Christmas Surprises Page 11

  Had Rebecca any experience whatsoever at killing poultry, she would have wrung the gander’s neck right there and then. As it was, they could only herd the protesting bird into the barn to join the other animals. Wondering vaguely how one went about keeping a goose until one was ready to eat it, Rebecca allowed the girls to feed it corn, and sneezing, made her way back to the kitchen. The drenching in the pond had apparently had its effect. She thought she might have a bit of a fever. Looking on the bright side, she would need less coal to keep her warm at night.

  By the next day, she didn’t feel quite so optimistic. Her hands shook as she prepared the chamomile tea her mother used to prescribe for head colds. She wrapped herself in blankets and lingered by the kitchen fire to drink it. Heaven would be lying in bed in front of a roaring fire, buried in blankets, with tea on one hand and a good book on the other, as she had once used to do when feeling under the weather. But she had the pastries to bake for the church auction, the hems to sew into the gowns she meant to give the girls for Christmas, and the house hadn’t been dusted and swept in days. She couldn’t afford the luxury of pampering herself.

  She should have known Simon Lemaster would pick that day to pay a visit.

  She had pulled a cap over her hair as much to keep her head warm as to keep her hair neat. She wore a wool gown she’d made for herself that first winter of her marriage, the warmest gown she owned but far from the fashionable confections she had once worn. Flour dusted her sleeves, and the hem was stained where she had gone out into the mud with it once too many times. On top of that, her nose was red from holding a handkerchief to it all day, and her eyes felt strained and teary. She almost didn’t answer the door when she heard the knock.

  Her heart plummeted when she opened the door and saw Simon standing there, glorious in his bottle green fitted morning coat and pristine cravat, his boots polished to a shine she could probably see herself in were she inclined to look at his feet. That first day when he’d appeared sans cravat and muddy from head to foot, she’d accepted his presence much as she had Matthew’s familiar countenance. Today, he stood before her as a stranger, a wealthy, aristocratic stranger who must see her as little more than a housemaid. She had the urge to slam the door in his face.

  His expression of alarm certainly didn’t enhance her feeling of well-being. She swayed and caught the door, but she sneezed before she could think of an appropriate greeting.

  “Why in hell aren’t you in bed?” he exclaimed, grabbing her arm to hold her steady, then practically shoving her into the hall to close the door on the chilly air outside.

  Rebecca wanted to chide him for his inappropriate language, if only to remind him that she was a lady and not a housemaid, but another fit of sneezing kept her from anything resembling a coherent reply. When he led her toward the cold and drafty front parlor, she managed a struggle of protest, but even limping, the ex-soldier had greater strength than she.

  “Where are the girls? They ought to be here taking care of you. I’m certain Matthew didn’t intend for you to be a slave to their whims. Sit down here while I build up the fire.”

  She started to protest the wicked waste of fuel, but he turned and glared at her. “One word more and I’ll set fire to this barn. I’ve seen enough wasted lives, thank you very much. Throwing yours away to save a few pennies isn’t in the least sensible. Now where are the girls?”

  Reluctant to admit to the relief she felt that someone else had come in to take charge, Rebecca sank into the ancient over-stuffed sofa and applied the handkerchief to her nose again. “The dratted goose chased the cow through the barn doors. They’re trying to herd the cow back, but I fear the goose is lost.” She didn’t mention that she feared the barn doors were a loss, also. She had no experience in carpentry. “I’m really quite fine. It’s just a head cold.”

  “And tomorrow it will be a chest cold, and the day after that, pneumonia, if you don’t keep warm and get some rest. I’ll fetch Mrs. Lofton. She can look after you for a bit while I help the girls find Ginger.”

  Rebecca shook her head. She tried not to look at the man crouched at the fireplace lighting the fire as if he belonged there. He had swept into their lives like a summer breeze, and he would sweep out again just as swiftly. She would not come to rely on him like some helpless invalid, or widow. She’d seen the elderly women in the village relying on others to provide their fuel and look after them, as if being female made them helpless to do it themselves. She refused to be helpless.

  “I cannot ask you to go out of your way. The goose was a lovely gift. Send your family our gratitude, and I will pen an appropriate note just as soon as I can. We needn’t take up more of your time.”

  The glare he gave her now should have formed ice crystals in the air. Apparently satisfied the fire had caught, he rose to his full height and towered over her. “Oh, yes, the goose was a truly lovely gift. It gave you one more animal to look after and feed. Just exactly what you needed. Have the girls named it yet?”

  She heard his sarcasm but wasn’t certain of its direction. Did he complain of his mother’s choice of gift? Her inability to tend livestock? The girls’ tendency to turn food supplies into pets? Her head ached too much to puzzle it out. With a wry tone, she admitted, “They called it Betsy. I didn’t think it wise to explain it was most likely a Bill.”

  A flicker of a grin bent his harsh lips for just a moment. Grabbing a neatly embroidered pillow from one of the side chairs, he handed it to her along with an aging afghan thrown over the loveseat. “Wrap yourself up and don’t move. I’ll have Mrs. Lofton here shortly.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “She has her hands full with the charity auction and Felicity Smyth’s new baby. She can’t be in three places at once. I’m fine. There’s no need for this concern. Perhaps if you have a moment to spare, you could help the girls fetch Ginger. She’s rather contrary and doesn’t always respond to orders.”

  “Just like another female I know,” he muttered, shaking his head. “However did you and Matthew get along? He always swore he meant to marry a docile female who would bow to his every wish. I cannot imagine the two of you together.”

  Simon didn’t wish to imagine the two of them together. That would acknowledge that this bristly woman on the sofa had shared a bed with his best friend, putting her beyond the bounds of propriety for him. Even with her nose red and runny, he found her immensely attractive.

  Or perhaps it wasn’t her physical appearance causing this unprecedented display of concern so much as the combination of frailty, helplessness, and damned stubborn hardheadedness. In his world, widows were fair game for seduction, and he had to admit he’d come here this day with something of the sort in the back of his mind. But though his body still responded to just her proximity, he wasn’t listening to his body at the moment. His head screamed “off limits” and his heart shivered with fear.

  “I am a docile female,” she muttered from behind her handkerchief. “But sometimes it is impossible to take orders from every male who staggers into my sphere. One has to draw the line somewhere.”

  Amusement finally drew a smile from him. “Point taken. All right, I shall find the girls and send them back here to pamper you. Then I’ll take the wretched goose to the butcher shop where he belongs.”

  “It’s too early to keep it for Christmas dinner,” she pointed out sensibly.

  “You want me to put it back in the barn with the damned cow?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. He almost regretted his harsh tone when a look of resignation briefly crossed her face. Only then did he remember she mentioned something about the cow breaking down the barn door.

  “You can’t run this place by yourself,” he bit out angrily, stalking toward the door rather than face that look of resignation. He preferred it when she argued. “I’ll have someone take a look at the door.” He slammed the parlor door before he could hear her protests.

  He found the girls tugging on the cow’s halter, the dog barking on its heels, half a mile down the l
ane. The goose, of course, was nowhere in sight. Taking the cow’s lead and smacking it sharply on the rump, Simon got it started in the right direction. Within minutes, Mary had her mittened hand tucked firmly around his arm while she skipped beside him, chattering merrily. Matthew had undoubtedly spoiled his sisters dreadfully for them to accept him with such ease.

  “I’ll put Ginger back in the barn, but you two must go in and persuade Rebecca into bed. She’ll be of no use to you at all if she comes down ill. I’ll try to send Mrs. Lofton up here to tell you what to do, but she must have rest and lots of hot tea and warmth. Can you do that?”

  He directed this mostly at Lucille, the eldest, who nodded her head and tried to fight back tears. He wondered if he’d spoken too harshly. He was more accustomed to ordering soldiers about than dealing with little girls.

  It was blithe Mary who put their predicament into words. “We were to write to Rebecca’s papa today. We write every Christmas, telling him everything we have accomplished this year and wishing him a merry holiday, even though the grouchy old bear never answers our letters. She cries a lot when Christmas comes, although she tries not to let us know. I know she hopes he will come and visit, but now we won’t even be able to write if Rebecca is ill. It wouldn’t be seemly for us to write to a man we don’t know, would it? And if it is not written today, Mr. White cannot take it with him when he leaves for London tomorrow. Rebecca says we must not waste our coins on postage.”

  My word. Simon had never considered the details of poverty before. His father had always franked his missives, and he’d never given thought to how his pen scratching got from one place to another. He remembered now how his men had carefully crosshatched their letters on a single page. He’d assumed they conserved the costly paper, but no doubt they meant to keep the cost of mailing down also. And more than one sheet of paper would involve an excess of sealing wax, another luxury he took for granted. Shaking his head at his obtuseness, he tried to come up with a solution to the problem that didn’t involve charity.

  “If you take good care of Rebecca, I’m certain she will feel like writing in a day or two, and then I can take the letter to town with me when I go,” he said, surprised by his own decision. He hadn’t meant to make the long journey to London in this wretched December weather, but if that’s where he could find Rebecca’s father, that’s where he meant to go. The idea hadn’t been so clear to him the other day, but the fiasco with the goose had made the decision urgent.

  The girls accepted his announcement with aplomb, as if they knew of people traveling to London every day of their lives. Once they reached the house, Lucille even managed to pull him aside and to ask, “Will you be seeing Baron Botherwell?”

  Trying to hide his surprise, Simon nodded. “I shall deliver your letter personally.”

  Cautiously, digging her toe into the dirt and watching it rather than him, she asked, “Do you think you might mention how much an answer would mean to Rebecca?” She looked up at him with sudden defiance, although tears still rimmed her eyes. “It is Christmas, after all. He could be just a little generous with his heart. Could you do that for us, please? We have not been able to make anything really special for her this year, and this would be like a gift, wouldn’t it?”

  Something once solid in Simon’s heart cracked a little as he looked down into that tear-stained, wind-blown face. She asked the impossible of him, just as he’d asked the impossible of himself—and failed. He knew he could never persuade the baron to do anything he didn’t wish to do, but he couldn’t ruin this child’s Christmas by telling her so.

  Perhaps he could think of some solution between now and Christmas, pull some strings, bargain with the devil. He didn’t know what he could do, but he knew he couldn’t disappoint Matthew’s sisters.

  The girls darted into the house as he towed the cow back to its stall. The barn door had, indeed, come down under Ginger’s assault, although looking at it, Simon could see it hadn’t taken much pressure. It was a pure miracle the whole structure didn’t fall down about their heads in a strong wind.

  Cursing Matthew for not providing better for his responsibilities, cursing himself for not understanding how strapped for funds his friend must have been, Simon shoved the barn door upright and made a makeshift bolt to hold it in place. One more of Ginger’s attacks ought to shatter it into sawdust.

  He stopped to check on Rebecca before he left. He really ought to think of her as the Widow Tarkington, but she was too young to be a widow, and the girls had him thinking of her in their terms. He found the trio ensconced before the roaring fire, sipping hot chocolate and engaged in some game of cards that involved wagering with hairpins. Half Rebecca’s hair was already down about her shoulders. The dishevelment made her look as young as her youthful charges.

  He didn’t have the heart to scold them for not allowing Rebecca to rest. He suspected the rosiness of her cheeks had more to do with fever than the fire, but he wasn’t in a position to play the part of nurse. He would see that Mrs. Lofton visited, despite Rebecca’s protests. He took his leave, vowing to himself to see that they had ample fuel to keep the drafty old house warm.

  Upon a sudden intuition, Simon took the path across the fields instead of the road and found the gander chasing minnows in Mad George’s pond. He had little experience with geese, but he knew the secret to dealing with animals was firmness. He was wetter than when he started by the time he had the goose firmly tucked under his arm, his other hand holding the vicious bill closed. He’d intended to feed the Tarkingtons with Christmas goose, not the crotchety farmer, whether the blamed bird accepted its fate or not. Satisfied he could still control members of the animal kingdom even if he could control nothing else of the world around him, Simon deposited the goose in a rickety chicken house, threw in some corn, and bolted the door shut, leaving the bird squawking its protests.

  * * * *

  A light flurry of snow dusted Simon’s caped greatcoat as he stepped down from the carriage at the door of Baron Botherwell’s London town house. Impressive walls of limestone block towered against the smoke-choked London sky, with only an occasional glimmer of lamplight from behind heavily draped windows to brighten the façade. No festive evergreens adorned the grim structure to welcome a shivering visitor. Simon expected a similar reception from the human inhabitants.

  He felt no surprise when the butler placed him in the front drawing room when he sent his card up. The Lemaster name carried significant weight in both social and financial circles, even when carried by a younger son. But a name could get him only so far. His failure at swaying government officials to their duties proved that. Simon held out little hope for the success of this meeting.

  The baron appeared in velvet dressing gown and neatly tied cravat, obviously intending a quiet evening at home. He regarded Simon with a degree of suspicion and closed the door after him.

  “Viscount Lemaster’s younger son, if I remember correctly?” he said without inflection, stopping before a crystal decanter. “Brandy?”

  Simon nodded and accepted the glass offered. “I appreciate your seeing me, sir. I have a missive I promised to place in your hands directly.”

  The shorter, rotund man stiffened and turned his back on him. “From my daughter, no doubt. You may heave it on the fire. She’s chosen her life. I’ll not heed her pleas.”

  Simon gritted his teeth and removed the carefully preserved letter from his inner pocket. “I doubt that the lady would beg. She has too much pride for that. She and her stepdaughters merely send Yuletide greetings, as would any dutiful daughter. The most they hope for is a reply assuring them of your continued good health, I believe.”

  The baron snorted. “No doubt in order to determine the date of my death and when she can expect to come into her inheritance. I’m a far cry from death’s door, be sure to tell her. Although what interest you have in a common soldiers’ wife, I hate to imagine.”

  Simon thought he might explode from rage. His grip nearly cracked the frag
ile crystal stem of his brandy snifter before he had sense enough to return it to the table. Seeing no point in continuing an argument with a man determined to wear blinders, he kept his voice low, but fury colored his words.

  “A common soldier’s widow, sir, who is doing amazingly well supporting two young girls and running an estate without any help from anyone, certainly not from you. For a spoiled young rich girl, she’s adapted very well and needs nothing from you but assurance that her father doesn’t hate her. I’ll be happy to tell her that she wastes any efforts to form a reconciliation with you, and the girls may go on thinking they have no one who cares about their welfare except herself.”

  Simon’s angry strides to the door were interrupted by the baron’s scathing reply.

  “If you think to form a reconciliation between me and my daughter so that you may marry her and gain the dowry her first husband did not, you may disabuse yourself of that notion now.”

  Simon gripped the door handle and twisted hard before he turned and glared at the bitter old man. ““I doubt that you will ever understand that all your daughter needs is love, but I give you her best Merry Christmas, Baron.”

  He stormed out, leaving the old man to stare into his warm fire alone.

  Only some minutes later, shivering inside the cold carriage, did Simon realize what he’d done, again. He’d failed.

  * * * *

  It took Simon a week to admit his failure to Rebecca.

  He made certain that the physician visited her when Mrs. Lofton reported that the widow’s illness lingered. He supplied the medicines required and allowed Mrs. Lofton to take the credit. The vicar’s wife looked at Simon oddly when he assumed the expense, but she held her tongue. Only when she informed him that Rebecca was back on her feet again did he force himself to admit that he couldn’t hide from her forever.

  He had spent two nights in London with every intention of finding a willing woman to ease his needs, but for some reason he had never felt the urge and hadn’t stirred himself to look for what he needed. But this week back in Lymeshead had made him miserable with longing. He saw Rebecca’s rosy cheeks and laughing smile every time he walked through the main street. He heard her voice lifted in song whenever he smelled cooking apples. He remembered her soft curves in his arms every time he lay down to sleep. The thoughts drove him to madness.