to love little Charlotte in the two short months they had been parents.

Then his gaze swept to Cathy's pretty sister, now Lady Neely. Elizabeth looked lovingly at the son who lie sleeping in her arms.

Across the aisle were Michael and Georgianne with their twins, a boy and a girl, who ironically had been born just a week before Charlotte.

When Cathy's father cleared his throat, David's gaze returned to the pulpit. Her normally reticent Papa had difficulty disguising his pride when he looked at his family. Though Cathy had worried when she and Elizabeth both left the nest at the same time, she no longer worried about her father being lonely.

David's gaze flicked to his mother, who now shared the Balfour family pew. She and Mr. Balfour had united in marriage during the past year and were supremely compatible.

Even the widow Williamson, her sturdy little son balancing on her hip, had proudly told Cathy on the steps of the church that morning that no one ever had a finer Christmas gift than the laddie she received on the previous Christmas.

After church, all the family would gather at Belford Manor, the beautiful home David had bought as Cathy's wedding gift.

Now he had truly come home for Christmas.

The End

Christmas At Farley Manor

By

Cheryl Bolen

Copyright © 2012
by Cheryl Bolen
 

Christmas At Farley Manor
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Prologue

London, 1812

Captain Harry Tate did not know why he felt compelled to tether his mount and limp into St. Clement's that morning. Quite clearly, it was another sign he would soon be meeting his Maker. He still could not believe he hadn't died at Badajoz along with hundreds of his men. God, but he could still smell their burning flesh, still hear the death cries of men who had served under him, still picture the mounds of mutilated bodies. Good English soldiers.

He was but five and twenty years of age, but he knew in his heart he would not live to twenty-six. For he would return to the Peninsula on the morrow. It was his duty. The words of the slain Lord Nelson were in the minds and hearts of all Englishmen. "England expects that every man will do his duty." His leg was finally healing. He must return.

It was almost as if death had followed him to London. For Annie was dead now, too. Beautiful Annie who'd sung her silly songs on the stage with every man in the audience lusting after her. Yet it was he who'd won her affections, he who had become her protector, he who had killed her.

He meant to say a prayer for sweet, loving Annie, whose dancing eyes were closed forever. The huge timber doors squeaked as he opened them. Though the church was dark, the crucifix at the front of the church seemed illuminated, beckoning him down the nave to the sacristy. He knelt at the altar rail and began to pray for Annie's soul.

As well as his own.

Then he realized he was not alone. A soft whimpering was very close. Had Annie's distraught friend followed him? He spun around. A very pretty young blonde he'd never seen before sat weeping on the front row.