Christmas Belles (18 page)

"It could prove a better year than the one
before."

"Or it could be worse."

"But it might be better," she insisted, finding a
need to believe that more than ever before. Much to her relief, Lucy and
Lathrop returned to the parlor.

"Enough of that dratted lantern and this gloomy
darkness," Lucy called out.

Lathrop murmured suggestively, "I am rather fond of
darkness myself."

Lucy giggled, and Chloe heard her administering a playful
rap. Whatever Lathrop had been whispering to her, Lucy's face glowed more
brightly than the candles she was lighting.

As the room slowly filled with light, Chloe saw that Trent
had already moved away from her side. Like her, he looked ill-disposed for any
merriment. But neither her silence nor Will's made any impression upon Lucy.

"Do pack all those things away, Chloe," Lucy said
gaily. "'Tis almost time to see in the New Year. Someone must wake poor
Emmy, and shall we chase Charles outside to be the first footer?"

Never had Chloe been less inclined to take delight in any of
the old legends, but both Trent and Lathrop looked so puzzled, she felt
compelled to explain. "What Lucy means is that great care must be taken
after midnight that the first person to enter the house in the new year should
be fair rather than dark, or else—"

"I know," Trent interrupted with a grimace.
"Or else, more bad luck."

"I think we should send Lucy out to be the first
footer," Lathrop said. "She is obviously the fairest of us all."

"It cannot be a woman, you fool," Lucy retorted,
somehow making even that epithet sound as tender as if she had called him her
darling. Lathrop regarded her adoringly.

Their happiness was so obvious, a happiness Chloe realized
she would never know. She felt obliged to look away. She had never been
inclined to envy her beautiful older sister, at least not until now.

Chloe was on the verge of excusing herself when the clock
chimed out the hour of midnight. Emma started  awake, then blushed,
apologizing for having dozed off. Lathrop poured out glasses of sherry and
passed them round to drink a toast to the new year. Chloe barely tasted hers,
and she could not help noting that Will hardly drank his

She had no sooner settled her glass upon the tray when the
parlor door burst open. Polly rushed into the room. The little maid appeared
flushed, and she bobbed a hasty curtsy to Will. "Captain Trent. Begging
your pardon, sir. But there's a dark-haired stranger come banging at the door,
asking for you."

"Dark hair? Oh, no!" Lucy cried with comical
dismay.

"We are doomed." Lathrop tossed down the rest of
his drink "Come kiss me, ladies, one last time, before we all
perish."

"Charles! Decidedly you have had too much wine,"
Trent said, then turned back to Polly. "Who the deuce would be calling
upon us at this hour of night? Did you not think to ask his name, girl?"

"Nay, I was that flustered, sir. But the gentleman is
wearing a naval uniform."

Trent frowned and then excused himself. He moved unhurriedly
from the parlor, no apparent urgency in his step. Yet he left an aura of
tension in his wake. Even Lathrop and Lucy's merriment faded.

"Oh, dear," Emma said. "Who do you suppose it
could be?"

No one even hazarded a guess. Chloe was gripped by a feeling
of dread she could not explain. Gathering up her skirts, she rushed out of the
parlor. She reached the hall in time to see Trent flinging the door open wider
to admit the stranger.

"No, don't," she almost cried out, but she knew
Will would feel she was being foolish. Perhaps she was, but she shivered as she
watched the tall, dark sailor step across the threshold and salute Trent.

"Sorry to arrive so late, sir," the man was
saying. "But I have been riding like the devil to bring you these orders
from the Admiralty."

He handed over a folded document, affixed with a very
official-looking seal.

Chloe held her breath as Trent broke the seal. He stepped to
one side, perusing the notice. Whatever the contents, Trent's only reaction was
a slight tightening of his mouth.

"What is it, Trent?" Lathrop called out.

Chloe became aware that the others had also filed out from
the parlor, but she could not tear her eyes from Will's rigid features.

"Bad tidings, I am afraid," he said. "The
rest of my leave has been canceled. I am to report back to Portsmouth as soon
as possible. It would seem the Gloriana's refitting has gone much quicker than
expected, and her services are needed."

"But why? Where will they send you?" Chloe cried.

"I rarely ever know that until I have actually put to
sea. I will receive further orders then."

"Do you think there will be another Trafalgar?"

Trent hastened to reassure her. "I doubt my ship will
be facing anything as grim as that. Napoleon will never manage to land his army
in England, that I promise you. You and your sisters will be quite safe."

Chloe pressed her hand to her lips. It was not her safety
that she was worried about. It was borne in upon her as never before the
dangers Will might face when he left Windhaven. She felt as though a great
weight were pressing upon her heart, but she managed a weak smile. "I did
warn you it was bad luck to let a dark-haired stranger in first."

His answering smile was rather sad.

Lucy, as usual, was concerned with more immediate matters.
She frowned. "Does this mean Emma's wedding will have to be
postponed?"

Chloe was ashamed to feel a stirring of hope, a hope that
swiftly died when Will said, "No, that will not be necessary. We will
simply move the ceremony forward to tomorrow, if that is all right with you,
madam?" He deferred to Emma, who nodded.

"I shall be ready," she said. Then she moved to
make the tired young sailor welcome, inviting him to come down to the kitchens
for something to eat.

Chloe could only stare at her sister, marveling at her
composure.

"I'd best start making preparations for my journey at
once," Will said. He straightened his shoulders, looking like a man
preparing for action. "Mr. Doughty must be informed. Polly, be a good lass
and go fetch him."

Instead of hastening to obey, Polly stood nervously twisting
her apron.

"Polly, did you not hear me?" Trent said more
sharply.

"I fear it would do no good, sir." Polly's face
puckered. To everyone's astonishment, she burst into tears.

"I can't fetch Mr. Doughty," she blurted out.
"He---he's gone."

Chapter Eight

It was indeed a foul beginning to the new year, Trent
thought. His eyes raw from lack of sleep, he strode along the main lane leading
into Littledon, the cobblestoned street of the tiny fishing village glistening
wet with melting snow. The scattering of cottages and handful of shops appeared
to be slumbering in the chill morning light, even St. Andrew's Church still and
silent.

But only moments before, the street had rung with the
clatter of horses' hooves, the tramp of booted feet, and the enthusiastic
voices of the men who had assembled to begin the search for Mr. Samuel Doughty.
Most of these volunteers had come from the farms of the local squire, who was
also the district's magistrate. Squire Daniels himself had ridden with them as
eagerly as though it were all but sport, more entertaining than any fox hunt.

The boisterous man had even winked at Trent and suggested a
reward be posted. "The lads would search a deal harder at the prospect of
earning a few bobs."

"The fact that they are serving His Majesty's Royal
Navy should be reward enough," had been Trent's frigid reply. It might be
his responsibility to attempt the recapture of Doughty, but he was damned if he
was going to put a price on the man's head.

His spirits not in the least dampened by Trent's rebuke, the
squire led out his men with a loud "halloa," a call that was answered
with a chorus of lusty cheers. Only Trent had stood by, grimly silent, as he
faced the most onerous duty of any captain, steeling himself to enforce the rigid
laws, which demanded severe punishment for any deserter.

When the last of the squire's riders had vanished down the
turning of the lane, Trent lingered in the quiet street and cursed Doughty's
folly. Even more, he cursed himself for not keeping careful watch over one he
had known to be an incorrigible rogue. Why had he ever been so stupid as to
bring Doughty away from the ship in the first place? Anger surged through Trent
anew. If the rascal was overtaken, Trent was prepared to put his hands about the
man's throat and throttle him.

Except that he would not have to. The navy would take care
of that for him. A sick feeling crawled into the pit of Trent's stomach. He'd
seen men hang before, kicking, struggling, turning black in the face unless
they were fortunate enough to snap their necks at once.

As William Trent, captain of His Majesty's Royal Navy, it
was his duty to press for just such an end to Doughty's crime. But the image
kept rising into his mind of Doughty's insouciant grin, and he felt iced through
to the marrow of his bones. It was a weakness in him, he knew, but plain Will
Trent, the man, kept hoping that somehow the jovial seaman might manage to
escape.

As near as Trent had been able to tell from the hysterical
Polly, Doughty had slipped away sometime during the supper hour last evening.
The silly wench had helped him pack, sneaking him extra rations from the
kitchen. Between her hiccuping sobs, Trent gathered that the rascal had
promised to return someday and marry Polly. Her and half a dozen other foolish
maids wherever Doughty chanced to make port, Trent thought wryly. But the girl
had been wailing loudly enough, so Trent had refrained from telling her that.

Doughty had an early enough start; there was a chance that
he could put a goodly distance between himself and Littledon. But Trent
couldn't help reflecting that the steward would have been doing most of his
traveling in the bitter cold of night most likely on foot. No horses had been
taken from Windhaven, and as near as could be determined, none had vanished
from any of the outlying farms either. Doughty was a resourceful rogue, but
there was a chance he had already met with misfortune in the dark and was lying
in a ditch somewhere half-frozen, easy prey.

It was the most damnable dilemma. Trent could not wish
Doughty "Godspeed," nor could he hope for his capture either. Never
had he been so torn between his duty and his natural inclinations.

Yet it availed him nothing, kicking his heels about the
streets, debating the matter. Other things—his imminent departure and arranging
the wedding for that afternoon—also required his attention.

His mood as black as the long cape flashing about his
ankles, Trent set off for the church. He felt grateful for the silence of the
street, in no humor for any company. It was a gratitude he did not experience
for long.

At the turning of the lane, the figure of a man in a
high-crowned hat came into view. Close at his side was a young woman bundled in
a green coat, the ends of her flowing brown hair blowing loose from her bonnet.

Lathrop and Chloe. Trent gritted his teeth and swore. The
last thing he needed right now was to gaze into Chloe's beseeching eyes. Trent
gave them no opportunity to approach. Picking up his pace, he headed them off
at the top of the lane.

"What the blazes are you doing here, Charles?" he
snapped. "I told all of you that it was best to remain at the house. There
is nothing any of you can do in this wretched business about Mr. Doughty."

"I haven't come about Doughty," Lathrop said.
"I tried to tell you earlier, Trent. I need to consult you on a personal
matter."

"Did that make it necessary to drag Chloe out on a
morning like this? She already looks frozen through."

Although Chloe was shivering, she made haste to disclaim.
"I am not in the least cold, and Charles didn't drag me. I came on my own,
to bring some jellies to Peggety and Mrs. Green." As if to make this thin
tale more convincing, she displayed the covered basket she balanced on one arm.

Trent glared. "I doubt Mrs. Green has a pressing need
for jam at this early hour, and, Charles, at the moment I have no time to
attend to any personal matters. The pair of you can just turn around and march
straight back to Windhaven."

Intending to give them no chance to argue, Trent started to stride
away, but Lathrop caught his arm in a tight grip.

"Dash it, Trent. I know you are preoccupied with
Doughty's desertion, but I have to talk to you. There may not be another
chance, and it's extremely important."

Checked by his friend's earnest tone, Trent paused. Although
he shook free of Lathrop's grasp, he demanded, "Well, what is it?"

To his astonishment Lathrop blushed like a maid. Summoning a
lopsided smile, he said, "You are not the only one who wants to get
married.'

Trent arched one brow. Just what the devil was that supposed
to mean? Chloe began to murmur some excuse and sidle away, but Lathrop stopped
her, drawing her back to his side. "No, Chloe, stay. There is no reason
you should not hear this as well."

Taking a deep breath, Lathrop looked Trent straight in the
eye. "I want your permission to pay my addresses to your ward."

Trent stared at Lathrop and Chloe, both of them eyeing him
so expectantly.

"You mean to Chloe?" he asked, feeling as if he
had just taken a kick to the gut.

"Of course not," Chloe said. "He means Lucy.
He wants your permission to marry Lucy."

"Yes! Yes, that's it exactly." Lathrop beamed,
looking exceedingly grateful for Chloe's help.

Although an odd sensation of relief coursed through Trent,
it did nothing to improve his temper. He said sharply, "What utter
nonsense, Lathrop. You and Lucy barely know each other."

"We are as well acquainted as you and Emma. At least
our courtship was not conducted through correspondence."

"But my engagement is founded upon common sense,"
Trent said. "Not some holiday flirtation."

 Lathrop's eyes flashed. "It isn't like that at
all, Trent. I am in love with Lucy. I will be to the end of my days."

"And Lucy has also formed a lasting attachment to
Charles," Chloe put in. "I can assure you of that, Captain."

Trent raked them both with an impatient glare. "No one
falls in love in only one week."

He was surprised to see that his remark had caused Chloe to
flinch. Lathrop drew himself up into a posture of wounded dignity.

"Do I understand you, then, to be refusing your
permission, sir?"

"Don't be an ass, Charles. Of course I am not. I am
only asking you and Lucy to show some good sense and take more time before
rushing into anything."

"There is no more time," Lathrop said desperately.
"You are leaving today. How am I to seek your permission when you are gone
to sea? It could be months, years before you return, if ever."

"Then if I don't return, there will be nothing to stand
in the way of your happiness."

"Blast it all, Trent! You know that no one would be
more grieved than I if anything were to happen to you." Lathrop removed
his hat, dragging his fingers through his wavy hair in sheer frustration.
"I know you have never been in love, Trent, but can you not just try to
comprehend?"

"No!" Trent did not know why Lathrop's words
should sting him so, but they did. Damn it all to hell. It was Charles who
understood nothing. Trent had spent half the night and all of the morning
weighing a man's life in the balance. All talk of weddings, including his own,
seemed trivial by comparison.

He snarled. "I have enough other difficulties to deal
with. I have no patience at the moment for permitting a pair of infatuated
fools to take some disastrous step."

Lathrop pressed his lips into a taut white line, his eyes
filled with hurt and anger. But he said quietly, "If that is your final
word then, sir, I shall opportune you no further."

Turning stiffly, he offered his arm to Chloe, who had been
biting her lips during this entire exchange, her face a picture of silent misery.

"Come, Chloe," Lathrop said. "I will escort
you to Mrs. Green's cottage."

"Thank you, but you go on ahead, Charles. I will catch
up with you. I need a moment to speak to Captain Trent."

"As you wish, my dear." Lathrop bowed and walked
away, refusing to even look at Trent.

Trent felt his own anger sharpened by regret and
exasperation. He folded his arms across his chest, knowing he was about to face
a far worse barrage on his emotions from Chloe. As soon as Lathrop was out of earshot,
Trent attempted to cut her off, saying in harsh accents, "Chloe, if you
mean to plead for Charles's suit, you are wasting—"

"Oh, no," she hastened to disclaim. "This
isn't about Charles and Lucy, although I do think, you are wrong about them.
But never mind that for now. I wanted to speak to you about Polly."

"Polly?" Trent was astonished into relaxing his
guard a little.

"Yes, the poor girl is terrified out of her wits. She
thinks you will turn her off without a character for helping Mr. Doughty escape."

"Is that all that's troubling you? Tell the silly chit
to stop fretting. She is in no danger of losing her post."

"Thank you. She will be so glad to hear that."
Chloe gave him a grateful look, but her bright smile wavered. "There is
one other thing."

"Don't, Chloe," Trent said. But she was already
fixing him with those wide, pleading blue eyes.

"Can you not just call off the search and let Mr.
Doughty go?" she asked.

"You know I cannot."

"But you are his captain."

"Which means that I am more bound by the law than any
other man. Do you think I want to see Doughty hang? He is the best steward I
have ever had."

"And your friend!" Chloe cried.

"A captain cannot have friends," Trent said
bitterly. "And even if he were my best friend in all the world, I still
could not countenance his desertion. If it became known that I just looked the
other way, I would lose the respect of my entire crew. More than one man's life
depends upon the discipline I can maintain aboard my ship." His words
trailed away as he despaired of ever finding a way to make her understand. He
concluded wearily, "Please, Chloe. Don't make this any more difficult for
me than it already is."

She said nothing, her eyes dark and troubled. Trent feared
that at any moment, she would reproach him bitterly or simply turn her back
upon him and walk away. But although she looked far from comprehending, she did
neither.

She reached up and touched his cheek. "Go home and rest
as soon as you can, Will," she said gently. "You look very
tired."

Astonished but grateful, Trent caught her hand. Turning it
over, he found the area of her wrist left exposed by her glove and pressed a
brusque kiss there. Unable to say another word, he stalked away, heading for
the churchyard gate.

He had no way of knowing that Chloe's heart went with him as
she watched his rapid retreat. Perhaps she did not fully comprehend the duties
of a naval captain, but the anguish in Will's face had been all too clear. She
wanted so badly to rush after him.

She always longed to soothe away the woes of those she
loved, to make everything all better. The realization that she could not always
do so had been one of the most bitter lessons of her life.

She watched until Will disappeared around the side of the
church. Then she hurried to catch up with Charles. He was lingering
disconsolately in front of the linen draper's shop. The window was still
decorated with its sprays of holly. The festive greenery seemed somehow a
hollow mockery, a reminder of a day when they had all felt so much happier than
now.

Charles said not a word as she approached, merely offered
her his arm. In a most despondent silence, they set off together to seek out
Mrs. Green's cottage.

It was nearly half an hour later when Trent emerged from the
rectory, his business concluded. Mr. Henry had paled a little at Trent's
request, but he had made no difficulty whatsoever about moving the wedding
forward to that afternoon.

Trent almost wished that the vicar had complained. Doughty's
defection had left Trent so shaken, he no longer felt sure of anything. His
marriage to Emma had seemed such a sensible course, but now he didn't know. As
he made his way past the churchyard gate, he brought himself up short with a
brisk shake. It was far too late to be harboring any such qualms. The best he could
do was to hasten back to Windhaven and tell Emma that she needed to be ready
for the ceremony by a quarter to five.