His Mistletoe Bride (37 page)

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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

BOOK: His Mistletoe Bride
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Chapter 34
Lucas stamped his feet as he thrust his gloved hands toward the heat of the bonfire, watching the roaring flames cast leaping shadows through the grove of apple trees. On Epiphany Eve, as lord of the manor the duty had fallen to him to light the huge pile of wood and kindling that had been stacked by his groundskeepers. The male servants, the farm tenants, and most of the men from the village had gathered in the orchard, as was the custom this night across the length and breadth of all the counties. Some would discharge guns or blow horns in the ancient tradition to frighten away evil spirits and promote the health and vigor of the trees across England's fair lands.
And they would drink and tell stories as they tended the fires through the night, strengthening the bonds between the men of the village and the fields through the age-old custom that spanned generations. Of all the traditions of the Season, this one made the most sense to Lucas. It brought men together, from the lowest day laborer to the lord of the manor. On this January night, they united in a profound desire for peace and prosperity throughout the coming year. They stood together in the biting cold, shivering under the vast, starry vault that stretched over their heads. Only the warmth of fire and the bonds of their mutual fealty kept danger at bay. It joined them in an ancient pact of survival, fellowship, and good cheer.
Lucas had never participated in the tradition as an adult, and damned if he didn't feel like an outsider. He recognized most of the men, and all had greeted him with smiles and tips of the hat. But in many subtle ways their actions indicated wariness, even mistrust. That bothered him more than he cared to admit. After years commanding soldiers, he was used to earning the troops' respect—swiftly and unconditionally. But he was quickly learning that his particular brand of leadership, one forged in battle, did not necessarily carry over into his new life as Earl of Merritt.
And try as he might, he had yet to acquire the knack of easy conversation with the men of the village or his tenant farms, a fact all too evident in the way they kept a polite distance from him. He wasn't fool enough to think that aloofness signified respect for the lord of the manor.
Mr. Knaggs joined him by the fire, extracting something from inside his greatcoat. “Lord Merritt, can I interest you in something a bit stronger than mulled ale to keep the cold at bay?” he asked with a twinkle.
Lucas couldn't help smiling. “You shock me, Vicar. Whatever would your wife say if she saw you promoting public drunkenness?”
The cleric's eyes widened in mock alarm. “This is purely medicinal, my lord. We can't have you succumbing to a chill. I'm sure her ladyship would be most distressed if that were to happen.”
Lucas held back a grimace.
A chill
definitely described the state of affairs between Phoebe and him. Since their fight on Christmas night, they had been living in a state that reminded him of a shaky armed truce.
After that spectacular bout of lovemaking on his desk, he had assumed they'd made up. But he'd quickly discovered otherwise. Phoebe, professing love for him one minute, had retreated behind a facade of dignity the next. Her reserve only broke whenever he tried to compel her to reveal the names of the smugglers she had encountered in the forest. She staunchly refused each time, and that had resulted in more than one sharp exchange of words and wills. For a Quaker, Phoebe had proven to be a capable fighter. Unfortunately, their battles always ended in frustration and disappointment for them both.
And refusing to express his feelings for her didn't help the situation, either. His world was beginning to revolve around Phoebe in ways he never could have imagined. That, frankly, worried the hell out of him, making it well nigh impossible to force any kind of declaration past his lips.
“You seem troubled, my lord,” Mr. Knaggs said quietly.
Startled, Lucas frowned. “How so?”
The cleric glanced around, assessing their distance from the other men.
“Your heavy sigh,” he replied, obviously satisfied they would not be overheard. “And I cannot help but notice you seem . . . withdrawn.”
Knaggs might look like a weather-beaten scarecrow, but his eyes gleamed with intelligence and perceptiveness. And he had an air of patient empathy that no doubt served him well in the village, especially during the hard years of the war. Lucas had never had much use for the clerical cast, but he was beginning to understand why the people of Apple Hill held their vicar in such high regard.
Not that he would confide his deep concerns about Phoebe with anyone. Besides, he knew the source of his worries. It wasn't just about the smugglers, no matter how much he wanted to believe that. It was about their marriage—it was about
him
, and his inability to sort through his tangled emotions.
Mr. Knaggs gave him a verbal nudge. “Lord Merritt, if you ever need my help, I hope you won't hesitate to ask. You and your lady are the very heart of this community. All of us will do whatever we can to assist you.”
Lucas breathed out a cynical snort, casting a glance at the men who so carefully kept their distance. Just like his wife. No matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to breach the barriers that separated him from so many aspects of his new life.
“I'd like to believe what you say about the community is true, Mr. Knaggs, but circumstances tell me otherwise. I've got smugglers on my land, probably aided and abetted by my own servants, and I doubt there's a single villager who would trust me to deal with the problem as I see fit.”
The cleric simply handed over his battered flask. With a wry smile, Lucas took a swig, welcoming the burn of rum down his throat and into his stomach. If only it could warm the part of him that struggled against the bone-chilling cold of loneliness and frustration.
“They're not the easiest lot to get along with, I'll grant you,” said Mr. Knaggs. “But these last years have been hard ones indeed.” He gestured with his flask to a man huddling with a small group on the other side of the bonfire. “There's Mr. Wilson, the butcher. A wife and three daughters, but only one son. And what did the silly boy do? Ran off to join the army, looking for adventure. He was killed at Waterloo and poor Wilson hasn't been the same since. His oldest girl tries to help him now, but butchering is hard business for a woman.”
“I didn't know that about the boy,” Lucas said softly, looking at the burly man with graying hair and a gentle face. Lucas had lived through the epic carnage of Waterloo, but many of his men had not.
The vicar nodded. “And then there's Markwith, over there with young Billy.”
Lucas swung his gaze toward the short, gap-toothed fellow sharing a laugh with one of the grooms from the manor stables. “Markwith is one of my tenant farmers.”
“And a good one, too. But he lost two of his children to the fever last winter. Thank the good Lord, he and his wife have three others, but something like that weighs heavy on a man's soul.”
Lucas shook his head, increasingly disgusted with himself. He'd spoken to Markwith a number of times, finding him to be a plain-speaking and capable man. But he'd had no idea the man had suffered such a devastating loss. Then again, in his determination to wrestle order back to his ramshackle estate, he'd focused solely on what pertained to business. He'd treated everything and everyone as a problem to be bludgeoned into line, ignoring what was most important—the people.
His people.
“And you know Ned Weston, the innkeeper,” Mr. Knaggs went on in his gentle, inexorable voice. “And his son, Sam.”
Lucas transferred his attention to Weston and his son, seated on a log by the fire. The boy gazed up at his father, his eyes round and solemn, as the man swapped tales with his neighbors.
“Yes, I met the lad on Christmas Day.” He remembered him—too thin and pale, but smart as a whip. Phoebe had taken a shine to Sam, and had made a point of drawing him to Lucas's attention. “But Ned Weston wasn't there. And I don't recall seeing the boy's mother, either.”
“That's because she died six months ago, my lord. In childbirth, and the baby with her.”
Lucas rubbed his forehead. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.” But Phoebe obviously had. He understood that now.
“Weston and his son have only each other,” Mr. Knaggs said. “And I fear Ned doesn't understand the boy. He loves Sam, but he pushes him too hard. It's the anger, you see. Ned is far from over his wife's death. Can you imagine, my lord, losing your wife and child that way?”
He couldn't. The mere thought of losing sweet, beautiful Phoebe in that kind of tragic circumstance felt like a dagger blow to the heart.
Ned Weston glanced down at his son and, with a smile, slung an arm around the boy's shoulders. Sam's gaunt little face lit up as he gazed at his father with childish adoration.
Lucas felt his throat tighten. “How's the boy doing?”
Knaggs hesitated, then spoke quietly. “Sam is trying very hard to be the man his father wants him to be.”
Lucas heard something more in the man's voice, something important that needed to be told.
But then Knaggs gave his head a little shake and averted his gaze. Lucas felt a stab of disappointment, but he couldn't really blame the man. Trust had to be earned. It had been the first lesson he'd learned in the military, but he'd somehow forgotten it these last few months.
“The men of Apple Hill are good, decent people,” said the vicar, “trying to care for their families in the best way they know how.”
His gaze swung back, and Lucas read a plea in them. “But those men need help, Lord Merritt. They have struggled on their own for too long. They can no longer do it alone.”
Lucas had heard those words before—from Phoebe, from Uncle Arthur, from Silverton. Hell, he'd even said the same himself. But he'd never really accepted what they meant.
He let his gaze roam around the clearing, taking in the men in their shabby clothing, their faces careworn but still cheerful with the kinship they found on this cold Twelfth Night Eve. And he finally understood what he had to do.
Chapter 35
Phoebe swallowed hard as she ordered her stomach back to its proper place. For the last three days she had battled nausea. Finally, it had gotten the best of her.
“Let me take that away,” Meredith said, removing the basin from Phoebe's hands and handing it to Maggie.
“I am sorry to be such a bother,” Phoebe said in a thin voice. “And on your first visit, too.”
“Don't be silly,” Bathsheba gently reprimanded as she put a hand to Phoebe's forehead. “You don't feel feverish, but I'll have John see you as soon as the men return from gallivanting about the estate.”
Phoebe shook her head. “I feel certain a cup of tea will set everything to rights.” She leaned an elbow onto her dressing table, resting her perspiring forehead in the palm of her hand.
Meredith pulled up a chair to sit beside her. “Bathsheba's right. You haven't looked well since we arrived this morning.”
Phoebe opened one eye. “Something I ate, I suspect. But although it is not very pleasant for you, I am so happy you were able to come for our Twelfth Night party.” She managed a weak smile for Bathsheba. “And you and your husband as well. It is so kind of you to visit.”
Though disappointed Aunt Georgie and the rest of the party from Belfield Abbey had already returned to London, Phoebe was grateful that Meredith, Cousin Stephen, and the Blackmores had been able to come for the end of the holiday festivities.
“We were happy to, but I have the feeling Lucas was a little put out when we descended on you, babies and all,” Meredith said with a grin.
Phoebe winced. Lucas had
not
been happy about receiving guests, claiming the manor was still barely habitable. But she had insisted. With the increasing strain between the two of them, she had been desperate to see her family. Even though she and Lucas may have temporarily given up their verbal sparring, things remained far from settled. The only time they truly got along was at night, when Lucas came to her bed. No matter how angry she was with him, she could not find the strength to deny him. But every morning when he left, with so much left unsaid, her heart broke a little bit more.
“He does not mean to be inhospitable,” she explained. “He still worries that the house is not fit for guests.”
Phoebe could not really disagree. Despite the valiant efforts of the staff, Mistletoe Manor was a far cry from the beauty and comfort of Belfield Abbey. “But I do hope the bedrooms are comfortable,” she added. “The fireplaces tend to smoke when there is a north wind.”
“Who cares if there's a little smoke?” Bathsheba said in a cheery voice. “As long as there's a good fire in the grate, that's all I care about.”
Phoebe eyed the stylish former countess, currently wrapped in not one but two heavy wool shawls. She certainly did not blame the poor woman since bracing drafts tended to blow through the leaky frames of the manor's ancient windows.
Meredith patted her back. “Everything's perfectly fine. But I'm concerned about you. How long have you been feeling ill?”
Phoebe thought back over the previous few days. “I have been feeling a bit out of sorts for the last week or so. But my stomach has only truly been unsettled these last three days.”
“Is it upset all the time?” Bathsheba asked.
“It comes and goes, usually when I smell something that bothers me. I noticed it this morning at breakfast, when Mr. Christmas came in with a plate of kippers.” She frowned. “That is rather odd because the smell of kippers never bothered me before.”
Meredith and Bathsheba exchanged a glance.
“What?” Phoebe demanded.
“As Meredith said, I'm sure you're fine. But John should definitely examine you.” Bathsheba cocked her head toward the door of Phoebe's bedroom. “And if I'm not mistaken, all that tromping downstairs sounds like the menfolk have returned.”
Over Phoebe's halfhearted protests, Bathsheba left to fetch her husband. Perhaps it was not such a bad idea to see Dr. Blackmore. In only a few hours, they would be hosting a dinner party for the local gentry, and then all the villagers and tenant farmers would arrive for the Twelfth Night celebrations. She had so much to do, and a healing draught to settle her stomach would be most welcome.
While they were waiting, Maggie brought in a tea tray. Meredith fixed Phoebe a cup, which she thankfully managed to keep down. Then Bathsheba and Dr. Blackmore entered the room.
“Lady Merritt,” the doctor said, “I understand you're not feeling well.”
Bathsheba rolled her eyes. “John, you can tell merely by looking at her face the poor woman isn't feeling well. As I told you, she just emptied her stomach—twice.”
Dr. Blackmore's mouth twitched. “Thank you, my love. But perhaps it might be best if we let her ladyship tell
me
how she feels.”
Bathsheba rolled her eyes again.
“I'll leave you to it,” Meredith said, casting an amused glance at Bathsheba and John. “I must check on the twins, and then I'll go down to the hall and see how the dinner preparations are progressing. You're not to worry about a thing, Phoebe. Bathsheba and I will take care of everything.”
She whisked herself out while Dr. Blackmore began his examination. He checked Phoebe's pulse, looked down her throat, and pulled back her eyelids. She could not repress a ripple of anxiety, especially since he looked so serious.
“Don't worry, Phoebe,” Bathsheba said, taking her hand in a warm clasp. “Everything will be fine.”
Dr. Blackmore smiled at his wife. “I'm sure Bathsheba is correct. She's generally a much better doctor than I am.”
“Well, I do tend to be right about most things,” she joked.
Phoebe smiled at their banter, feeling slightly relieved.
The doctor asked several odd questions, and then requested he be allowed to examine her. She agreed, but by the end of it her cheeks were red and she was
very
glad Bathsheba had remained to hold her hand.
“One last question, Lady Merritt, and then I won't pester you any longer,” said Dr. Blackmore. “When did you last have your courses?”
For a moment, Phoebe did not understand why he asked, then a light began to dawn. “Not since the third week in November, I believe.”
Dr. Blackmore glanced at his wife.
“Was I right?” asked Bathsheba, grinning.
“As usual, yes,” he said. “Lady Merritt, it's early days yet, but I can say with little doubt that you will be expecting a happy event sometime in the late summer.”
Phoebe's mind went blank as she stared at his handsome face.
He smiled. “You're pregnant, my lady. Congratulations.”
Bathsheba gave her a quick hug. “I'm so happy for you, and Lucas will be thrilled. What fun it will be to tease him about how quickly and thoroughly he's been domesticated.”
Phoebe's wits—and emotions—came flooding back in a rush. “You are quite sure?” she asked, repressing the urge to burst into tears.
She did not know if she wanted to cry because she was so happy, or because she found the idea of having a baby so unsettling, especially since she had no idea how Lucas would react. She did not know if he even liked children, which certainly said something about the state of their relationship. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion he might view children as another burden on his already long list of burdens. A list that obviously included her.
“I'm sure.” Dr. Blackmore inspected her with a thoughtful gaze. “Do you have any questions you'd like to ask?”
She blinked, barely able to take it all in. “Not that I can think of at the moment.”
“There's no rush. I can speak to you and your husband when things have settled down. For now, I'll simply advise you not to overexert yourself. Bathsheba and Lady Silverton can certainly handle any last minute duties for the party.”
A stab of panic bolted through her. “Is my baby all right?”
He smiled. “Everything is normal, so you're not to worry at all.” He stood, promising to return in a few minutes with a draught to settle her stomach.
Still in a daze, Phoebe let Bathsheba coax her into bed for a rest.
“Do you want me to fetch Lucas?” Bathsheba asked.
Phoebe thought about it. “No, I had better rest first, or else he will think I am unwell. I will tell him later, when we have a chance to speak in private.”
Bathsheba nodded as if that made perfect sense and went to fetch a fresh cup of tea.
But to Phoebe, nothing made sense. She was pregnant, and she had not a clue what her husband would think of it.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity as they prepared for the festivities. Meredith and Bathsheba took over the last minute details, but Phoebe insisted on helping with the decorations for the hall and the dining room. It had taken most of the afternoon, but the manor looked beautiful, and she could finally begin to relax.
She had not felt the urge to race for the nearest basin or receptacle for over three hours. Dr. Blackmore's preparation had settled her stomach, although it still had an irritating tendency to jump every time she contemplated Lucas's reaction to her pregnancy. With surprisingly little effort, she convinced herself that today was not the right time to break the news to him. She had never thought of herself as a coward, but in this case avoidance seemed the most sensible course of action given all the tumult in the household—not something her husband appreciated at the best of times.
In fact, she would like to avoid that conversation for the next eight months.
“Is something wrong, my lady?” asked Mrs. Christmas, bustling into the hall from below stairs. Her normally cheerful face wrinkled with concern. “You're looking quite pale, if I do say so myself. Why don't you join his lordship in his study for a little rest? I can have one of the girls bring up a tea tray right away.”
“No!” Phoebe blurted out.
Mrs. Christmas's eyes rounded with surprise, and Phoebe inwardly winced. “I am perfectly well,” she said, forcing a smile. “And I had a cup of tea up in my bedroom.”
Several, in fact. Bathsheba had practically poured the entire pot down her throat until she felt ready to float away.
“I think we are almost finished,” she continued brightly. “The hall looks lovely, do you not think?”
They both gazed around the vaulted space, and Phoebe enjoyed a surge of satisfied pride. The faded greens from Christmas had been replenished to even greater effect, and crowns of mistletoe and holly hung from the chandeliers. Candles flickered merrily throughout the room, casting an almost magical glow over the manor's faded but noble glories.
And sitting on a raised platform at the head of the room were two ancient and massive oak chairs, resurrected from a dusty corner of the attic to serve as thrones for the lord of Mistletoe Manor and his lady. They were flanked by potted shrubbery and two darling little orange trees Meredith had donated from the abbey's succession-houses. Mistletoe Manor would never challenge Belfield Abbey for luxury or magnificence, but the manor possessed a homier sort of dignity that suited Phoebe perfectly.
Mrs. Christmas gave a satisfied nod. “I've not seen the old house dressed up so splendidly these last five years and more. It does a body good to see it again as it was in the old days. We have you and his lordship to thank for that, Lady Merritt.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Christmas. If I can just ask you to put one of the larger wreaths at the base of the silver urn in the dining room, then I think we are ready. I must change for dinner, but I will be down well before the guests start to arrive.”
And with any luck, she would be back downstairs before Lucas was finished dressing himself. Once dinner started, there would be no opportunity for them to be alone for the rest of the evening.
The housekeeper nodded, then glanced around, as if checking to make sure none of the servants could overhear. Satisfied, she leaned in close. “If you have any more problems with your stomach, you let me know,” she said in a penetrating whisper. “I make an excellent ginger tea, just perfect for ladies in your condition. Much more effective than what the doctor gave you, I'm sure.”

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