A Dangerous Nativity (9 page)

"What? Of course not! What do you take me
for?"

"I take you for an earl who has family and
friends among the highest ranks in England, who knows full well the
place of a baseborn daughter of a country squire. But, Will, I
can't do it." She searched his eyes, begging silently for
understanding.

"Aren't you getting ahead of me? What I need
first is a friend, a friend and a partner."

"What do you mean?"

"I carried on alone for months, Catherine. My
father died, and Chadbourn Park fell to me. He left it in good
condition, but the responsibility weighed on me. Before I met you,
I had no idea how lonely I had become."

She could formulate no reply to that.

"I came here to find the land abused,
disasters everywhere, and, well, you've met Sylvia and know my
worries for Charles. Before I met you, I was at my wits end."

"You're managing well. What did I do?"

"You found me Archer, for one, and a market
for the excess of blasted sheep. You rescued Charles."

"I?"

He grinned ruefully. "Perhaps your brothers
rescued Charles." He sobered quickly. "You have no idea how I
feared for him. His father left him so nervous and afraid, that
everything I said made him cringe. Freddy and Randy have been a
blessing."

She nodded. "Animals that have been beaten or
abused are like that. Love and attention usually works, but not
always. You give him that."

"Friendship helps. It helped him. I need it,
too. I think my sister does, also."

"She won't welcome me."

"She did well, at first, last night."

"Until my father's story upset her."

"I don't think he meant to do that."

"No, and I don't believe his story was the
main problem," Catherine mused. "I've been thinking about her."

"What do you mean?"

"There was an elderly man in the village, the
shopkeeper's uncle. He had been in His Majesty's Navy for many
years. He came to live here, because he could no longer support
himself. The family told me he was one of three survivors of a ship
that took a direct hit to the powder room. It blew up around him.
Once he was back on land, fire sent him running. Loud noises of any
kind made him shake and weep. He would hide in shame."

"He relived the memory over and over. I saw
men like that in the army," Will mused.

Catherine decided to take a chance. "It isn't
my business, Will, but did your sister experience violence at the
hands of Papa's father?"

His face looked bleak. "Perhaps. At her
husband's hands, without any doubt, although she won't talk about
it."

"I think Papa's story triggered her own
memories. I suspect she uses the tonic to deaden them. Give her
time."

"I have given her time. She needs to be
pushed out of her stupor. Last night helped."

"Helped? She almost collapsed."

He shook his head. "She can't hide, any more
than your father can."

"What do you suggest?"

"Come again, this time for longer. Stay one
night. Christmas Eve. The boys will love it, and it may give your
father time to get his stories out. He needs to. Sylvia needs to,
also."

She thought about it. "It might work, at
least for Papa. Not the twenty-fourth, though. Papa takes us to
Christmas Vespers, and then we eat cakes and tell stories. The boys
will expect it."

The longing in Will's face struck her to the
heart. How long has it been since he had family intimacy?

"I won't interfere," he said sadly. "Come the
day and night before, and share some of your stories with us.
Please."

She couldn't deny him. "I'll try to convince
Papa. He may be ready to come again. He has had many good years
here to strengthen him."

"And Sylvia does not?"

She shook her head. "Too soon, I think."

"Let's make a start, at least. I can face the
thing with a partner," he told her.

"Partner?"

"A partner makes many things more bearable.
They can make the impossible possible." He took her hand.

"I'll bring Papa for a visit, if you wish,"
she agreed.

"Cath? Cath? Come and see how the piglet
looks in Freddy's old baby bonnet," Randy called from outside.

Catherine clamped a hand over her mouth to
suppress a laugh at the picture Randy's words created. Will's
laughing eyes made her drop her hand to smile back. Before she
could think, he dared a quick kiss, thrust her deeper into shadows,
and stepped out. "I am looking for her, too, Randy. "Let's try
behind the house."

***

Will wished desperately that Catherine stood
at his side two days later, when Sylvia soaked his neck-cloth and
sobbed all over his jacket. Three boys looked on with wide eyes and
troubled expressions.

"The boys meant no harm," he murmured. What
can I say to heal this madness?

"Truly, we didn't, Mama," Charles said. Hands
still holding pine branches hung at his side. "I invited Randy and
Freddy to help make the hall look festive."

Sylvia's muffled reply was unintelligible.
The boy continued desperately, "It's just that Songbird Cottage
looks ever so festive, and we never do anything…" He groped for a
word. "Fun. We never laugh," he finished, anguish in his voice.

Sylvia lifted her head and took a look at her
son. "But, Charles, we're in mourning."

Charles raised a defiant, if trembling, chin.
"We've been in mourning my whole life."

She gasped, and Will braced for another
outburst. What she said next surprised him.

"We have, haven't we? Ten years of mourning.
Never any joy. No smiles over dinner. No guests. Never any holiday
greens. No Christmas pudding. No Twelfth Night revels, not here,
not with family. No joy. Even Boxing Day felt like a court
ceremony, and no one ever told me the rules." She gave a little
hiccup and put her head on Will's shoulder. "I always got them
wrong."

He hugged her close.

"Oh, Will, do you remember how Father used to
make the household laugh on Boxing Day?" she asked.

"I remember. I didn't think you did. Do you
remember how Mother organized Twelfth Night revels?"

Sylvia cried again, but with less
desperation. To Will, it felt like the soul-shaking cry of
mourning. She mourned, he suspected, the loss of youth, family, and
joy, not her husband.

He gathered her close and spoke to the boys
over her shoulder.

"You're right to bring joy to this house,
Charles, but perhaps the grand foyer is not the place to start." It
will take more than the boys' efforts at decoration to make this
monstrosity feel human. "I suggest you start with the nursery."

Charles's face fell, but he complied. He
picked up one pile of branches. "Come up with me, Randy and Freddy.
At least upstairs, no one will interrupt us."

"Wait, boys," Will said. "You could also
decorate the family parlor. Celebrations belong best with family,
no?"

"Famous, Charles! We'll all be there, won't
we, my lord?" Randy looked at Will hopefully.

"You certainly will. We'll all be together
tomorrow night." I have no idea how I'll make sure joy outweighs
grief, but I'm damn well going to try. "There will be gifts," he
said with a wink.

"Excellent notion!" Charles exclaimed.

"Come on, Charles. A parlor will be easier to
do, anyway," Freddy suggested. "We were going to need a big ladder
for this one, and that Stowe liked to have apoplexy when we brought
in the greens." He looked around the cavernous foyer. "It would be
a good place for the nativity pageant, though."

"Don't even think about it," Will called over
Sylvia's shoulder at the retreating boys.

In the boys' absence, Sylvia's quiet weeping
echoed off the walls. "Come, dear one, let's go upstairs." He kept
an arm around his sister's shoulders while he led her to the
stairs. "Were the decorations so terrible?"

"They aren't terrible at all," she said, her
voice thick with tears. "It reminded me of Chadbourn Park. Emery
never allowed it. He never allowed us to celebrate."

"I thought Emery liked his pleasures."

"He spent the weeks at house parties, but he
left orders. Once, I put up holly in the parlor and took it down
before he returned."

"Good for you."

"Stowe told him. Emery beat me and turned off
the two servants who helped. I never did it again. He hated me." He
felt a tremor go through her body and wished his late
brother-in-law to one of the lower rungs of Hell. At least she
finally said the words, he thought.

When they reached her room, Will took her
face in his hands. "Someday, Sister, when you are ready, you will
tell me everything, and I will tell you again how very sorry I am
that I didn't protect you from that man."

She smiled sadly. "He was my husband. He had
every right. You could do nothing."

Her words didn't assuage his guilt, but they
fed his determination to make it up. "He's gone, you know. Make
yourself believe it. If you let him continue to blight your
existence, you give him power over you still. Don't do it.
Flourish, instead. Your revenge will be joie de vivre."

A twist of her mouth almost looked like a
smile.

"Disobey his every rule, Sylvia. Defy his
every unreasonable dictate." He leaned his forehead to hers. "Fly
free."

"Such as entertaining Lord Arthur's
family?"

"Absolutely."

"But there's something about that woman,
Catherine …"

"Whatever it is, if it came from Emery, it is
poison, and we will not let it blight our lives!"

She nodded, but Will wasn't convinced that
she meant it.

When his sister shut the door, he slumped
against the wall. She looked skeptical and, he suspected, afraid.
Catherine's words came back to him. "Give her time." He couldn't
undo eleven years of damage in a few months.

How am I to endure years of this? If he had
to do it alone, he couldn't bear it.

For now, he had boys to oversee. I need to
remind them to hang mistletoe. A smile took hold, and he stood a
bit taller. He hurried to the family parlor.

Chapter Eight

Now for the hard part, Will thought, when he
entered the family parlor.

The Wheatlys' arrival had gone smoothly,
primarily because Will had thrown the fear of God—or of being
turned off—into Stowe. Lord Arthur looked relieved to be in the
guest wing, where fewer memories haunted him. The boys greeted cots
in the nursery with hoots of joy. Catherine looked merely resigned,
until she saw that her room looked out over the gardens. He
expected that, by morning, she would have drawn up plans to restore
them.

Dinner also passed without incident. Lord
Arthur remarked that he had few memories of the dining salon.

"I was seldom at home, you see, once I was an
adult," he had said.

Stunned silence greeted that pronouncement,
and Will once again offered a prayer of gratitude for Glenaire. The
marquess diverted the discussion smoothly.

Both Sylvia and Catherine made a greater
effort than they had at the previous dinner. Catherine's
disinterest in fashion and Sylvia's distaste for crop rotation
limited them, however, and only Glenaire's gambits kept the
conversation flowing. When the ladies rose, they left the gentlemen
to their port with no sign of animosity.

"That went well," Will mused, holding his
crystal glass out for the footman to fill.

A rueful smile lit Glenaire's austere face.
"I've had an easier time managing conversation at diplomatic
dinners with the Prussians and French."

"I'm sorry, Chadbourn. Returning here will
take some adjustment," Lord Arthur said.

"No apology necessary," Will said.

"Indeed not. I found the discussion about
your research fascinating," Glenaire added. Will couldn't tell if
the marquess was serious, but the remark, and the relief it brought
to Lord Arthur's face, gratified him.

"My Catherine isn't used to this, but she
managed it well."

"Your Catherine would grace any dinner, Lord
Arthur." Will meant it. Her breeding showed in the very line of her
wrist when she ate, in her tone of voice, and in her instinctive
good manners.

The old man preened.

"Harrow for the Michaelmas term, is it?"
Glenaire asked.

Lord Arthur worried his lower lip. "I fear
so," he said at last.

"Don't fear it. It will serve them well,"
Glenaire answered.

"I can't tell you how relieved I am to send
Charles off with his cousins. I went alone, and the first term felt
like Hell." He and Glenaire caught eyes and let a happy memory pass
between them.

"Friends matter. I agree," the marquess said.
"You are blessed, both of you, to send them off with ready-made
allies."

The conversation veered easily into
remembered teachers, shared love—and distaste—for various subjects,
and some of the happier times at school.