By Winter's Light: A Cynster Novel (Cynster Special Book 2) (3 page)

Turning to Melinda, she said, “Alathea asked me especially to keep an eye on Mrs. Phyllida’s two girls—Lydia and Amarantha—given they’re the youngest here. If I’m to take the older girls out to gather greenery, do you have anything planned for the younger lot, or should we combine the two groups?”

Melinda shook her head. “The four fourteen-year-olds are too close-knit a clique—and there’s Louisa in the lead, too. No need to give her more troops to command.”

All the tutors and governesses knew that Devil Cynster’s daughter was a handful—too clever, too persuasive, and far too adept at getting her own way.

“I was going to suggest,” Melinda continued, “that I take the three younger ones—Margaret, Lydia, and Amarantha—into the kitchen. Cook said she would be making mince pies, and they’ll enjoy helping.”

Claire nodded. “That they will. All right—I’ll take the older four.” Surrounding herself with four fourteen-year-old girls should at least keep her safe through the next day. “What sort of greenery is customarily used for the decorations here, where do we get it, and how much are we likely to need?”

* * *

Lucilla Cynster, eldest daughter of the house and future Lady of the Vale, listened while her twin brother, Marcus, seated beside her, explained the ins and outs of the local deer hunting season to her cousins Sebastian, Michael, and Christopher. The three were sitting on the other side of the table, forming a wall of broad shoulders and masculine chests that effectively blocked the rest of the room from Lucilla’s sight. Glancing down the long board beyond Marcus and Christopher, she saw her five fifteen- and sixteen-year-old male cousins—Aidan, Gregory, Justin, Nicholas, and Evan, all of whom intended to join the exploratory ride tomorrow—leaning forward, hanging on Marcus’s every word.

Sebastian, Michael, and Christopher were much more nonchalant, but as Lucilla could feel their eagerness radiating from them, she viewed their expressions of aloofness with skepticism.

Together with Louisa, they—the older six, including Prudence, who was sitting on Lucilla’s other side—had been principally responsible for convincing their elders to hold the family Christmas celebrations in the Vale. The girls had wanted to experience the magic of an assured white Christmas in the deep, undisturbed silence of the Vale, something they hadn’t known since the last family Christmas held there, when they’d been small children. All of them remembered that time with nostalgic pleasure. The boys, of course, had wanted to hunt, but although the season for does was open, the early snows had sent the deer deep into the narrow valleys in the nearby hills; it had been decided that the group should ride out tomorrow to scout around before mounting a proper hunt on the day after the Feast of St. Stephen.

Beside Lucilla, Prudence—Demon and Felicity Cynster’s oldest child and Lucilla’s closest cousin, friend, and sometimes confidante—leaned nearer and, as Marcus paused to answer a question from Aidan, said, “I’m for the ride—are you going to come?”

That Prudence would ride was the opposite of a surprise; she lived for horses and always had. Given her parents’ obsession with the animals, her fervor was perhaps understandable.

Lucilla thought about the ride, about joining the company. Her gaze drifted further down the table to Louisa—she of the lustrous black hair, pale green eyes, and infallibly engaging manners. If Lucilla remained at the house, Louisa would attach herself to Lucilla, which wasn’t a situation to be encouraged. Not because they didn’t get on—despite Lucilla’s flaming red mane, in temperament they were two peas in a pod—but because, courtesy of the Lady’s gifts, Lucilla saw in Louisa a woman who would one day wield great power.

Whenever they were together, Lucilla felt a strong urge to steer or guide Louisa—yet at the very same time, she knew she…shouldn’t. Louisa was supposed to find her own way without any help from Lucilla; the trials and tribulations Louisa would face were important, presumably in shaping her for whatever role lay in her future.

Explaining that to anyone who wasn’t Lady-touched was impossible. So…

The proposed ride would keep her away from the manor for most of the day. Lucilla nodded. “Yes, I’ll come, too.” As she always did, she consulted her connection to the Lady—her inner compass—and felt her eyes widen slightly in surprise.

She was
supposed
to
ride out with her cousins. As to why… As usual, that wasn’t forthcoming.

* * *

Up on the dais, at the end of the long table closest to the warmth thrown out by the blaze in the fireplace nearby, Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, looked out on those gathered with an indulgent eye. She smiled, more to herself than anyone else, at the sight of her grandchildren, grandnieces, and grandnephews. “They are growing up.”

There was immense satisfaction in her tone.

Beside her, Algaria twitched her shawl over her shoulders. “Up, certainly. Older, indubitably. But wiser? I believe I’ll reserve judgment.”

The third of their number, old McArdle, quietly laughed. “They’re like youngsters anywhere—they’ll learn.”

Algaria stilled, then she murmured, “You’re right—there will be hurdles and challenges for each of them, but as to what those might be… We can only guess.”

Helena refused to let Algaria’s mysterious allusions derail her pleasure. “In truth, it is what amuses me most these days, watching them stumble and fall, then pick themselves up—watching their lives evolve.”

Algaria and McArdle looked out at the children. Although neither made any reply, eventually, both inclined their heads.

Helena allowed her smile to deepen, content that, at least on the philosophical side, she had had the last word.

* * *

“So!” Prudence thumped her curly blonde head down on the pillow she’d arranged at the foot of Lucilla’s bed. She and Lucilla were sharing the bed, top to toe, while the three youngest girls—Prudence’s sister, Margaret, and their cousins Lydia and Amarantha—had settled on pallets before the fire. “We’ll spend most of tomorrow riding with the others, and then Christmas Day will be full of all the usual eating, drinking, and being merry.” Wriggling into a more comfortable position, Prudence went on, “I can’t remember—do you do St. Stephen’s Day up here? The boxes and all?”

“We most certainly do.” Already settled beneath the covers, Lucilla angled her head to look down the bed. “But here it’s called the Feast of St. Stephen, and for good reason, so be warned. Mama will almost certainly want our help either tomorrow evening or, more likely, on the morning of Christmas Day for making up the boxes. It’s more or less the same as Uncle Sylvester and Aunt Honoria do at Somersham—gifts to all the workers and their families. Here, of course, it’s even easier, as even our shepherds live at the manor, and so everyone will be here—in the Great Hall, anyway.”

Prudence nodded. “So we have all that filling up the day after Christmas, plus the hunt on the day after that. Then what?”

“We have three days to recover and prepare, and then it’s Hogmanay—the end of this year and the beginning of the next.”

Prudence was silent for several minutes, then she squinted up the bed and caught Lucilla’s eye. “I’m looking forward to next year precisely because it’s
not
our coming-out year.”

Lucilla nodded in understanding. “In a way, the coming year will be our last year—the last year of our girlhoods, so to speak.”

“We should make it count,” Prudence said. Warming to her theme, she continued, “We should make sure we do everything we’ve ever wanted to do, and make sure we leave nothing undone that as girls we can do, but that as young ladies we might find more difficult.”

Lucilla chuckled. “Like driving down St. James in an open carriage?”

“Exactly! And riding hell-for-leather in the Park. Isn’t it absurd that I’ll be able to do that next year—every morning we’re in London, if I wish—but the year after, me doing the same thing will be considered indecorous and unbecoming?”

“Society does love its rules, no matter how silly.” Lucilla paused. “In fact, now I think about it, next year is going to be the
perfect
year for doing all those slightly risqué things. The better part of society will be so focused on the Coronation and all the events surrounding it that no one will have any attention or disapprobation left over to direct at us.”

“Very true,” Prudence said. After a moment, she went on, “I have to say I feel for those girls who will be making their come-outs next year. I heard Mama say that it’s going to be bedlam with all the events planned in the lead-up to the Coronation, and that getting noticed is going to be next to impossible unless you’re foreign royalty.”

“Hmm.” Although she’d never said so aloud, Lucilla was not looking forward to the year beyond the next, the year in which she, alongside Prudence and Antonia Rawlings, would make her formal curtsy to the fashionable world. It was going to be a dreadful bore—and entirely to no purpose. A point she suspected that her mother appreciated, but she doubted her father did, or would, no matter that he usually accepted her mother’s Lady-inspired decrees on most subjects. It would be for him that Lucilla would go to London and be presented, and promenade around the ballrooms and in the Park…all to no avail. Her future, she knew, lay here, in the Vale, just as her mother’s had before her.

She didn’t know who, or how, or when, but she did know where he—whoever he was—would find her.

Here—somewhere in the lands the Lady ruled.

Prudence turned on her side and snuggled down. “It’s a pity Antonia and her family couldn’t join us.”

Lucilla settled, too, tugging the covers over her shoulder. “Aunt Francesca wrote. Mama said that they had wanted to come, but Antonia’s grandmama is poorly and they didn’t want to leave her at this time.”

Prudence mumbled in grudging approval, “Christmas is for families.” A moment ticked past. “Perhaps they can come and visit when you come south to stay in the new year.” She yawned.

Lucilla yawned, too. “P’rhaps.” A second later, she murmured, “Good night.”

She heard the smile in Prudence’s voice as she replied, “Sweet dreams.”

CHAPTER 2

The following morning, along with the other tutors and Melinda and Claire, Daniel shepherded their combined charges—all those still in the schoolroom, plus the fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys—down the stairs and into the Great Hall for breakfast.

He was sharing a room with Raven and Morris, and they all knew better than to leave their young charges to their own devices. They also knew that the promise of food was the most potent lure to get the lads out of bed, dressed, and ready to behave in a civilized fashion.

On ushering the noisy mob to the tables, Daniel was somewhat surprised to note that the three older members of the company—the dowager, Algaria, and McArdle—had beaten everyone down and were already partaking of rolls warm from the oven and the rich golden honey from the Vale’s beehives.

Seeing Daniel’s surprise, McArdle grinned wryly. “At our age, laddie, we don’t need much sleep.”

“And”—the dowager transfixed Daniel with her pale green gaze—“we take great pleasure in the small delights life yet affords us.” With that, she took a dainty bite of a pastry.

Finding her penetrating gaze unsettling, Daniel smiled, inclined his head politely, and turned back to his far less unnerving charges.

The girls, who were quartered in a separate wing of the manor, were led in by Melinda, with Claire bringing up the rear. She was surrounded by a trio—fourteen-year-old Juliet, Claire’s actual charge, along with ten-year-old Lydia and eight-year-old Amarantha. All four appeared to be deeply engrossed in some discussion.

When handling any such gathering of the families, the tutors and governesses habitually grouped the children by age and arranged activities for each group. Along with Raven and Morris, Daniel walked along the benches, ensuring that the various groups sat together—all six of the younger boys in one group, leaving the five boys aged fifteen and sixteen congregated toward one end of the long table.

Footmen, maids, and undercooks ferried out bowls of porridge and placed jars of golden honey in the middles of the tables. Jugs of milk and mugs appeared, along with racks of toast and marmalade. The boys dove on the food. Sharing a smile with Raven and Morris, Daniel retreated to the center of the long table and sat at the end of the row of boys. Raven and Morris sat opposite, and then Claire arrived. She’d been settling the girls along the bench; she paused when she reached the space beside Daniel, and he turned with a warm smile to give her his hand to help her step over the bench.

She hesitated, her gaze on his hand. Her expression, as usual serious but calm, gave him no hint as to her thoughts, but just as his smile was about to wane, she gave a tiny, infinitesimal sigh and placed her fingers on his palm.

Closing his hand, holding hers, he felt something in him shift, which seemed odd, as he’d taken her hand before… Perhaps it was an outcome of his having made the decision to actively pursue her that gave the moment an extra edge, a deeper significance.

Hiding his reaction, he steadied her as she raised her dark blue skirts and decorously stepped over the bench. Slipping her fingers from his grasp, she murmured, “Thank you,” then smoothed her skirts and sat beside him.

She immediately gave her attention to the girls on her other side, making sure they were supplied with what they wished to eat and that all were satisfied with their lot.

Melinda climbed over the opposite bench and sat beside Morris, across the table from Claire.

Claire looked at Melinda, and under cover of asking “Are we proceeding as planned?” continued to lecture her unruly senses. Giddily dizzy didn’t begin to describe the whirl they were presently in, all because she’d taken Daniel’s hand, offered in the vein of an entirely polite, conventional courtesy. Yes, his long fingers had felt warm and strong when they’d closed so firmly around hers, but he’d just been helping her over the bench, for heaven’s sake. As far as her rational mind could see, there was no reason whatever for the silly bubbling warmth that had coursed through her.