Christmas Belles

  Trent gave her a taut smile. "I did not know it was possible for a man to be so discriminating with his anatomy."

  Chloe suppressed a sigh, realizing that Trent did not understand at all what she was trying to tell him: that no matter how many comforts he might leave Emma surrounded by, she was always going to be bereft of one thing—a husband's love.

  The wind that whistled across the pond seemed to have gotten more brisk, and Chloe shivered. When Trent suggested it was time to go back to the house, she made no protest. The glow that had surrounded their golden morning together seemed to have vanished as rapidly as if the gray clouds overhead had blotted out the sun.

  Chloe felt peculiarly loath to discuss her outing with the captain to anyone. Later, when she encountered Emma in the parlor, Chloe started when her older sister brought up the subject.

  Emma looked up from her mending with a serene smile. "Ah, so there you are. You and Trent were gone so long, I feared the pair of you had run off together."

  "Oh, n-no," Chloe stammered, horrified to feel her face turn a bright red. "I only took Will—that is, I was only teaching him to skate."

  "And I was only teasing you, dearest." Emma laughed. "Of course I knew that you were down at the pond. So you and the captain have managed to become friends at last. I am very happy."

  Chloe regarded her sister earnestly. "Are you, Emma? Truly happy, that is."

  Emma's gaze dropped back to the needlework in her lap. "Certainly, I am most content."

  Chloe did not find this reply reassuring. Happy and content were far from being the same thing. Would it do any good to broach the subject of Mr. Henry again? Apparently not, for as though she feared Chloe might be about to say something more, Emma was already folding her mending back into her workbasket, declaring she had best see how Old Meg was coming with the things for tea.

  Emma paused on the threshold to say, "Thank you again, Chloe, for making such an effort to be cordial to Captain Trent, to keep him occupied this morning. I really am most grateful to you."

  And the melancholy thing was, Chloe thought, that it was perfectly true. Emma's eyes did shine with a real gratitude. A gratitude that left Chloe feeling sad and even more strange—a little guilty.

  Chapter Seven

  The days seemed to be slipping away faster than the tide raking sand from the shore. Settled behind the desk in Windhaven's small, musty library, Trent thumbed through the personal log that he always kept with him. As he dipped his pen into the inkwell, he was startled to note what the date should be: December 31, the last day of 1807.

  He could hardly credit it He had been here at Windhaven an entire sennight, yet it felt as if he had just arrived. Never before had he experienced such a swift passage of time, especially not while on leave from his ship. Indeed, after one week, time usually seemed to grind to a halt, with him chafing against the hours, longing to return to sea.

  Still disbelieving, he turned back one page to check that he had not made some error. No, today was indeed New Year's Eve. That meant only five more days remained until Twelfth Night, five more sunsets until he was a married man and on his way back to his ship. The thought was almost alarming. It was as if he rode the crest of some tidal wave, his destiny quite out of his control. He attempted to dismiss the odd feeling, telling himself he was merely disturbed because so many days had sped by and he had accomplished very little.

  Somehow he had never met with Mr. Martin to go over the accounts. Nor had he ever succeeded in making a thorough inspection of the house. He had also neglected to take a riding tour of the estate and meet his new tenants.

  Then what the deuce had he done with all of his time? He began flipping through all the recent entries in his diary. As he skimmed the pages, his mouth curved into a rueful half smile.

  December 26—Boxing Day—went ice skating with Chloe. Left hip sadly bruised. Took a most welcome hot bath.

  December 27—Feast of the Innocents. Escorted Chloe into village. Called at cottage of that little girl Peggety, who speaks such an extraordinary language. Chloe brought a posset to the mother. Mrs. Green appears in as interesting a condition as ever and mighty uncomfortable.

  December 28—Chloe showed me the local cliffs and beach. She wanted to learn how to dance a sailor's jig to the hornpipe. Astonished to discover that after all these years, I still know how to do so.

  December 29—Helped Chloe hitch the farm horse to the sleigh. Obliged to drive out with her lest she upset this ancient vehicle into a ditch. She didn't. I did. Luckily the bank where I overturned us had a reasonably soft padding of snow. Fear that Lathrop will never let me hear the end of it.

  December 30—Bitter-cold day. Stayed indoors as my throat was feeling a bit raw. Chloe insisted upon trying to make me a blancmange. I went to the kitchens to assist her. The pair of us created such a disaster Old Meg threatened to give in her notice. Emma only laughed.

  As Trent perused this last entry, it disturbed him to note how infrequently Emma's name appeared. Even without that hard evidence, he was obliged to admit that he had been neglecting his intended bride. Not that he was entirely to blame for that. When any outing was proposed, Emma always had some domestic matter that claimed her attention—and this besides the fact that two stout wenches from the village had been recently engaged into service at Windhaven.

  Emma had been quite willing to send him off with her younger sister, and Chloe, with her exuberant pastimes, was far too beguiling. But Trent saw that it was a poor if not improper state of affairs. He should have made some effort to become better acquainted with his future wife. That he had not done so was a grave dereliction of duty.

  With only five days until the wedding, the situation required immediate remedy. With this view in mind, Trent closed up his log and summoning Polly, the maid, dispatched a request to Emma that she join him in the parlor that afternoon, affording him a little time alone in her company.

  Request? He feared he had framed it more like a command, as though he were summoning his first mate to wait upon him in his cabin. But Emma did not seem to mind, for she sent back a polite acceptance.

  Chloe would have teased him, given him a far more difficult time. When he became too high-handed, she was still inclined to snap him off a roguish salute, her blue eyes sparkling. Trent sucked in his breath, striving to banish the image. He thought entirely too much about Chloe of late. It simply wouldn't do.

  At precisely a quarter to three, he entered the parlor, as stiff and formal as though he had come courting a young lady whose hand he had yet to win. Emma greeted him in equally grave fashion.

  They took up their positions opposite each other, she seated upon the wing-back chair, Trent settling upon the settee. He smiled at her. She smiled back. Never, Trent thought wryly, had two people been more cheerfully determined to be obliging to each other.

  After the first attempts at conversation, Emma seemed unable to refrain from diving into her workbasket. She pulled forth a red wool sock she had been knitting and set to work on it. His bride was obviously a lady of great industry, never one to let her hands remain idle. It was an admirable trait and one he should have greatly approved. Why, then, did the incessant click of those knitting needles grate upon his nerves?

  He was not one given to indulging in unnecessary movements, but he caught himself tapping his fingers against his knee. They talked of the weather, the indifferent harvest, and the shocking price of candles. What the deuce they were going to discuss next was more than he knew. He deferred to Emma, but she flung the choice right back at him.

  "You may discourse upon anything you like," she said amiably. "I am a great listener."

  Which left him precisely nowhere, for he was not a great talker. There was no question of regaling Emma with any of the sea tales Chloe always badgered him for. He had a notion that Emma would only politely remark, "How interesting," and then he would feel like a complete dolt.

  At last, in desperation, he said, "I procured a special license for our marr
iage. Did I tell you that?"

  Emma merely nodded, and he winced. Yes, by thunder, he had told her that, several times, at least.

  He continued, "I hope you are not too disappointed that our wedding will not be a grander affair."

  "Not at all. A simple wedding was all I ever desired. No more than my family to be present and then a small breakfast to be served after the ceremony."

  Trent cleared his throat. It was a ticklish subject, but he felt he had to broach it. "And it is all right with you that Mr. Henry should perform the ceremony?"

  There was a slight pause in Emma's movements, and then the needles clicked more furiously than ever. "Certainly. He is the local vicar. Who else should perform the service?"

  It was a most sensible reply, but Trent was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. He was dismayed to realize he had almost hoped to hear her say it was not all right for Mr. Henry to officiate, perhaps even not all right for there to be a wedding at all.

  Trent drew himself upright, forcing his own fingers to be still. What was wrong with him to be thinking such a thing? Likely only nerves, a last-minute panic that any bachelor must feel when finally confronting the altar.

  After another lengthy silence, Emma inquired, "Have you reached any decision about where we shall live? I know Chloe finally took you over the old part of Windhaven. I daresay you found it in sad case."

  Trent agreed, although he feared he had not noticed as much as he should have. He had spent his entire inspection lingering with Chloe in what had been the west wing's ballroom, listening to her conjure up visions of dashing cavaliers and lovely ladies moving through the steps of some lively dance until he had been almost able to see the plumed hats and the panniered gowns reflected in the hall's cracked mirrors.

  "Actually," he was astonished to hear himself saying, "I have been giving some thought to renovating Windhaven."

  Emma frowned a little. "Is that practical? I fear it would be shockingly expensive, and I thought you wanted—" She stopped short. "Oh, forgive me. Of course, the decision is yours alone."

  "Indeed, it is not. Sometimes, Emma, I wish you will remember that you are going to be my wife, not merely my housekeeper." He had not meant to sound so sharp, and when Emma flinched, he strove to gentle his voice. "I value your opinion, my dear. Would you prefer to live closer to London as I once suggested?"

  "It would be pleasant to be nearer to Cousin Harriet," Emma conceded. "Lucy could be presented, which is something she has wanted forever. And Chloe, too, is of an age when she should be meeting some eligible young men."

  "So she is," Trent said. He jerked abruptly to his feet, finding this talk with Emma far from satisfactory. Yet she was being everything a man could desire, sweet, quiet, deferring to his every word. Was there such a thing as a woman being too obliging?

  Feeling strangely irritable, he stalked to the window and stared moodily past the curtain. Emma continued to knit, allowing the conversation to fade to nothing. But Trent did not find it a companionable silence. Rather, it engendered in him a restless feeling similar to those endless, nerve-grinding days when his ship had stood becalmed, waiting, praying for even one small breath of wind.

  Catching a blur of movement beyond the panes, Trent edged the curtain further aside. It had snowed again last night, covering the ground with a fresh layering of white. Lucy, Lathrop, and Chloe were romping through the garden like children.

  Even through the glass, Trent could catch the faint echoes of laughter, Lathrop's dismayed protest as the two ladies outflanked him, pelting him mercilessly with snowballs. When he scooped up a handful of snow himself to retaliate, Chloe and Lucy fled, shrieking.

  Trent did not know what caused Chloe to suddenly glance back toward the house. It was almost as if she sensed him standing by the window. Her green coat dusted with snow, her rosy, flushed features framed by the large poke-front bonnet, she darted in a little closer, like some graceful snow maiden.

  Gleefully, she bent down to scoop up another handful of snow. Her dimples quivering with mischief, she flung it at the window. Although protected by the glass, Trent started back involuntarily at the sudden shower of white. She wrinkled her pert nose at him, pulling the most saucy face before she turned and raced back to the garden.

  The urge to fling open the casement, climb out, and offer pursuit was strong. He could imagine so clearly overtaking her, spinning her around in his arms until the winter air echoed with her bright laughter. Trent caught himself reaching for the sash. He stayed his hand, both puzzled and disturbed by the yearning that flooded through him.

  Perhaps it would be better when he returned to his ship. He was becoming as giddy as a schoolboy, forever wanting the world to be all holiday as it was near Chloe. Responsibility and duty were two words he had nigh forgotten this Christmastide.

  He forced himself to forget about joining Chloe in the garden, instead returning to resume his position on the settee. He spent the rest of the afternoon stoically thinking up new topics for conversation and watching Emma's needles go click, click, click.

  Lathrop had gone off to the stables for his daily ride. Lucy did not seem disposed to accompany him, much to Chloe's dismay. These past few days she had come to dread being left alone with Lucy, hearing her confidences.

  Chloe's beautiful older sister could seem to talk about nothing but love, or rather her lack of it, insisting over and over again that she stood in no danger of losing her heart to Charles Lathrop.

  After their walk in the gardens, Chloe made haste toward the servant's entryway to shed her wet boots by the kitchen fire. She had hoped to outstrip Lucy, but Lucy ran to catch up with her.

  When Chloe heard her sister draw breath to launch into speech, Chloe forestalled her with an imploring gesture. "Oh, please, Lucy. I really do not think I can bear to hear again how much you are not in love with Mr. Lathrop."

  Lucy's rosebud-shaped mouth drew down into a pout. "I wasn't going to say anything of the kind. Really, Chloe. You have been cross as crabs of late. I don't know what is the matter with you." After a pause she added mournfully, "Nor me either."

  When Chloe refused to venture any suggestions, Lucy bridled defensively. "I know it is imprudent to spend so much time in Charles's company, but I cannot seem to help myself. I always want to be with him. When he is gone, I catch myself listening for his footfall on the stairs. I spend all my time daydreaming, thinking of what I'll say to him when next we meet, all the little things I cannot wait to share." She groaned. "Am I quite mad, Chloe?"

  Chloe could only shrug helplessly. If Lucy was indeed insane, Chloe feared that her own mind was similarly afflicted. Lucy's description of her behavior toward Mr. Lathrop too nearly matched Chloe's experience with regard to Will Trent.

  She and Lucy trudged through the snow in silence. But just as they arrived at the kitchen door, Lucy pulled up short with a faint sigh of despair. "Oh, it's no good pretending any longer. I know what has happened to me." Lucy stamped her foot, her cornflower blue eyes blinking back furious tears. "Despite all my best efforts, I have gone and fallen in love with that wretched man."

  Love? Could that possibly be what was tormenting poor Lucy? If that were so, then what about Chloe, whose symptoms were so much the same? No, that was utter nonsense. She could not possibly be falling in love with the man intended to be Emma's husband. Chloe shrank from the very notion, finding it too dreadful to contemplate.

  "Oh, Lucy," she quavered. "Do you really think so? Is that what being in love is like? Are you sure?"

  "As sure as anyone can ever be of such a thing. What is more, I believe Charles also cares for me. There have been several times when I feared him to be on the verge of speaking, but I have always stopped him."

  Lucy thrust her hands more deeply into her muff and frowned. "What a dreadful coil!"

  Yet even as she said this, Lucy's expression became softer, more tender than Chloe had ever seen her look before. She mused, "Though I suppose it would not be so bad, marrying Charles
. I never truly wanted to wed an earl. Being called `my lady' all the time would become dreadfully tedious. Of course, Charles and I think differently. I would want to go to London for the Season, and he wouldn't. We'd have dreadful rows, but always in the end he would take me in his arms and..." Lucy heaved a rapturous sigh. "It would be quite divine."

  Whirling suddenly, she enveloped Chloe in an impulsive hug. "Oh, thank you, Chloe. I am so glad we had this little talk. It has made everything so wonderfully clear."

  Before Chloe could recover her wits, Lucy darted ahead of her into the house. But Chloe remained frozen on the doorstep, unable to curb a fluttering of resentment. Maybe everything was now crystal-clear to Lucy, but certainly not to Chloe.

  Still, if Lucy had fallen in love with Mr. Lathrop, if he returned her regard, Chloe would certainly rejoice for both of them. It would be a grand thing for Lucy, far more likely to bring her happiness than any of her more worldly schemes. Mr. Lathrop was such a good-natured young man, charming and very eligible.

  Now, Will Trent, on the other hand, was not in the least eligible. He was already betrothed to her oldest sister. It didn't matter that theirs would be a marriage of convenience, not affection, that Emma by rights should have been marrying someone else. The fact remained that the wedding would take place in five days, and for Chloe to be harboring any notions about Trent was downright treasonous.

  It was absurd for Chloe to even imagine falling in love with him. Had she not disliked him amazingly upon their first acquaintance? But that all seemed such a long time ago. Days had intervened since then, days when she seemed to be with him every waking moment until she knew almost everything about him, all his dreams, all his fears, how generous he could be, how caring, despite his gruff exterior. She even knew his flaws, and he did have them, she reminded herself fiercely.