Elisabeth Fairchild (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

He laughed a great deal that morning. Copeland always enjoyed reversing roles with
the servants on Christmas Eve, as the Lord of Misrule. He felt the tradition made
him a better master, stepping into their shoes, if only for an hour or two. He might
have blamed his happy mood entirely on their Christmas antics, but it was, of course,
only part of his glee. Love lifted his spirits. He wanted to laugh, to jest, to announce
with a knowing, secretive chuckle that a spirit lifted his spirits.

At these informal breakfasts he passed out a Christmas gift to each of his staff,
little tokens of his affection: packets of boiled sweets from London, hair ribbons
and combs, stick pins and neck cloths, rose – or orange-scented toilet water for the
women, a citrus – or cypress-blend cologne for the men. They knew to expect the handful
of coin and complete change of livery he supplied them every Christmas Day, but he
had noticed they always seemed to enjoy these trinkets far more. It warmed his heart
to see them beam with pride.

He held his breath and smiled at Miss Walcott as a great cloud of mingled scents rose
from freshly opened bottles liberally dabbed. He thought for an aroused moment of
the scent of frankincense, the musky scent that clung to his hands, his hair. He had
to admit that he was enjoying himself, day and night, far more than expected, given
that his carefully laid plans came to naught.

Given that he was a dying man.

He laughed at the thought. No fear left. No regrets.

The staff laughed with him, and oohed and aahed, and thanked him profusely, and allowed
him to carry away the dishes, and then they presented him with the gift they had fretted
over choosing for months: a book for his library, a slender volume of poetry. Bolton
had hovered over his collected titles for weeks. Now he knew why.

Tears sprang to his eyes when he recognized the author’s name, one of his favorites.
“How very thoughtful,” he said. “How perfectly wonderful.”

They shooed him from the kitchen then, and set about the business of readying the
house for their guests. He carried the cherished book of poetry, tucked in his pocket,
wondering where Miss Walcott had gone, and how she had slipped away without his noticing.

She was not to be found in either of the drawing rooms, nor did she respond when he
knocked at her bedchamber door. He found her at last in the chapel, sitting in one
of the cherub-topped pews closest to the Nativity scene. The light from the high stained-glass
windows drenched her in shimmering color. The crown of looping golden braids seemed
lit from within. Her complexion glowed. Her shoulders shook. She was weeping!

“Dear heavens! What’s wrong?” he asked at once.

Beyond tilting her head in his direction she did not move. “Nothing,” she said quietly,
voice quavering.

He knew better than to slide into the pew beside her. Women hated to be observed too
closely when they cried. His sister had told him so on more than one occasion. So
he stepped into the pew just behind hers, and sank down close enough that he might
whisper gently, “Come. Come. We are better friends than that, are we not? Please tell
me what distresses you, Belinda.”

Her shoulders shook more fiercely than before. Sobs caught at her breath. Perching
on the edge of the pew, he leaned forward to offer her a handkerchief. “There, there.
It cannot be as bad as all that.”

She sniffed and accepted the handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes, and all the while
he wanted to vault the back of the pew to take her into his arms.

At last she said, “Did you ever have it in mind to do something, have it all thought
out, plans well laid, only to discover things were not as you assumed, that what you
thought you wanted is not what you wanted at all?”

He had to laugh, though it was clear she had no intention of amusing him. “You describe
my life,” he said. “Certainly this Christmas. When the snow started, and the road
was blocked, I felt a bit like weeping myself. But, only look what a lovely holiday
we are having. I have never enjoyed anything more.”

She slid a surprised look his way, teardrops glistening in her lashes, teardrops wet
upon her cheek. Then she nodded, golden braids swimming before his eyes, beautiful
hair. He longed to cup the crown of her head in his hand, to tilt her heart-shaped
chin toward his.

“I have enjoyed it as well.”

She dabbed at eyes that saw into the very heart of him—eyes whose depths he sought
with comfort in mind. He would ease her heartache, as she had eased his.

“Do you play Lord of Misrule every year with your servants?”

“Yes.” He smiled. She began to sound a little better. “But why did you leave?”

She shrugged and crushed the handkerchief tightly in her hand. “I had no place in
it. Indeed, I ought to be packing now, and I am sure you must have a thousand things
to see to before tonight’s gathering.”

She stood and might have gone had he not placed his hands gently on her shoulders.
“Why such a buzz to leave, Bee?” he whispered in her ear. “You have yet to hear anything
from my new book of Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry.”

She tilted her head in his direction, so that for a moment the tear-dampened apple
of her cheek touched his. “Poetry?”

He drew a deep breath. Christmas. Her head-turning perfume filled his nostrils, left
him swaying. “Yes,” he murmured, sagging back into the pew, away from the lure of
her. “Sit,” he beckoned. “Enjoy, collect yourself before you collect your things and
go.” Under the gentle pressure of his coaxing, she sat down again, turning a little
in the pew that she might hear better, without fully revealing her tear-stained face.

He opened the book, scanning the words, searching out something appropriate to his
feelings.

Strange fits of passion have I known:

The words leapt from the page. He read them aloud, voice growing stronger as he went
on,

“And I will dare to tell,

“But in the Lover’s ear alone,

“What once to me befell.”

He closed the book, and leaning forward spoke once again into the shell of her ear,
the musky scent of frankincense meeting him, the soft fabric of cheek and hair brushing
his.

“Something very odd befell me last night, in a dream,” he whispered. “A wondrous thing,
really. A gift of a dream.”

She went very still, seemed to stop breathing.

“Do you dream, Miss Walcott? You have never revealed whether the ghosts of Broomhill
Hall trouble your dreams.”

She sighed, and said, “I’ve a gift for you.”

“And that upsets you?” He dared lean his head against hers. “Your presence here has
been gift enough. Do you not realize that? I thought I wanted a house full of friends
and relatives, and was given the gift of your company instead. A new friendship, perhaps
something deeper. Do not take it away from me too soon.”

She turned in the pew, the movement forcing him to sit back that he might look upon
her face. A single tear coursed down her cheek. Her eyes seemed the brighter for their
recent wetting.

They stared at one another for a long, telling moment.

“What oddness befell you last night? What dream?” He could see no sign of knowing
in the unbroken stillness of her eyes.

“Belinda.” He stood up from his pew and bent forward, to kiss away her tear, her cheek
soft and cool. “Will you . . .”

She pressed her finger to his mouth. “Hush,” she whispered as she pushed him away,
an arm’s length between them. “There is something you do not know.” A noise from the
hallway stopped her. She cocked her head to listen. “Tonight,” she said, “I will explain . . .”
She tried to make light of it, tried and failed to sound lighthearted:
“What once to me befell.”

“But the house will be full . . .”

“Yes.” She left her pew and walked to the end. He duplicated her movement. They met
at the aisle. “We shall find a moment, just we two,” she promised, “to play hide-and-seek.”

Hide-and-seek.
The words sent a chill the length of his spine.

“All right.” Intrigued by her request, that he wait for Christmas Eve, he longed for
more, by word or touch, to assure him she understood his feelings, his growing need
to speak of marriage even though he was promised to another.

Before he could say another word, she kissed him full on the lips, a remarkably breathtaking
kiss, her lips going soft, parting a little, her breath, the taste of her like nectar.
The kiss left him winded and longing for more.

As soon as their lips parted, that they might draw breath, that he might look her
in the eyes, she darted away from him, out the chapel door.

His progress in following her was halted by two of the maids with their buckets, come
to make doubly sure the chapel was clean of cobwebs for tomorrow’s service.

“Can you tell us, my lord,” Megan asked, “where the key is that opens the chapel’s
storage room, where there are more beeswax candles we are needing?”

By the time he saw to their needs and wished them well, Miss Walcott was not to be
found, and as she had said, “A thousand things for him to do.”

***

His guests arrived in dribs and drabs. None of them precisely on time, many of them
early. These were country folk, they kept country hours, and each of those who arrived
offered their assistance the moment they appeared at the door.

“How may we help you, my lord?”

“We came a bit early thinking you might need some assistance in preparing for so many.”

It was their way with one another, to share in the spirit of the holiday, the spirit
of giving. And Copeland, who had not the heart to tell them he had no need of their
assistance, put them to work in small ways, one to tend to the fire that it might
not burn low, another to lead newcomers in to warm themselves. Another to make sure
punch cups were filled.

They came bearing gifts: bags of walnuts, jars of jam, a hand-carved bootjack, a nicely
tooled bit of leather as a bookmark, here a basket of eggs, there a bunch of dried
herbs. Copeland met every gift with joy, and pleasure, and just the right words to
make its bearer think it the best gift he had ever received. He was, indeed, surprised
to be met with such generosity of spirit. It did his heart good.

He warmed to each new knock on the door, to the sound of Gabriel barking the alarm
and hooves on the drive, to the sight of yet another group of well-bundled figures
through the window.

They came by way of wagon and horseback, and those who lived closest, on foot, their
children gamboling like pups in the snow. The youngsters felt compelled to add their
silhouettes to the row of angels along the drive. They were soundly scolded for doing
such a thing, in their best clothes. Snow was pounded vigorously from their backs,
but still they came in sprinkling the magic of it upon the marble flooring.

Sweetness made manifest. They made him smile, the young ones. Here walked the future,
hope incarnate.

The youngest were borne above the sparkling snow in strong arms, on strong shoulders,
coated and cloaked, mittened and scarved to the eyeballs, and well in need of the
warmth. The wind blew brisk, pinking noses and ears, their youthful faces the merrier
for frost’s pinch. Smiles met him as they breathlessly mounted the steps and entered
the hall, heads aswivel, necks craned, eyes sparkling. All would see what had been
done to improve the fallen condition of Broomhill, this difference he had made in
their world.

As they stepped into the warm apples-and-cinnamon smell of the hot cider that waited
to warm them, all eyes brightened, young and old. Their mouths formed O’s of astonishment
as they divested themselves of cloaks, hats, and gloves. Up the stairs they were led,
then, fingers wrapped around steaming bowls of golden cheer, nodding and laughing
as they sipped ever so carefully.

“Look at the gleam on these old floors!”

“Would not want to spill.”

“Such thick rugs.”

“Only see the finish on that wainscoting!”

They remarked on how the place had looked only a year ago, and how sad it had been
to see the old house neglected, barn swallows roosting in the very room where they
now gathered so merrily.

The unseasonably frigid weather deserved comment, as they went room to room, along
with tales of the latest doings among their families, and finally, inevitably, in
lowered voices, muffling hands held to the children’s ears, there came questions concerning
the ghosts of Broomhill.

“Word is you have found footprints by yon pond.”

“Have you seen the Lady in White?”

Several well-informed individuals whispered when the
Fleur–de-Lys
Room was passed, “I understand she favors this room.”

As Copeland’s tenant, a Mr. Ted Jarley, looked down upon the frozen pond from the
upstairs gallery, his apple-cheeked wife peered at his uncle’s portrait for a long
moment before she dared admit, “Ted thought he saw your uncle just before it come
on to snow. Did you not, Ted?”

“Aye.” Ted nodded vigorously. “God rest his soul. All in green, ’e was. Just as your
uncle used to dress. All save ’is legs, that is, which were not to be seen ’tall,
though it were comin’ on dark at the time, and I managed to convince myself my eyes
are not so sharp as they once were.”

Copeland had no idea how to respond to such a claim, other than to say, “I am told
Broomhill is the most haunted house in Hampshire. It should not surprise me if my
uncle is one of them.”

That brought sober-faced nods, and a few more tales of hair-raising moments, and perhaps
word began to circulate, for all of his guests seemed inclined to tell him of ghostly
encounters thereafter.

Another tenant claimed to have had her hand taken by that of a child, in the upper
hall.

“Right here.” Mrs. Greannin stopped in the very spot. “I had come with the rent for
your uncle, do you see, and was walking along brisk-like, when it felt exactly as
if a child slid ’is sweaty little hand in mine. I had me lad with me at the time,
and thought it were ’im. Didn’t think nothing of it, really, until I chanced to look
down and the boy was not there. Gave me a chill, it did. Fair took me breath away.
I could not get home fast enough to my little ones. Afraid it was an omen, don’t you
see?”