Elisabeth Fairchild (22 page)

Keep reading for a sneak peek at Elisabeth Fairchild’s new Regency romance

The CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

Available December 2012 from InterMix

Christmas raced toward Broomhill Hall, cavorting with galloping horsetails of snow that rode the back of a raw, screaming wind, swallowing up the winding country lanes, slowing carriages and coaches.

A cold, persistent draft whistled in through a low spot on the threshold of Broomhill Hall, the voice of a lost soul, echoing through the library, sending bright sparks and white hot ash dancing about the old hearth like Christmas imps. The flue, in dire need of a sweep, hummed a rising tune, a bagpipe’s windy wail that prodded Lord Copeland from the cozy lap of his chair to stir the fading fire with rare irritation.

“Don’t die on me!” He clanged the poker and convinced himself the moisture in his eyes was inspired by ashes, and acrid smoke. He blinked hard. The red eye of flame winked back at him, awakening.

“You’ve life in you yet,” he insisted. “Don’t waste it! Burn! Damn you.” The begrudging flame took heed, licking lichen-blighted wood.

Gabriel looked up from his spot by the bookcase, silky ears swinging golden in the firelight. The dog wore the same look his lordship’s physician had as he lifted his ear from the listening cone propped against Copeland’s chest two days earlier.

The room’s heartbeat had quieted--the case clock in the corner suspended its ticking, the pop and crackle of the fire had subsided--as though time held its breath.

“You must put your affairs in order,” the physician had warned.

Cope had smiled, and made light of the man’s grim finality. “I know. Christmas is almost upon us.”

***

Christmas galloped toward Broomhill Hall, singing
Fa-la-la-lala-lala-lah-lah. On
the road from Andover, a coach full of hired musicians bowled merrily along, the wind’s hand pushing the horses and plucking at their manes. Inside the rattling, swaying vehicle the gentlemen raised their voices in cheerful Christmas carols to warm their hearts as they drew capes and cloaks tighter about them to warm exposed fingers and toes.

“Don we now our gay apparel. Fa-la-la-lala-lala-lah-lah.”

Broomhill Hall’s kitchen beckoned Christmas with rows of golden mincemeat pies, piles of brandy-soaked, fruit-studded cake. Browning turkeys turned on the spit, filling the air with mouthwatering scent.

Golden-eared Gabrielle had tucked himself under the chopping block with a fresh ham bone to gnaw.

Before him paced a set of legs, white stockings flecked with gravy. “Christmas will be ruined!” the roasting chef roared, punctuating his concern with widely flung droplets from a ladle he waved like a scepter. “No capon! No sirloin! No goose!”

“Calm yourself,” came the authoritative command of Bolton, Lord Copeland’s butler, his stockings and livery spotless, his intention to keep them so.

The roasting chef went red in the face. His voice rose in agitation. “Calm myself? We’ve a countess, two earls and a duke coming. Am I to feed my lord’s guests sausages? Sausages!”

Bolton’s back stiffened, his pace quickened, with unstoppable purpose he burst through the swinging kitchen door into the cold buttery and larder. Two of Dawson’s delivery lads were shouldering a side of pork and necklaces of sausages onto shelves, their chilled breath a ghostlike mist. Bolton sailed past, through the servant’s entrance, his own nostrils now streaming steam--out into the stinging wonder of the wind and snow.

Dawson, the local butcher, sat the seat of his delivery wagon wearing thick, sheepskin gloves, a turned down hat, and a bloody apron tied over snow-dappled coat. He eyed the sky with disfavor, and gave Bolton no more than a glance.

“Haste lads! Haste. The heaven’s are falling.”

His lads raced past, leapt in. As Dawson took up the reins to turn his heavy-shanked Shropshire cart horses, Bolton blocked their exit, long nose scarlet, lips turning blue.

“Do you mean to ruin the Earl’s Christmas, Mr. Dawson?” His rigid posture and brittle tone were icier than the wind.

Dawson bunched the reins tight.

“Not at all, Mr. Bolton. Unforgivably spiteful, this wicked weather. Has me worried. Would not want you trapped here with nothing to eat for Christmas, now, would I? Occasion’s too important for that.”

“You’ve no idea, man. Absolutely none.”

“Never fear. God’s truth,” Dawson promised, gloved hand to heart. “We’ll be back once the weather clears with the beefsteak and capons, as promised. My apologies to his lordship that I could not bring them today.”

With a slap of reins and the jingle of chain and leather traces the wagon pulled away, snow whirling about Bolton like a live thing. He lifted his customarily stoic countenance to glare at the heavens, wondering if his lordship’s guests would be able to make their way through the building storm.

***

Just outside of Andover, lashing Christmas wind and snow had overcome the Honorable Henrietta Gooding and her companion, bound for Broomhill Hall. So thick were the whirling snowflakes, that the coachman misdirected his team. The horses miss-stepped. With an ominous creaking groan the coach tipped sideways, horses squealing, the coachman shouting oaths. A horrendously loud wrenching wooden snap announced the death of the singletree, as the coach tipped, up became sideways, and when the two bruised and shaken women had to be helped through the window of their vehicle by their profoundly apologetic driver, it was if his hands reached down to them from the sky.

“God forsaken weather!” the coachman shouted against the wind. “One cannot see where the road begins and ends, marm.”

“Ghostly, is it not?” Henrietta shouted. Snow veiled the road as much as it hid the ditch. “The horses are not injured?”

“No, marm, but the footmen are a bit scratched up from landing in the hedgerow.”

“Turn around,” she ordered. “No sense in killing ourselves for Christmas. Kirkland would be the first to say as much.”

***

Christmas crept down the smoking flue with the howling wind and teased the curling ribbons on the parcel Lord Copeland wrapped. Deep red rubies for Margaret.

It had been a difficult year. Margaret had suffered a miscarriage. Her grieving husband had lost a great deal of money on a particularly idiotic bet made the week of the funeral. Odd how some men reacted to heartbreak.

Copeland wished he might do more, wished he might erase his sister’s suffering. He wished for more Christmases to share with her. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

Smells like Christmas,
he thought
. Juniper and yew. Cinnamon and cloves. Roasting duck. Ah, glorious Christmas! Bright and dancing as the fire. A bright and lively Season.

He meant this to be the best Christmas ever; a memorable Season, to lift Margaret’s spirits—to lift his own. His gift. Perhaps his final gift—this giving of the Christmas spirit, gathering friends and family for a lighthearted fortnight.

At his feet, Gabriel stirred, paws twitching. Deep in the fawn colored throat a trapped bark whiffled like the wind. As if in answer, the heart of the flame stretched high, throwing forth fingers of light that banished shrinking shadows.

Copeland opened his desk drawer, stirring papers, reaching for scissors, encountering, instead, the carved toy at the back. Memories of a long ago Christmas sparked as he palmed the carved wooden cup with its string-held, holly-red ball. Staring into the past, string dangling, his lips stirred a smile that failed him, faded.
How many years had it been? Twenty?

A cold draught fingered his ankles, returning him to the present, to the roundness of the little wooden ball. He tossed it high, caught it on the second try, and thought of James.

Thock.

A sound out of time, out of memory, out of the ashes.

Thock. Thock.
Silly thing, silly to hang onto it, but he could not simply toss it out. It had been meant to make cheerful another Christmas. For James.

He missed. The ball swung wild. He no longer mastered a child’s games. Carefully winding string around stick, he tucked his memories, along with the toy, back into the drawer.

The fire flickered, smoke eddied. Shadows skated behind the curtains and into corners, throwing darkness like a cloak about the fire’s brazen shoulders. He must have the chimney cleaned when weather permitted.
If you live that long
.

Perish the melancholy thought!
He pressed finger to wrist. The room was quiet but for the pop and flare of burning resin. His heart beat against his fingertip, the pop and flare of his life. How taken for granted was the beating of one’s heart, until it ceased to do so reliably.

With an agitated gesture, he flexed hands above the letters and bills crowding the blotter--strong hands--his father’s hands--
the hands of a dead man
.

Gabriel leaned into his knee. Copeland fingered the silky flop of golden spaniel ears. He stroked the proud white chest. The adoration in the dog’s amber eyes gave comfort.

“No room for dreary, melancholy thoughts, Gabe. It is the Christmas season. I will have Christmas spirits.”

Gabe listened with gratifying attentiveness.

“I will think only of today. The moment. The Season’s happy tasks before me.” Copeland plucked up his list. He would not think of his heart. Of breaking Henrietta’s.

“This shall be the best Christmas ever. It shall be, do you hear?” He sounded far more certain than he felt. “The first step to making something so, is believing in it.”

The mantle clock ticked, a shushing rhythm of snow gathered at roof’s edge and fell in clumps on skeletal hedges. Copeland listened carefully for the unsteady timing of a pulse that lost step now and then, feeling for that moment powerless and disillusioned, despite his brave words. Believing he was well, his heart whole, could not make it so.

***

Christmas deposited a substantial trail of dried leaves, bark chips, and a powdering of glittering, star-like snow in Broomhill Hall’s gleaming marble entryway as four footmen and both of the gardeners struggled under the Yule log’s enormous, weather chilled weight.

Bolton’s severe expression did not ruffle head footman Browne.

“Too big for the servant’s entrance, Mr. Bolton.” His voice was calm. “Had to bring it in the front way, don’t you see?”

“You will see to it order is restored?”

“Of course, Mr. Bolton.”

“And more mistletoe, Ashby. I want fresh mistletoe.” He called back over his shoulder as he hurried on. “Enough for every doorway.”

Ashby dared grumble under his breath, “Best Christmas ever, ‘e wants. Everything perfect, ‘e says. And I’m to climb trees in this dreadful weather! Feet and hands like blocks of ice, and everyone knows mistletoe will not stay fresh at Broomhill Hall. The Mistletoe Bride breathes on it, sir. Withers it in a trice.”

“Enough of that nonsense, Mr. Ashby.”

“Never known a more miserable Season, Mr. Browne.”

Browne cowed him with a severe look. “I have, Mr. Ashby. As has Mr. Bolton, and his lordship. In this house. You will hold tongue, in future, on your petty discontent. We are fortunate indeed to be a part of Lord Copeland’s household, Mistletoe Bride, or no Mistletoe Bride, and I would not have you forget it.”

Lord Copeland looked up from his ledgers when Bolton entered his study with the mail. “Christmas cannot be deemed too stimulating. Can it, Mr. Bolton?”

“That would depend upon your definition of
too
, my lord.”

“Friends. Family. Good food. Song and spirits?”

“Sounds like lively good fun, my lord.”

“Yes. I would have a lively Christmas, Mr. Bolton. The best ever, if we can manage it.”

“Of course, my lord.”

The fire danced high, sending shadows slinking. The brass dragon andirons seemed to writhe upon the hearth. The part of Copeland’s soul that wanted to go on living writhed even more violently. The desire to survive rose hot and thick at the back of his throat. Like anger. Like rage.

“Best ever, Bolton.”

“As you wish, my lord, and to that end, the post boy and the butcher have been, and word has come that while the weather has called a halt to construction on the almshouses, the roofers are finished cutting slate.”

“Capital.” Copeland rubbed his hands together. The atmosphere crackled with the potential of well-laid plans. He forced a smile, determined to be cheerful, determined not to imagine, even for a moment, either that his guests would not be able to get through this dreadful snow, or that he would not see finished his pet project, the row of almshouses that would soon house the local widows and orphans.

The cup and ball toy rolled from beneath his ledger into his lap. He had thought the thing put away, back into its drawer, and the dark reaches of memory, and yet here it was, the ball dangling across his thigh, waiting to be tossed again.

Thock
. He tossed the ball and caught it. Tossed it again.

“You will remember, my lord, your sister’s friend arrives today?”

Thock
.

“Ah, yes. The music teacher from Andover.”

Bolton arranged the mail upon the desk.

“The Yule log is in place, my lord.”

“Is it grand?”

“Massive, my lord. Four men, it took, to drag it in.”

“A beautiful thing, a decent fire. And a house full for Christmas. Have we plenty of candles, Bolton? I would have the house cheerful.”

The ball swung wild. Sheepishly Copeland tucked the toy into the drawer. “Silly thing to hang onto.”

“One cannot simply toss away the past,” Bolton calmly gathered up the breakfast tray.

Copeland sighed. “Nay. Nor the future. As much as one might wish. One can only—”

“Prepare for the best Christmas ever, my lord.”

Copeland smiled. “You are a prize beyond value, my good man.”

“Do you mean to tell the family, my lord?”

Copeland straightened his shoulders, stiffened his spine. “Marcus must be told. As future heir.”

Bolton remained expressionless, voice calm. “Miss Gooding?”

***

Henrietta Gooding and her bespectacled companion stepped down from their weather battered and patched together vehicle as four beautifully matched black horses pulled a black-wheeled coach into the wind-driven courtyard of the White Hart Inn.