Jo Beverly (27 page)

“Oh, wassailers,” said Thalia amid a rattling of curtain
rings. “How splendid!” She poked her head out, yawning, cap lopsided.

Genova had heard of wassailing. It was a custom more charming in the telling than in the experience, waking people up at the crack of dawn. Well—she glanced at the clock—at nine o’clock.

Her eye was startled by a flash and she looked at the huge diamond with distaste. She couldn’t connect the showy stone with the rich, deep warmth of her emotions.

Like lava, she thought, remembering Vesuvius—no cooler for being deep. Quite the opposite.

She put another piece of wood on the fading fire, watched it flame in a merry, careless way. She could no longer tell what was selfish and what was noble.

Ash must feel the same way, unsure whether his impulse toward peace was strength or weakness. Whether his intention to marry money was noble self-sacrifice or foolish greed.

Thalia rang the little bell by the bed and Regeanne came to ask what they wished to wear for Christmas Day.

Genova remembered Lady Elf. “The baby?”

“He is well, Miss Smith.”

“No, I mean Lady Walgrave.”

“Ah, not yet. But there seems no deep concern.” Eight hours was not so long, but Genova sent up a sincere prayer.

“What should I wear?” she asked. She longed to wear one of her new, fine dresses, but didn’t want to be out of place.

As if in answer to another prayer, Thalia said, “Dress finely, dear. Today will be one grand entertainment!”

Genova chose her favorite of her new gowns, a dusky pink silk figured with silver and trimmed with silk lace. It was certainly not her warmest, but she couldn’t resist.

The gown had a sacque fall at the back in the latest style and required wide hoops. She would wear it over
a silk shift, trimmed at the elbows with a deep fall of fine lace.

As they started to dress, a maid arrived with a chocolate tray, including sweet rolls, and with the news that Sunday service would take place in the chapel at ten and that everyone would dine at one.

“Oh, it’s both Sunday and Christmas!” Thalia exclaimed. “How lovely. Warm shawl, Genova. Perhaps two!”

Genova chuckled. Despite ruffles and bows, Thalia was as sharp as a new needle.

When they were dressed, Thalia took something out of her jewelry box and said, “Close your eyes and hold out your hand!”

Genova obeyed, knowing the sweet lady was going to give her a trinket to wear. Her own jewelry was modest. She was wearing only pearl earrings and a silver cross on a ribbon around her neck.

She felt beads and opened her eyes to see…a string of pearls. “Oh, Thalia. Thank you! I’ll take good care of them.”

Thalia closed her hand over them. “They’re your Christmas birthday gift, dear.”

“I can’t, Thalia. They’re far too valuable.”

“I shall sulk if you don’t take them! It’s quite a simple string and perhaps a little girlish for me now. But they will go perfectly with that gown. I know Ashart will admire them.”

Ash would probably think they should go to him when Thalia died, but Genova clasped them around her neck, loving the way they glowed against her skin. Surely she now looked like a candidate for marchioness.

Unsteady with hope, she left the room with Thalia.

The double shawls were certainly welcome as the route to the chapel took them into an old part of the house which might even date from the original abbey. It was as if the new house had grown around it like barnacles around a wrecked ship.

Eventually they entered a stone chapel that was
definitely centuries old. It was of modest size and would surely not hold all the guests if they chose to attend. Not seated, at least. The gentlemen, as colorful and bright as the ladies, were obviously going to have to stand.

As she and Thalia waited for a line of ladies to settle into chairs, Genova looked around for Ash. He hadn’t arrived yet. Surely he would come. She couldn’t wait to see him again.

The musicians who had played for dancing the night before began to play for worship on wind instruments and drum. It was an old, haunting tune that suggested ancient times, and the altar was backed by a medieval triptych in which gilded angels prayed around Christ in the manger.

Genova felt as if she’d stepped back in time, as if she might look around and see men in long, furred gowns and ladies in strange headdresses. A brilliance caught her eye like a flame. She turned, and there was Ash, entering the chapel.

She almost laughed aloud, even as her hopes crumbled.

He shone like an angel made of ivory and gold. She blinked away that strange vision, but his pale suit was still lushly embroidered in brilliant colors and golden threads, and his buttons on coat and waistcoat flashed fire like diamonds.

They probably were diamonds.

His possessions had clearly arrived, revealing the truth. This must be the sort of clothing he wore at court, and she was sure he’d chosen his most splendid outfit as a statement to his cousin.

She glanced around and found Lord Rothgar near the altar. His was a quieter magnificence, but it was of crimson and gold. Lady Arradale stood beside him in matching crimson, large rubies around her neck.

How could she find humor in loss of hope? And yet she did. She and these people lived on different scales.

She looked back—how could she not?—and Ash’s eyes met hers as if he had been watching her. A slight
smile flickered. She couldn’t help but return it. Her love hadn’t altered.

He began to come to her, but then they were all asked to settle for the service. She took her seat and opened her prayer book.

Dr. Egan led the lovely, traditional Christmas prayers and readings. Genova sank into them, praying for peace. In the night she had regretted her spilled words on war, but no longer. They might have helped move Ash’s mind toward reconciliation, and that was the truly important thing.

Mr. Stackenhull, the music master, led the hymns, but Genova was more aware of Ash’s voice. She sang quietly, as she always did, but hearing afresh the words.

Then later:

During the last verse of the last hymn she looked at Ash.

She and Ash came together as everyone filed out, as inevitably, Genova felt, as the sea kissing the shore.

“Hail, glorious morn. You look like sunrise, Genova.”

She knew she blushed, and then blushed more because of it. “And you look like a seraphim.”

“What?” His eyes lit with laughter. “No one’s called me an angel since I was a child.”

She told him of her first impression, admiring the truly beautiful work in the flowers that bordered the front of his ivory velvet coat to a depth of at least eight inches.

“You put my flowers-in-the-snow to shame.” Then she had to explain that, which led to thoughts of her embroidery and their meeting. But they shared the memories silently with looks.

“I’m surprised anyone but an angel dares wear such an outfit.”

He glanced down at himself. “Why?”

“A mere human might spill a spot of gravy down it.”

He laughed. “I would simply command the addition of another blossom. Lush embroidery is very practical, even economical, you see.”

It was as if he knew that in the night, she’d thought that frugality and economy could substitute for a fortune. A laughable notion now.

He tucked her arm in his, and gave his other to Thalia. They joined the procession back to the main part of the house, accompanied by Thalia’s inconsequential chatter.

Genova didn’t mind that. Everything that needed to be said flowed between her and Ash without words, the delicious and the bitter. She felt it so strongly that she was surprised it wasn’t obvious to all.

Thalia separated from them in the hall, chattering off to old friends. Genova saw Portia, in rich moss green velvet and some yellow jewels, and went over there with Ash to ask for news of Lady Elf. That was a business that all the money and the power in the world could not smooth.

Portia pulled a face. “Is truly laboring mightily, but there don’t seem to be any problems. I wish it were over for everyone’s sake.”

Ash let the women talk about birth and tussled with the problem of Genova Smith. He shouldn’t have smiled at her like that in the chapel, but how could he not when she looked as splendid as the dawn?

He shouldn’t have said that, either. He should have resisted the pull to go to her, but could the tides resist the moon, or the moon the sun? And besides, they had this damnable betrothal to act out.

He’d already learned that she was magnificent, but now she looked it—elegant, dignified, graceful, pink, silver, and pearl. The diamond was a discordant note, but she needed gold, he thought. Perhaps even topaz to reflect her hair. Yes, a rich parure of gold, pearls, and topaz…

Lady Bryght left and Genova turned to him. “You’re very quiet.”

“Women’s matters. A wise man retreats.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t have a care while your wife labored to birth your child?”

A sudden vision of Genova in labor assailed him. He knew nothing of the mysteries, but he could still imagine her, sweaty and magnificent….

His
.

“I’d probably run away and get drunk. What’s happening now?”

People were shifting into different groups.

Her look expressed surprise. Clearly some announcement had been made.

“We’re offered the usual hospitality until dinner, but also tours of the house. The gallery.” She glanced at him, knowing what thoughts that would stir, the wicked woman. “An Anglo-Saxon display. The Malloren names are all Anglo-Saxon, you know.”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do.”

She seemed embarrassed, so he said, “One generation only. Bryght’s son is Francis, and Lord Cyn’s is John. Lady Hilda, who’s married to Steen, has used ordinary names, too. A Charles and Sarah, I think.”

“A detail about the Mallorens that isn’t etched into your mind?”

He should be offended, but he delighted in her sharpness. “We know the gallery and old English pots don’t appeal. What else?”

“Chinese prints and porcelain. A harp recital. Oh, and Lord Rothgar is willing to show people his mechanical room, whatever that is.”

Ash’s interest stirred. “He famously enjoys clocks and automata.” He took her hand. “Shall we go there? It never hurts to know how someone’s gears work.”

How pleasant, he thought as they joined Rothgar and three other guests, to be a machine. To smoothly perform a designed function, without the inconvenience of a heart.

A
 sh’s unusually withdrawn mood worried Genova. She was trying to hide her feelings so as not to disturb him. She knew he’d care.

Or was it nothing to do with her? Was he backsliding, turning against peace and reaching again for the weapon that could hurt his cousin?

As they entered a plain room noisy with the ticking of clocks, she tried to assess the feelings between the two men. They might as well have been automata themselves.

Apart from a fire, the room was starkly simple, lined with workbenches and containing a long table in the middle that held a large, shrouded object. Windows along one wall gave light, but there were candles as well, some with complex lenses to focus the light.

Clocks had always interested her, as time was so important at sea, so she walked down the room looking at them. Most were silent and presumably awaiting repair. Did Lord Rothgar involve himself in that or was he simply a patron? No craftsman was here at the moment, but the place looked as if two or three people regularly worked here.

Some clocks were already in pieces, spread on a part of the bench. Drawings and diagrams were pinned on the wall above them. What was the purpose here? Simply mending clocks because they were broken?

Rothgar, in his velvet and gold, looked out of place, but he moved around the room with ease and familiarity. As soon as he started to explain various pieces of special interest, she knew that his involvement here was not only as patron.

And Ash apparently interested himself in the stars.

The cousins had more in common than they had differences. In fact, they had no significant differences apart from those fabricated by a previous generation.

Rothgar showed them tiny mechanisms arranged beneath magnifying glasses, and large ones methodically moving through their purpose. He explained the breaks in some and how they could be repaired. He demonstrated beautiful precision implements, including a tiny lathe.

Genova had always been interested in machines. Far more than she’d been interested in fancy needlework. Machines were
useful
They created something solid and necessary. Even a dress wasn’t necessary. Many people in the world clothed themselves in a wrapped cloth.

Rothgar pointed to a model of a fireplace with a cat curled in front of it. “There’s a switch there, Miss Smith. Why don’t you move it?”

Genova did so. A cheerful tune started and simulated flames rose from the log and moved. The cat waved its tail, and the clock on the mantelpiece ticked.

“It’s charming!”

“A simple thing,” he said, as it wound down, “but it was broken and we have brought it to life again. Will you take it as a birthday gift, Miss Smith? You have shown that you know how to take care of treasures.”

Genova felt flustered, but she thanked him. Was he referring to the
presepe
or to Charlie? Or to both? Or even, perhaps, to Ash?

Rothgar moved on to a bench spread with a hundred pieces of metal on a white cloth. They were all shapes and sizes. Genova could see that the drawing pinned on the wall behind was a design or map of where all these pieces went, but it made no sense to her.