Christmas Ghosts - Fiction River (30 page)

“Cecilia is nothing if not punctual,” Marcus said, glancing up from his seat by the fire. The linen bandage across his eyes gave him the look of a jaunty oracle. “Come, read it to me.”

Liam joined him, settling into the second armchair pulled before the hearth. When he opened the letter, he smelled the distant memory of flowers.

November 24

Wilton House, Wiltshire

Dear Lord Tarrick,

I am relieved to hear of the lions guarding your stairs. Perhaps you could send one home with Marcus, as he could use such a pet to keep him out of harm’s way—although I hesitate to think what such a beast would do for his reception in Society, once he returns to London.

Now, Marcus, I must tell you it has not yet snowed here, so you may give up any thoughts of pelting me with snowballs the moment you walk in the door, as is your wont. Besides, with your recent injury, I would be forced to aim for your chest and not your head, so it is just as well the season remains cold and clear.

In all seriousness, will you need any extra provision made for your care when you arrive? I am not entirely certain I trust the reports that your eyesight will be completely cured—and if such is the case, I implore you to strain Lord Tarrick’s hospitality a bit longer, and do not undertake to travel until you are truly ready to do so.

Your loving sister, Cecilia

Marcus leaned back, his face turned toward the fire.

“Will I be fit for travel, do you think?” For a moment his smile slipped, revealing the worry beneath.

“Doctor Smith is planning to remove the bandages tomorrow, is he not?” Liam asked.

“Well.” Marcus leaned his chin on his fist. “I confess, I’ve peeked a time or two. I’m afraid my sight will not be miraculously restored overnight.”

“Can you see anything at all?”

Guilt rose up like briars in Liam’s throat. If he had blinded Marcus Fairfax, he owed the man a debt he could never repay.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Marcus shook his head. “See here, Tarrick, guns misfire. It was my great misfortune to be behind the barrel of one at the time—but that is a risk a gentleman takes when shooting.”

“It was my gun,” Liam said. “I bear the responsibility.”

“To answer your question—I can make out shapes. I can see the brightness of the fire, and lighter patches in the room that might be the windows. It is an improvement, certainly.”

Liam crossed his arms. An improvement—but not a recovery.

“Your family has suffered some hardships recently, correct?” he asked.

“I do not remain here simply for your scintillating company,” Marcus said. “My mother has been dead nearly a year, and I am not certain Father is finding it worthwhile enough to stay on this mortal plane without her.”

“He must have loved her very much.” Liam couldn’t imagine.

Marcus let out a sigh edged with sorrow. “She was the sun the entire household revolved around. They are struggling enough, without me casting another dark cloud upon their existence.”

“Your sister seems well enough.” Liam waved the letter, again catching the faint scent of flowers.

“Cecy puts on an admirable front.” Marcus frowned. “A pity about the snow. She needs something to make her smile, especially now.”

“Now?” Liam leaned forward.

“She is caring for Father, readying the house for the holidays, and carrying the secret of my injury. Too many burdens.”

“You called her a willow in the wind.” Liam could imagine her—a slender, pale thing like her brother, bowed down by the weight of her obligations.

Marcus nodded slowly. “I only hope she doesn’t break.”

***

December 1

Tarrick Hall, Suffolk

Dear Cecy,

You will notice that Lord Tarrick is still serving as my secretary. I believe he missed his true calling in life—it’s a pity he was born into the gentry.
(Miss Fairfax, I cannot let such a slight upon the characters of secretaries pass. I assure you that, even were I not the Earl of Tarrick, I would make a poor secretary. Indeed, if you can decipher my writing, I commend you.)

Do not be alarmed, but the doctor has ordered me to wait another week until I travel. He fears the jouncing of a coach may disrupt the progress of my returning sight. And it is returning, have no fears on that account.

You have not written much of Father. Is everything well? Will our esteemed elder brother be joining us for the holidays, or will we be lucky enough to avoid his family this go-round?

Expect me to arrive by 20 December. The earl has kindly offered his coach to transport me to Wiltshire, so you see I’ll be traveling in great comfort.

Until then I remain,

Your loving brother, Marcus

(P.S. I must add that your brother’s eyesight is slow to return. He is reluctant to speak of it and add to your burdens, but I do believe you’d be happier forewarned. T)

Cecilia smiled as she read the angular, dark writing. The earl’s letters were not difficult to decipher—although she noticed his penmanship had declined slightly from the first, more formal missive he’d sent on her brother’s behalf.

She tapped the letter thoughtfully against her lips. Was the Earl of Tarrick as dark and angular as his handwriting?

Oh, foolishness. She needed to be readying rooms for Marcus, and discussing meals with the cook, and making sure Mrs. Bess had not ordered the servants to hang all the washing outside to freeze, forgetting it was winter.

There was, too, the work to be done in preparation for her brother’s visit. Edward and his fretful wife, Honoria, and their clamorous set of boys would be descending imminently (like a flock of harpies, Marcus was fond of saying). Cecilia did not, quite, agree. Honoria was not as strident as a harpy, though she did find fault with almost everything around her. And everyone. Poor Edward.

Still, receiving the earl’s—or rather, Marcus’s—letters, provided a welcome respite. A few stolen minutes where she could retire to the parlor, sink into the overstuffed wingback, and be
elsewhere
for a brief time.

Always too brief, however. Letting out a low breath, Cecilia went to her desk to compose a reply to the earl. She certainly had no time to spin fancies about a man she was likely never to meet.

A pang went through her as she pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. She would not receive another letter from Tarrick Hall, as Marcus would be departing there within the week. She was glad the earl had warned her that her brother’s recovery was not as complete as he would have her believe. He seemed quite the gentleman, the Earl of Tarrick. Swallowing back something that tasted suspiciously of disappointment, Cecilia dipped her pen and began to write.

***

December 8

Wilton House

Dear Lord Tarrick,

I am not certain this letter will reach you before my brother’s departure, so I shall not include exhortations for safe travel (which no doubt he will ignore in any case).

Again, thank you for caring for him whilst he recovered from his injuries, and for your frequent letters. And the guard lions, of course. Please give them a pat of gratitude from me—provided they do not bite your fingers off.

Perhaps some day we will have the good fortune to meet in London.

My brother and I are deeply in your debt.

Most gratefully,

Cecilia Fairfax

“There you are,” Liam said, slipping the letter back into its envelope and nodding to Marcus, seated across from him. The cozy fire burning on the hearth belied the chill in Liam’s bones. “Homeward bound at last. No doubt you’ll be happy to shake the dust of Tarrick Hall from your feet.”

How long would it be until another guest graced the set of rooms? Years? Liam crossed his arms, banishing the thought.

“You’ve been an excellent host.” Marcus squinted happily at him. “In fact, I have a splendid idea.”

“If it involves remaining here another few weeks, I can’t say I agree. Your vision is improving daily, and you are wanted home for Christmas. Is your sister-in-law truly that dreadful, that you’d wish to remain here?” Liam glanced at the half-packed trunks lined up by the door of Marcus’s room.

Marcus waved his hand in dismissal. “Cecy and I manage to prop one another up during Horrible Honoria’s visits. No, I think you ought to come with me to Wiltshire for Christmas!” He grinned. “I’ll be able to repay your hospitality, and you’ll have a marvelous time.”

“You expect me to believe that, after regaling me with tales of your sour relatives?” Liam tamped down the sudden surge of interest that ran warmly through his veins. “I am quite content here at Tarrick Hall, though I thank you for your offer.”

He tried not to think of the empty hallways, the lack of greenery and holiday cheer. Did he not, every Christmas Eve, sit beside the fire and drink a fine glass of port? Did he not go for a long ramble about his estate, savoring his property, despite the winter’s cold?

“Quite content?” Marcus let out a snort. “Let me guess. You give the servants a Christmas holiday and send them off, then sit alone beside the hearth in your study, eating cold ham. Perhaps indulging in a brandy or two.”

“It is not a bad life.” Liam lifted one shoulder in what was meant to be a shrug. “I’m happy enough.”

He did not examine too closely the itch that had lodged beneath his ribs at the thought of going to Wiltshire with Marcus Fairfax. And meeting Miss Cecilia Fairfax.

“If you’re happy here, then you’re easily pleased, and my sister-in-law will prove no obstacle to your greater joy.” Marcus reached forward and took him by the shoulder. “Do come, Tarrick. Or are you afraid of the ghost?”

“I take no alarm at the figments of a boy’s overactive imagination.”

“Lizzy’s real,” Marcus said, letting go of Liam’s shoulder. “It would serve you right to meet her in the upper hallway. You must come to Wilton House, just for that comeuppance. Besides, I know Cecilia would like to meet you.”

Liam had not read him that crossed-out line in Miss Fairfax’s letter—the one about possibly meeting some day, that had made him stumble briefly in his narrative—but clearly her brother knew her well.

“I hardly think your sister would welcome the unexpected burden of my arrival.”

“How often has she said we are in your debt?” Marcus raised a blond eyebrow. “She will be glad to repay it, I assure you. Besides, I am still not recovered enough to read, or count out my bills correctly. What if the coachman takes a wrong turn? What if the innkeeper decides to take advantage of my infirmity? I need you, sir, to see me safely home.”

“That’s a patent lie.”

“I wager it won’t take you long to pack.” Marcus leaned back, smiling. “You’ll be ready to leave before I am.”

“I’m not coming with you, Mr. Fairfax.”

***

Cecilia sat at her desk, resolutely keeping herself from rereading the earl’s—Marcus’s—letters. Instead, she busied herself with making lists of all the tasks still looming, before the holidays at last came to a close. The maid, Martha, hurried into her sitting room—a welcome distraction.

“Mistress,” Martha said, “the Earl of Tarrick’s coach is coming up the drive.”

“Indeed?” Cecilia rose from her desk and went to the window.

As the maid had said, a large black coach was approaching, the side emblazoned with the earl’s coat of arms. Thank goodness. Having Marcus home would lift some of the weight pressing down upon her. And he had arrived just in time—Christmas was only a handful of days away.

Giving her hair a quick smooth, Cecilia hurried down the stairs. No need to change from her worn gray muslin. It was just Marcus, after all.

She arrived in the entryway as the butler opened the door.

Marcus strode in. “Cecy?” he called.

“Here,” she said.

As soon as she spoke, he turned toward her, a wide smile on his face, and opened his arms.

She embraced him, then drew back, grasping his shoulders.

“You still can’t see,” she said.

“Why of course I—”

“Don’t deny it.” She gave him a little shake. Drat her brother, pretending he was well.

His smile faded. “I can see—but details are blurry. You blended with the shadows.”

At least the earl had forewarned her. She sent a prayer of thanks to the man, wherever he might be.

“There’s one more thing,” her brother said. “I brought a guest for Christmas.”

“What?” Sudden apprehension jolted through her, and her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “Who is with you?”

She knew the answer, however. Who else could it be?

“The Earl of Tarrick,” her brother said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“I…”

“He’s just outside. I’ll go fetch him.”

Her throat was dry, her nerves suddenly fluttering. A pox on her impulsive, generous brother. As if the holidays were not complicated enough.