The Last Waltz Page 16

  “Gilbert never loved them,” she said softly. “Rachel and Tess, I mean. They were merely girls.”

  He squeezed her shoulders tightly and drew her back against him. She rested her head against his shoulder for a few moments. Her eyes were closed, he could see.

  “I have not had much to do with children,” he said. “I do not have an easy rapport with them. But I have an affection for both of yours, Christina. You have done well with them.”

  She drew away from him and trudged on ahead of him. Soon they drew clear of the trees and could walk side by side. They did so, not talking, though when he took her elbow again to help keep her feet in the soft snow, she did not withdraw it as she had earlier.

  He had held her naked in his arms, he thought. He had been inside her body. Twice. That had been the maddest thing of all. Passion had driven them fast through that first encounter, the one that he had told her immediately afterward had finished everything. And then some time after that, after they had lain quietly side by side, not talking, not touching, not sleeping, he had turned to her again, and she had turned to him, and they had come together in a slow coupling, almost—almost as if they had been making love.

  He knew her thoroughly in the biblical sense. And suddenly he felt that he knew her as a person far better than he had during the week and a half of being at Thornwood—or at least that there was a person to be known, not just the girl he had once loved. Her brief mention of the two sons who had not survived had given him a powerful awareness of the fact that she had lived the past ten years, just as he had. She had suffered—and perhaps in other ways than just the loss of two babies. From what he could piece together of her marriage to Gilbert, it had not been a happy union. And yet she had come through those years with her dignity intact. Margaret and his aunt loved her and deferred to her judgment. The servants respected her. And she was a warm and loving mother.

  “You will be marrying Miss Campbell, then, I suppose?” she said, breaking the silence abruptly. “She will be the wise choice if you are returning to Canada. Miss Gaynor would not take kindly to being taken away from England.”

  But he had realized something that perhaps she had not thought of yet. “I will not be able to sail until spring,” he said, “though I will probably return to London next week. Before I leave England, you will know if you are with child or not. If you are, then I will be marrying you, Christina.”

  Even in the darkness he could see that he had startled her. She turned her head sharply in his direction. She drew breath to speak but said nothing. She skidded in the snow, and he gave her the full support of his arm. They were very close to the house, he could see.

  “I will not be offering for anyone over Christmas,” he said. “You will not be trying to fix the interest of either Luttrell or Geordie Stewart. It may not be finished between us after all, Christina. It may be just beginning.”

  She shook her head but still said nothing.

  “It seems as if we have been gone a month,” he said as they approached a side door of the house. “In reality I suppose it is only a couple of hours. I hope at least we are not late for dinner.”

  He held the door open, and she preceded him through it without a word.

  It would be the final irony, he thought as she hurried on ahead of him, if he had got her with child. In Pinky’s hut, where he had spent some of his happiest hours. At Christmas time, when one’s thoughts turned to children and love and the impossible.

  Hatred, Jeannette had said, was very akin to love. At the moment he felt neither for Christina. He felt only an unwilling pull toward her, a need to know the woman who had haunted him for longer than ten years, to know what those missing years had held for her, to understand why she had made it impossible for him ever to marry anyone else, to understand why he both dreaded and hoped that his seed, inside her now, had impregnated her and bound them together for life.

  No, he decided, striding off in the direction of the staircase, he surely could not have believed for one single moment that it really was all finished between them.

  Christmas Eve. It was surely the dream of all Christmas Eves, Christina thought the following morning, setting one knee on the low sill of the window in her bedchamber after pushing aside the curtains, and gazing out on a white world, just beginning to sparkle in the early light of day.

  She shivered. The fire had been built up and lit, but it had not had time to warm the room. Yet the shiver was not entirely from the cold. Partly it was excitement. Christmas would surely come this year in full glory, not merely slip on by as it had done through most of her life, it seemed. Partly it was memory, which she might have dismissed as a strange dream if she had not been able to feel the unmistakable physical effects of tender breasts and a slight soreness inside, where he had joined his body with hers. Partly it was indecision—she still had every penny of the money Mr. Monck had given her on Gerard’s instructions tucked into a cubbyhole of the escritoire in her private sitting room. She still had not even written a reply to her father’s letter.

  It was a heady mixture of emotions for the morning of Christmas Eve. And over and above them all, the constant awareness, humming through her consciousness, as it had all night, even weaving itself through her dreams, that now, at this very moment, she might have the beginnings of his child in her womb. A part of her for nine months. And binding her to him for the rest of her life.

  Perhaps something had begun, not ended last night, he had said. She rested her forehead against the window glass.

  But her thoughts and her wonder at the sight of the snow were interrupted by the sound of someone opening the door of her bedchamber without first knocking. Rachel hurried inside, barefoot and clad only in her long flannel nightgown, her long, dark hair hanging loose down her back. And on her face, such a bright look of excitement that Christina felt her heart turn over. She had not seen Rachel look thus since ... Oh, for a very long time.

  “Mama, look!” she said, hurrying toward the window. “Have you seen?”

  “The snow?” Christina smiled and crossed to the bed to drag free a blanket to wrap about her daughter. She lifted her to stand on the sill, just as if she had been a tiny child again, and kept her arms about her as well as the blanket. “Have you ever seen anything more wonderful in your life?”

  “No,” Rachel said, and her voice sounded almost like an agony.

  The sun was just rising in the clear east. There were still clouds overhead, but they were moving off. The snow had stopped falling.

  “See how the sun sparkles off the snow?” Christina said.

  “Like hundreds and thousands of jewels,” Rachel said with a sigh.

  She snuggled against Christina, who reveled in the feeling. For a long time Rachel had not been a child for physical closeness.

  “Mama,” she said, “Paul and Matthew said last night that their mama and papa are going to take them out to play in the snow today. May I go too? Would it be wrong?”

  Wrong! Christina closed her eyes and hugged her daughter more tightly. Wrong to play? To have fun and exercise?

  “I will not make a loud noise or run around too fast,” Rachel promised. “I will not get under anyone’s feet. Please, Mama?”

  Christina swallowed against a gurgling in her throat. “I am coming out to play too,” she said. “So is Tess. So are all the other children and most of the grown-ups too if my guess is correct. And I am going to make all the noise in the world. I am going to laugh and shriek and dash about just as if I were—what?”

  “A puppy?” Rachel suggested.

  “A whole litter of the most unruly puppies in the world,” Christina said. “You will need to press your mittens against your ears once I get started. And I am going to get under everyone’s feet.”

  “Mama?” Rachel dipped her head sideways to rest on her mother’s shoulder. “I am glad Lord Wanstead came here and brought everyone else with him. I like him.”

  “Do you?” Christina kissed the sleek dark hair with its
crooked part.

  “He does not frown and say no all the time,” Rachel said. “He dances and slides and smiles. He is not an evil man, is he?”

  “No, he is not evil, sweetheart,” Christina said.

  “I am glad.” Rachel sighed. “Because I like him. I hope he stays here forever and ever.”

  No. Rachel had always needed a hero. But heroes could bring pain, especially to children, who could not distinguish between worthy and unworthy heroes.

  “I believe he must go away again,” Christina said gently. “He does not really belong to us, you see, and he has a home elsewhere. But he likes you. He told me so himself. And he will be here for Christmas. He is going to make Christmas happy for all of us. It will be something to remember and talk about after he has gone.”

  “May I build a snowman?” Rachel asked.

  “Ten, if you wish.” Christina hugged her and kissed her before lifting her down and releasing her. “But if we stand here talking all morning, not even one will get made. Shall we go and wake Tess?”

  Yes, they would have him for Christmas, she thought as she went up to the nursery with Rachel after pulling on a dressing gown over her nightgown. And it was going to be a happy Christmas—for all three of them. She was determined on that.

  And after he was gone, there would be memories to live on. But she would not think of that yet.

  A few of the older people had remained indoors as well as Laura Cannadine, who was in a delicate way and was afraid of sustaining a heavy fall. Everyone else, including the six children, were outside soon after breakfast. There were no decorations to gather today and no errands to be run. The park had already been quite thoroughly explored. There was only one thing to do outdoors, then, and they did it with unabashed enthusiasm.

  They frolicked.

  Inevitably it all began with a snowball fight, disorganized at first, everyone pelting whoever else happened to be within range, somewhat better organized later after the earl had bellowed for a ceasefire and had announced that he and the countess would choose teams, picking alternately, and then be given five minutes during which to discuss strategy with their respective regiments.

  Christina took the first round without any argument, he was forced to admit when the five minutes were up and he emerged from a huddle with his warriors. She, it was clear, had not spent the time discussing strategy with some semblance of democracy, but had played tyrant and issued swift orders to her company. Some had been set to rolling and stockpiling as many snowballs as it was possible to make in five minutes while others had been directed to push the snow into a waist-high bulwark, behind which they were all crouched, fully armed, by the time the signal for war was given.

  It all looked more impressive than it was, of course. Most of the prepared snowballs felled the enemy on the first glorious barrage, but since the weapons were not lethal, the enemy rebounded with a shriek and a roar and came on undaunted. And since the victors had stood up to cheer their victory instead of preparing for the next assault, the momentum quickly shifted. And since the bulwark had been built in a long, moderately straight line, a single small breach meant the collapse of the whole structure.

  Once the breach had been accomplished, the battle degenerated into chaos and shouts and screeches and giggles. Most of the contestants resumed the old method of forming and hurling snowballs indiscriminately at friend and foe— indeed, very few could remember which was which. Viscount Luttrell threw himself in front of the countess and defended her with great show and gallantry in an imaginary sword fight with Samuel Radway; Geordie Stewart collapsed full-length on the snow under the impact of one tiny shower of snow and groaned pitifully as he tried unsuccessfully to defend himself against a hail of balls from Tess, the Langan boys, and Alice Cannadine; Jeremy Milchip and Frederick Cannadine had captured a shrieking Margaret between them and were ungallantly trying to stuff snow down the back of her neck; Lizzie Gaynor was hovering close to the earl, occasionally clinging to his arm, with a nice show of timidity and unsteadiness of foot, though she showed a glowing, laughing face whenever it was turned up to him; Rachel was pelting him with remarkably accurate aim—and laughing gleefully at every hit and looking anything but her usual plain, rather sad self.

  He was busy, being the focus of much of the attack and for very pride’s sake making quite sure that he gave as good as he got. But he was not too busy to notice the transformation in Christina. It had not been apparent at breakfast. She had been quiet and dressed in gray—not part of her new wardrobe, he had guessed—with her hair combed back severely from her face and brow and dressed in coiled plaits at her neck. She was still dressed in gray now. But there was nothing dull about her demeanor. She fought with energy, laughing and yelling, her cheeks and nose bright with the winter chill, her eyes dancing with merriment.

  What a contrast, he thought, with the mental picture he had of the woman who had greeted him in the drawing room on the evening of his arrival at Thornwood less than two weeks before—dark, severe, and joyless. It might have been better for him if she had remained that way. He could not keep his mind, either, away from an image of her as she had been early last evening in the cozy warmth of Pinky’s hut, naked beneath him on the bed, her eyes heavy with passion, her lips swollen from his kisses.

  “Arrghh!” he exclaimed in disgust as a large, soft snowball collided with his nose and splattered over his whole face. That was what he got for lowering his guard and going off into a dream for a moment. He scraped away snow with his gloves and looked around quickly to see if he could identify his assailant. She was laughing in gloating triumph— Christina.

  He roared and dived for her. She went down beneath his weight and landed on her back in the deep, soft snow. She laughed at him when he lifted his head and looked down at her.

  “Unfair!” she said. “Snowballs are allowed. Wrestling is not.”

  “But who makes the rules here?” he asked, grinning at her. “Do I have to remind you constantly?”

  But both her laughter and his grin quickly died. He could smell lavender, he thought foolishly. Her lips had parted and her gaze had lowered to his mouth. They were also surrounded by family and friends. He adjusted his weight, flipped her over before she realized his intent, pressed her facedown into the snow for a moment, and then grasped her flailing arms and pinioned them by the wrists behind her back.

  “Ho!” he bellowed. “I demand the surrender of the countess’s forces. Else I shall have her eating snow for the rest of the morning.”

  She was laughing again.

  “Egad,” Viscount Luttrell said, executing a piece of elegant swordplay over the two of them. “I have just finished carving up one man who dared threaten her ladyship’s person. You want to be next, Wanstead? On guard!”

  “I will wager,” John Cannadine said, “that my children and I can build a better snowman than any other three people here present can do—within the next hour, shall we say?”

  “A wager?” The viscount spun about. “With what as the prize, pray?”

  “The first to be served with chocolate and mince pies when we go back inside?” the earl suggested, getting to his feet and reaching down a hand to help Christina to hers.

  “Ah, a wager not to be resisted,” Viscount Luttrell said. “My lady?” He bowed elegantly to Christina, who was trying to slap the snow off her cloak with equally snowy gloves. “You look like someone who knows a thing or two about the construction of snowmen. Will you join me? And Miss Campbell? You have not a hope in a million, John, my lad.”

  The earl had Lizzie and Rachel on his team; Geordie Stewart had Tess and the younger Langan boy; the older boy was with his parents; Jeremy and Frederick and Margaret took up the challenge. Ralph Milchip pronounced himself judge and jury. Everyone else wandered about, giving advice and encouragement. Clara Radway and Susan Gaynor waded off to the kitchen to beg coals and carrots.

  Milchip made a grand moment out of the judging after he had pronounced the hour at an end. He moved f
rom one snowman to another, his hands clasped at his back, a frown of concentration wrinkling his brow, his lips pursed. The children, the earl noticed in some amusement, watched his face, tense with suspense. Now how was Ralph going to avoid disappointing several of them? he wondered. Rachel had stepped closer so that the brim of her bonnet was almost brushing his arm. He cupped her shoulder with one hand and smiled down at her. She had thrown herself into the task with energy and solemn concentration. She wanted very badly to win.

  “Well,” the judge began, speaking at last, “a difficult decision. Difficult indeed.” He shook his head. “But one must make a decision. Very well, then. I award a prize to the Cannadines for the squattest, fattest snowman I have ever seen.”

  John laughed, Alice jumped up and down in glee, and young Jonathan sucked the thumb of his mitten. The other children looked disconsolate. Some of the adults applauded; some jeered. Ralph held up both arms.

  “And I must award a prize to the Countess of Wanstead’s trio for the tallest snowman,” he said; “and to Lady Margaret’s for the snowman whose head has fallen off more often than anyone else’s; and to Mr. Stewart’s for the snowman with the broadest smile; and to Lord Langan’s for the only snowman with arms, though one has just this moment dropped off, it is true; and to the Earl of Wanstead’s for working the hardest and producing the overall largest snowman.”

  Rachel looked up at his lordship with bright eyes, and he winked at her. Had Ralph thought of how the prize was to be claimed? he wondered.

  The judge imposed silence by raising both arms again, and proved himself worthy of his position of authority. “As for the prize,” he said and paused for effect. He looked about at the group of builders. “The first cup of chocolate and the first mince pie go to—the first one back at the house.” And he turned and raced off in the direction of the main doors, laughing like an imbecile and leaving a cloud of snow in his wake.

  “We had the biggest snowman and worked the hardest,” Rachel said in all earnestness.