Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (22 page)

It was not long after lunchtime the next day when Tom sought her
out in the kitchen, where she was scrubbing the soup pot.

The sky was a dull whitened grey. There was a stillness in the
air and the temperature seemed impossibly cold. Francesca’s hands might be
reddened but at least the water in which they were plunged was warm. Steam rose
from it to cloud the windows and thaw the air within the little kitchen.
Francesca had discarded her shawl, so that it did not become wet from the
water, and was scrubbing at the pot with vigour. She was humming a tune beneath
her breath and smiling to herself when Tom walked in.

She knew that something was wrong by the way he closed the door
behind him. She glanced round and saw the expression upon his face.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she asked, pulling her hands from the
water and drying them upon her apron skirts.

‘Lord Holberton is here…’ He did not say the rest. He did not
need to; she could see it in his face. ‘Mama has asked if you will make some
tea.’

Francesca’s pulse jumped, but she gave no sign, just started the
tea preparations. ‘It would seem that he has taken quite a liking to you, Tom.’

‘Would that were the case, Fran. But I suspect that it is not me
he has come to see. He danced three times with you at the ball.’

‘He did, and he also danced with Anne, Lydia and Sophy.’

‘Only once each.’

‘And he made a point of introducing you, Tom. By doing what he
did he ensured our acceptance. The evening would have been a disaster
otherwise.’

Tom shrugged her words away. ‘He did not stray from your side
during our walk in the gardens of Holberton House yesterday morning.’

‘He was our host, he could do little else.’

They looked at one another.

She made the rest of the tea in silence, while Tom looked on.
‘Come, we had both best go through to the parlour.’

She unfastened her apron and folded it over the back of one of
the chairs by the table. Her heart was beating fast, and she was aware of a
small flare of excitement deep within, but Francesca’s demeanour appeared as
nothing other than its normal self. She smoothed back the loose tendrils that
had escaped her chignon, tucking them back in as best she could with fingers
that felt all atremble.

‘I’m sure you are wrong, Tom,’ she said. ‘But in the off chance
you are not, then I assure you that Lord Holberton is wasting his time.’
Francesca lifted the tea tray and walked towards the kitchen door.

L
ORD
H
OLBERTON
was warming himself in front of
the parlour fire. He had driven himself over to the cottage in his gig and
brought with him a huge spiced cake, which was now sitting upon the table.

‘There you are, Francesca, with the tea and biscuits.’ Mrs Linden
smiled. ‘May I offer you some, my lord?’

‘Thank you,’ said Jack.

Mrs Linden filled his cup. ‘We had such a lovely time at the ball
the other night—didn’t we, girls?’

Anne, Lydia and Sophy, who were sitting in a line on the sofa,
answered at once and in unison. ‘Yes, Mama, delightful.’

Francesca stayed silent.

Lord Holberton took a sip of tea, then raised his gaze to look
directly at her. ‘And what of you, Miss Linden? Was the evening to your
satisfaction?’

Francesca looked into his eyes and wondered if Tom was right—if
Lord Holberton was toying with her. She was tempted to tell him that the
evening had been tolerable. In truth, the evening had been terrible until Lord
Holberton’s appearance, and then, contrary to all her expectations, she had
enjoyed Lord Holberton’s company very much.

‘As my sisters said, it was delightful,’ she said, but the
message in her eyes defied her words.

Jack’s smile creased his eyes, as if he found her amusing.

Jack stayed until the light became thick and grey and shadowy.

‘How dark it is, and the time is not yet even three o’clock,’
said Mrs Linden. Francesca rose to light some candles and collect the cups and
saucers on the tea tray, glancing through the window as she did so. ‘Oh, dear!’
She stopped, and looked again through the window.

Everyone stared.

Mrs Linden struggled to get up.

‘No, no, Mama,’ Francesca quickly reassured her. ‘There’s no need
for alarm. It’s just that it has been snowing—and heavily by the looks of
things.’

‘Snow!’ Sophy bounded off the sofa and rushed to the window.
‘Fran’s right!’ she said with excitement. ‘It’s completely white out there!’

‘Let me see.’ Lydia joined her sister at the window. ‘My
goodness!’

‘Perhaps it would be prudent for Lord Holberton to leave before
it gets any worse,’ said Francesca.

Jack got to his feet.

‘I’ll fetch your great-coat and things,’ said Anne.

‘The roads might be too bad for travel. Lord Holberton might be
stranded here,’ said Sophy.

‘I’m sure they’ll be fine,’ Francesca said.

But they weren’t. The entire Linden family stood at the door of
their cottage and watched Jack step out on to the path—or at least where the
path had been. The snow was a deep, crisp carpet of white. Jack’s boots almost
disappeared beneath it.

Jack felt the falling snow settle on his cheeks and eyelashes.
All the air was filled with a mass of large swirling snowflakes. He could
barely see three feet before his eyes, let alone the road that lay somewhere
beneath the snow. Overhead the sky was a thick white grey. There would be no
abatement. All the landmarks and roads and potholes and rocks were already
obscured. Only a fool would travel in such conditions.

‘The snow is too bad. You must stay, my lord,’ said Mrs Linden.
‘I will not hear of you leaving in such weather.’ And then she began to cough.

‘Mama, go back through to the parlour.’ Francesca removed her own
shawl and quickly wrapped it around her mother’s shoulders. ‘The air out here
is too cold for you.’

‘But Lord Holberton must not—’

‘Lord Holberton will, of course, stay with us until it’s safe to
travel,’ soothed Francesca. She looked at Jack, standing outside in the snow.
‘Is that not so, my lord?’

‘Thank you, Miss Linden. I would prefer to delay my journey until
tomorrow morning, if my presence will not be too much of an inconvenience.’

‘No inconvenience at all, my lord,’ said Mrs Linden between
coughs.

Francesca steered her mother into the parlour and sat her down in
the chair closest to the fire. The front door banged shut, but no Jack
appeared. Francesca looked round in enquiry at her sisters as they trailed back
into the parlour, clutching their shawls around them.

Sophy sniffed and wiped a hand across her nose. ‘Jack has gone to
see to his horse. He said he won’t be long.’

‘Sophy, use a handkerchief—and it is Lord Holberton, not Jack!’
Mrs Linden might still be trying to catch her breath, but she was not about to
let her youngest daughter get away with such behaviour.

‘He said we were to call him Jack.’ Sophy’s lip petted.

‘Even so, we must remember our manners.’

‘Where will he sleep?’ Anne asked.

‘I know it is Christmas, but we can hardly put him out in the
stable,’ said Lydia.

Sophy started to giggle.

‘I’m sure that Tom will not mind giving up his bed for one
night,’ said Mrs Linden.

Tom’s thoughts on that would never be known, for there was the
bang of the back door closing and the stamp of snowy boots against the mat. A
few minutes later Lord Holberton appeared.

‘Trojan will be comfortable enough in your stable,’ Jack said,
and began to peel off his outer garments once more. ‘Now, who is for a game of
whist?’ He produced a pack of cards from his pocket. ‘Gentlemen versus ladies?
Or would that be too unfair, since Tom and I would undoubtedly win?’

‘Nonsense!’ said Sophy. ‘We girls are excellent whist players. We
shall beat you fair and square.’

So the rest of the afternoon was taken up with a tournament of
whist, which Mrs Linden and Anne won. Francesca left them laughing and arguing
and playing while she went to prepare dinner.

It was not until much later on, after the evening meal had been
eaten, that Jack had a chance to speak to Francesca alone.

She was in the kitchen, washing the dinner plates in a basin
within the sink, when she heard the door open. She glanced round, thinking it
was one of her sisters, only to find Jack standing there. Her eyes widened in
surprise and she could not prevent a smile. ‘What are you doing in here? Go
back through to the parlour and I’ll bring you some more tea.’

‘I’ve had enough tea to last me a lifetime.’ He closed the door
behind him and shrugged out of his coat.

‘What are you doing?’ She stared at him as if he had run mad.

He slipped his coat over the worn wooden back of a chair in the
corner and then began to roll up his sleeves. ‘I have come to assist you.’

Francesca looked at him in astonishment, and then laughed. ‘We
are not so hard on our guests, sir. You may return to the parlour in the
knowledge that your bed for the night is safe.’

‘I have always had a secret desire to fathom the mysteries of the
scullery,’ he said wryly.

‘I assure you they are mysteries that you will be content to
leave well alone.’

He laughed, and came to stand beside her. ‘I do, of course, draw
the line at the wearing of an apron.’

‘That is a shame, for I would give much to see Lord Jack
Holberton wearing a frilled apron.’ She smiled.

‘Minx!’ he said, and stepped right up to her.

He was standing so close that Francesca felt a sudden shiver
ripple through her. She turned quickly away and, dipping her dish brush into a
little soap, found the next dirty plate and began to scrub at it.

‘What do I do?’ he asked.

‘You go back through to the parlour, make yourself comfortable by
the fire and converse with my brother.’

‘I have already informed you of my dishwashing desires,’ he said.
‘You’ll not be rid of me so easily, Francesca.’

‘Mama would have a blue fit if she thought that a guest was being
set to work in the kitchen.’

‘Mrs Linden need not know.’ He smiled and picked up a folded
dishtowel from the nearby table.

Francesca stared at him in astonishment. ‘Put that dish towel
down at once.’

‘You are sounding very authoritarian, Francesca.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ she said. ‘
Please
place the
dishtowel down. There is no need for it to be in your hands.’

‘I liked the authoritarian tone better.’

‘Jack!’

His smile broadened. He flaunted the dishtowel before her and
lifted one of the dripping plates from the draining board beside the sink.

‘Jack Holberton, if you do not put that plate and dishtowel down
I shall…’

‘Yes?’ Jack smiled again. ‘What is it that you’re planning to do
to me?’

Francesca gave a small sound of exasperation. ‘You are quite the
most stubborn man that I know.’

Jack shrugged and, placing the dried plate down on the table,
began drying another wet one. ‘I prefer to think of it as determination.’

Francesca shook her head. ‘Is there nothing that will persuade
you to retire to the parlour?’

‘There is one thing.’ His eyes slid to hers, and it seemed that
they sparkled with sensuality.

Francesca’s heart gave a little somersault.

‘Don’t you wish to know what it is?’ he teased.

‘No, I do not.’

He set the plate down on the table, and something of the teasing
tone left his voice. ‘I wished to speak to you alone, Francesca. I’ve been
trying to do so all day, but there has been no opportunity.’

‘Why should you wish to speak to me alone?’ she said carefully,
and continued with her washing up.

She heard him move across the kitchen to where he had left his
coat, and when he returned he had a small black silk-covered box in his hand.
‘I wanted to give you this.’ The box lay on his palm. He held it out towards
her.

She stared at the box. Her heart began to race. Her throat felt
suddenly dry. Her teeth bit against her lower lip. She removed her hands from
the warm soapy water and dried them against her apron. In all this time she had
not yet looked at him. She made no move to touch the box.

‘Francesca?’ The box was edged a little closer towards her.

She looked up at him then, and there was unease in her eyes. ‘I
do not wish a gift from you.’ At the back of her mind she heard the whisper of
Tom’s voice.
It is not marriage that he has in mind…I see the way he looks
at you…
And now he was giving her a gift. Her cheeks scalded at the
implication.

‘It’s a Christmas gift between friends, Francesca. Nothing more.’
His eyes scanned hers, as if he could see what she was thinking. ‘Open it.’

‘No.’

So Jack opened the box. Inside lay a delicate silver chain, and
on the end of the chain hung the ship from the Christmas market.

Her gaze came up to meet his.

His eyes held hers. ‘It is the image of the
Swift
.’

She just looked at him, almost not breathing.

‘I’ll leave it here for you.’ He closed the box and sat it on the
table.

They heard footsteps from the parlour.

Jack eased back into his coat. By the time the parlour door
opened he was gone, and the small black box was hidden inside Francesca’s apron
pocket.

Jack slept that night on the sofa in the parlour, much to Mrs
Linden’s shame. He would not turn Tom out of his bed for all of the woman’s
persuasions. A fire burned on the grate, but the room was still cold and the
blankets thin.

Jack thought of Francesca. Her life was one of toil that would
have tested the hardiest of matrons. Yet Francesca did not complain. Her common
sense and practicality made other ladies appear pathetic by comparison. She was
cheerful and bright and quick of mind. It seemed that none of her hardships had
quelled her spirit or her self-possession.