A Christmas Bride (19 page)

Timothy shook his head as he held out his hands to warm them. “We thought he was missing, but I should have known better than to listen to Melanda's caterwauling.”

“She seemed genuinely concerned,” Serenity interjected, surprising herself as much as the men that she was defending Melanda.

“I suspect she was.” Timothy smiled. “However, her concerns were misplaced. Felix has ridden over to his father's house to retrieve a cravat that Uncle Arnold left behind by mistake.”

“All of this hubbub because of a cravat?” Serenity sat on the arm of a chair, glad for the excuse to give her wobbly knees a rest. She wondered why Timothy was so solicitous of his cousin. Clearly he had not wanted to damage Felix in the household's eyes. Yet Felix could be beastly to Timothy. To hide her disquieting thoughts, she said, “Really, sometimes I think the Polite World has no sense at all.”

“Sometimes I think you are right.”

“And the rest of the time?”

He turned and propped his chin on his thumb. “The rest of the time, I
know
you are right.”

“So you agree that it would be jobbernowl not to have Theodora go outside with us on our next stroll.” She smiled. For some things it was better to have extra ears listening. She needed any allies she could find for this discussion.

“What is this?” asked the earl.

Timothy's scowl returned. “Serenity wants to take Theodora outside to experience the snow and wind and cold for herself.”

“No.” The earl shook his head. “That is impossible. If the child were to take a chill, heaven alone knows what the effect would be.”

“I would be certain,” Serenity said, struggling to keep her smile in place, for she had hoped that the earl would see that this idea was inspired, “that Theodora is so bundled up that she could not move as much as her good arm. Mrs. Gray told me that there would be mumming plays in the village for the holiday. Every child should have a chance to see them.”

Lord Brookindale's scowl was nearly identical to his grandson's. “Serenity, until this moment I had considered you a woman of rare good sense. It seems it has taken leave of you.”

Coming to her feet, she said, “Theodora needs to experience everything any other child might experience. I know you fear for her health, but what good is it to keep her cosseted when who knows if this might be her last holiday? I know that sounds heartless—”

“No,” said Timothy with a sigh, “it sounds quite the opposite. You are thinking with your heart, Serenity, allowing it to cloud your judgment.”

“I have thought this through. If we take her in a closed carriage—”

Timothy shook his head. “The roads are treacherous at best, and the hill leading down into the village is steep. A carriage is dangerous under those conditions.”

“I know.” She did not lower her eyes, even though a pulse of pain lashed her. One memory she did not want to return was the memory of the accident that had left her not knowing who she was. Quietly she went on, “Then we shall take a sleigh. We can have hot stones to keep us warm as well as thick blankets. We will watch part of the performance and return before the stones grow cold.” She knelt by the earl's chair. “Please let me do this for her. I fear that I will be unable to fulfill any other promises I have made to her.”

She heard Timothy's muttered curse as he walked away to stand before the hearth again. Timothy understood what she could not say to his grandfather. It was not Theodora's health that would keep Serenity from doing as she had promised the little girl, but the ending of this interlude as Serenity Adams.

“Let me consider this,” the earl said with a sigh.

Timothy said in a growl, “Grandfather—”

“I shall give you my answer at dinner this evening.” He set himself on his feet. “Why don't you two go and enjoy the greening of the chapel while I give this some thought?”

Serenity clasped her hands behind her back after coming to her feet. As the earl walked out of the room, she waited for Timothy to speak again. No matter what she said now, it might be the wrong thing.

“There is no use in fooling ourselves, is there?” Timothy asked as he stepped away from the hearth. “The masquerade is nearly at its end.”

“Masquerade?” asked Felix from the door.

Turning, Serenity was amazed to see that his face had nearly as little color as the snow in the garden. He lurched forward and put his hand on the back of the closest chair, as if he feared he would swoon as Melanda had.

“Is something wrong?” Timothy fired back. “Other than your causing a to-do in this house by letting Melanda think that you had vanished.”

“She overreacts sometimes.” He waved at his cousin weakly. “I told her I would be here in time to help with the greening of the chapel.” He swallowed so roughly that Serenity heard it. “What is this about the masquerade being over?”

Timothy picked up his gloves and slapped them against his palm. “Did you take a knock in the skull while you were out riding? You know as well as we do what I spoke of. Serenity is needed here only until Grandfather's birthday celebration, which is only a few days from now.”

“Oh,
that
masquerade.”

“What other one could there be?” Serenity asked. Felix Wayne was one of the most vexing people she had met … or could recall meeting. As Melanda was the second most exasperating, they were two of a kind.

“You are right.” He pushed himself to stand straighter. “I am just caught up in the skimble-skamble silliness of the holiday season.”

Timothy picked up his coat and folded it over his arm. “Have you spoken with Melanda to set her mind at ease?”

“Her abigail assured me that she was resting comfortably, but would not be joining us for the greening of the chapel. Apparently she needs time to recover from her tears of despair at what she persuaded herself was the end of my existence.”

He motioned toward the door. “Shall we?”

“As long as we do not have to tote Aunt Ilse's tree back to the chapel.”

Timothy handed his coat and gloves to a maid. “Tree?”

Serenity looked over the rail at the same time Timothy did. The evergreen tree had vanished from the foyer, but a trail of needles warned that it had been brought up to this floor and into a room across the hall from the double doors to the ballroom.

Not waiting for the others, Serenity went to the door to see Aunt Ilse draping the tree, which had been set into a pot in front of the trio of windows, with the strands of dried fruit she and the others had strung. Aunt Ilse was humming some song that Serenity did not recognize. Even when Aunt Ilse began to sing, the words must have been in German, because Serenity could not understand any of them. A half dozen children were sitting on the floor, watching with smiles. In a chair right next to the tree, Theodora grinned like a satisfied cat.

“Are you coming to join us in decorating our
Tannenbaum
?” asked Aunt Ilse.

“
Tannenbaum
?”

“A Christmas tree!” Theodora crowed, and the other children giggled. “That is what this is, Serenity. A Christmas tree.”

“But what is a Christmas tree?” Serenity asked.

Aunt Ilse did not halt in arranging the fruit strands on the branches, letting the strings droop like swags. “It is a tradition among the German states. Instead of bringing a tree in to burn it on the hearth, as is done in England with a Yule log, in my husband's country we bring a tree inside and decorate it with fruit and candles. Children, do you want to help?”

Serenity stepped back into the hall as the children ran to assist Aunt Ilse. She wondered if the tree would survive their ministrations.

“Very odd,” she said, as she joined Timothy and Felix on the stairs.

“That is an apt description of Aunt Ilse.” Felix's laugh was sharp. “She has assumed the ways of her adopted homeland as if she were a native.”

“I would say that is wise of her. A princess should understand and respect her subjects and their traditions, no matter how curious they may be.” Serenity smiled. “I suspect they quite adore her.”

Timothy chuckled when he paused at the bottom of the stairs and offered his arm. As he drew her fingers into it and put his hand over hers, he said, “You are as insightful as always. Whenever Aunt Ilse visits England, she receives letters from her husband's countrymen and -women urging her to return home soon and safely. They miss her dearly when she is away.”

“Or,” Felix said in the same grumbling tone, “they are so driven to ennui by her boring husband that they are eager for her to come back and entertain them with her bizarre ways.”

“I am sure,” Serenity added quietly as if Felix had not spoken, “they adore her as much as the children here do. As much as you do, Timothy.”

“Me?”

She laughed as they walked toward the oldest section of the house. “I have seen you sitting and chatting with her, and you are always smiling as broadly as the children do when she is about. You enjoy her as much as they do.”

“As I said, you are insightful, sweetheart.”

Serenity's smile at the endearment faltered when she saw Felix glower at his cousin. Was Felix being the most sensible of all of them to remember that this
was
truly a masquerade that would end with the ringing in of Christmas?

Her uneasiness grew when they came around a corner in the hall and discovered greens piled by the ancient door of what was clearly a chapel that had been built at least four hundred years before. The pews, which offered seating for no more than a score, were wooden and showed the stains of each passing year. A simple altar carved of the same stone as the walls was set at the front.

When Felix pushed past her to scoop up an armload, she realized Timothy was hesitating, too. Did Timothy share her disquiet at entering this chapel when they were lathered with lies?

He glanced at her and quickly away, but not before she saw the flush rising along his face. Had she seen embarrassment or anger that, by being here, she was ruining a tradition he loved? She put her hand on his arm again, and he squeezed her fingers before bending to collect some of the greens.

“Shall we?” His voice was strained.

“It seems that we should, as we are right here.”

“It will be all right, Serenity,” he said in a near whisper.

“I wish I could believe that. I am not sure of anything any longer.”

“I am.” He halted her from bending to gather up some greens. Ignoring the servants, who were carrying more armloads into the passage, he stroked her cheek. “I am sure that having you here is better than never having had the chance to know you.”

“But you don't know
me
. I don't.”

“Mayhap not.” He brushed her cheek with a swift kiss. “But I cannot believe that the true part of you could be changed even by an accident.”

Serenity did not know what to say, and she had no chance, even if she could have found the right words. The laughter and excitement of the decorating lured her into the chapel. Soon she put her dreary thoughts aside as she let the joy in the chapel seep into her. She laughed along with the others as they tried to clean sap from their fingers and ended up only making them dirtier. Hearing Timothy chuckle at some jest among the men who were hanging the greenery from the rafters overhead, she bent to help the women who were securing garlands of greenery to the pews and around the altar.

Because they did not have to climb up and down the ladders, the women's work was done more quickly. Serenity took a deep breath of the evergreens as she gathered up some of the pieces that had fallen from the strands now circling the chapel. She tossed the broken branches into a pile by the door, where they could be swept outside.

She started to turn to pick up more, then paused. The sounds of laughter and teasing seemed to vanish as she knelt to pull out two straight branches. She stared at them, wanting to believe that this fragment of memory was real and not just wishful thinking. Holding the branches, she rose and groped for the closest pew. She sat and continued to stare at them.

“What is so fascinating?” asked Timothy as he walked over to her.

Slowly she raised her eyes to meet the good humor in his. She watched them narrow as she whispered, “This could work for Theodora.”

“Two sticks?” His laugh sounded forced. “Serenity, she cannot hold but one.”

“No, look!” She broke the branches over her knee. Tossing aside the longer pieces, she held up two sticks. Each was about ten inches long. She balanced both of them in one hand, so she could wiggle them and bring the tips together. “If she used them like this …”

Timothy squatted beside her and reached for her hand. When she started to give him the sticks, he shook his head. “No, hold them as you were holding them. I want to watch you move them.”

“Do you think this really could work for her?”

“I don't know yet. Let me see how you open and close the tips of the sticks.”

Serenity slowly raised and lowered the top stick. “The bottom one stays pretty much stationary.”

“Amazing! How did you come up with this idea?”

“I did not.” She laughed and bent to pick up a piece of ivy up from the floor with the two sticks. “The Chinese invented these centuries ago. They use chopsticks for eating instead of a fork.”

Timothy gripped her elbows as he rose far enough to sit beside her. “How do you know that? That is not something an abigail would know, is it?”

“No,” she said slowly, “it is not.” Gazing down at the sticks in her hand, she whispered, “My father told me about using chopsticks. I know he did. I can remember him teaching me to use them. We laughed a lot because I was so clumsy with them.” She touched the other end of the sticks. “He lashed the upper end together for me, so I could use them like a crab's claws, pinching them together.”