Lucinda watched the two of them stroll back toward the house. Amusement mingled with awe at James’ powers of persuasion. “Do you always order everything to suit yourself?”
“Generally,” he replied. “I certainly don’t allow stuffy conventions to interfere with my pleasure.”
“Even if ignoring those conventions harms other people?” she asked.
“How is a little ride in the country going to harm you?” He took her hand in his, and even through the leather of the gloves they both wore she could feel the heat. “I would get no pleasure from any activity that made you unhappy.”
Before she could think of a reply, he dropped her hand, picked up the reins again and set the horses into motion. “We have a lot to do before we go back. We must get on.”
“I thought we were going for a drive.” Apprehension stirred in her breast. Perhaps she shouldn’t have sent Betsy away.
“We are.” He grinned at her. “But we are also going to visit all my brother’s tenant farmers and most of the villagers.”
Lucinda wrinkled her brow. “But won’t they all be in church?’
With one hand, James reached behind him and pulled out a large hessian sack. “They will. Which is precisely when Father Christmas will pay them a visit.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look in the sack.”
She obeyed, and there inside, glittering out of the shadows was a mound of coins.
“You’re going to leave money for them?”
He nodded. “I told my brother last night my time in New France had been profitable.” He returned his attention to the road. “The estate farmers, along with everyone else, have suffered with the crop failures this year. It will be hard for them to survive until next summer. If the money I can give them help, I’m happy to share it.”
To have such a supply of silver and gold, especially during the Recoinage, must have required careful planning. Lucinda realized James had no need of Edward’s self-righteous lectures about responsibility and duty.
“We’ll need to be quick to get around them all before church finishes,” James said. “If you count the money out into piles, I’ll dash up and leave one on each doorstep.” The grin he sent her way made him look about fifteen years old, a mischievous boy bent on fun.
Suddenly she felt light-hearted too. She shoved her fist into the bag and started counting.
By the time they’d visited each farmhouse belonging to the estate, they were flushed with pleasure and exertion and laughing crazily.
James raced the curricle away from the village. He set a smacking pace back to Beaufield Hall, pulling up in front of the stables where Simmons waited to take charge.
“Did Simmons know what you’d planned?”
“Yes. He’d have come with me, if you hadn’t,” James replied. He helped Lucinda down. “Of course, if Simmons had been helping, we’d probably have been finished sooner. Simmons is not nearly such a distraction.”
He swung his head to check that his horses were receiving proper care.
“So I’m a distraction, am I?” Lucinda muttered. “
This
is a distraction.” She bent down and gathered up a handful of snow.
“Did you say something?” James asked, turning back to her just as the freezing missile burst against his head.
“Oh, ho. So that’s the way you want to play it.” He laughed. “You know not what you do, Miss Demerham. Prepare for the worst. When it comes to hurling snowballs, you have met your match.”
A battle royal followed. Betsy, who had scurried from the kitchen to greet Lucinda, giggled and took up the fight on her mistress’s behalf. Her arm was strong, but her aim sadly off and the snowball landed with a splat against Simmons’ chest.
He retaliated in kind. A stable boy joined in the fray, a few maids and footmen poked their heads out from the servants’ quarters to see what was happening and rushed to join in. Soon people were laughing, rolling about in the snow and behaving with a total lack of decorum or respect for rank.
After about twenty minutes, James raised his voice, yelling over the shrieks of merriment and shouted acknowledgments of a good hit, or taunts for a missed shot. “Wassail in the kitchens for everybody!”
The fires of battle died, and the combatants trooped back into the house, eager to partake of a rare treat.
“More of your doing?” Lucinda asked. “You really did come very well-prepared for this, didn’t you?”
James nodded. “See that over there?” She followed the line of his pointing finger back toward the open stable door. Inside was a black carriage of substantial size. “I drove my curricle, but I made sure
this
arrived at the same time, loaded to the hilt with the things I wanted to have with me for Christmas. I know my brother, you see, and I know how little he does to mark the season.”
He dusted snow from her shoulders. “Are you willing to come inside with me and join in the fun?”
Edward would never do it, she knew. His dignity would not allow him to fraternize with those beneath him. James seemed happy to ignore such considerations. She knew he had lived in the roughest way while in New France. It had apparently imbued him with egalitarian notions. If he thought it would be fun to have a snowball fight, he did it, and if he wanted to drink with the servants, he would.
She followed him inside, where the scent of hot, spiced cider mingled with another richer odor.
James walked in and kissed the middle-aged, red-faced cook on the cheek. “The goose is almost ready then, Annie.”
“Indeed it is, Mr. James, and so thoughtful of you to bring it for us.” She patted his hand in a gesture that showed genuine affection. “And the boys brought the Yule log in just a while ago.” She nodded toward the huge open hearth where a solid log burned. “We got it started with an old Christmas log Will Watson stored away last year.” She straightened from where she bent over the spit then arched and stretched her back. “It’s good luck to have a Yule log burning. The master doesn’t like them, but the staff does. There’ll be prosperity and happiness in the coming year for all who are warmed by it.”
The kitchen was the warmest, happiest place Lucinda had ever known. The Yule log crackled, the embers glowed red and the flames danced and swirled. People moved to and fro, refilling glasses, preparing food and snacking on treats like March pane and sugar plums. In the center of it all, James joked with the footmen and charmed the maids, calling everyone by name, showing interest in each of them.
When Betsy tapped her on the shoulder, Lucinda looked at her in puzzlement. “Miss. Miss. Simmons said to tell you the church party is coming up the drive. You shouldn’t oughter let your parents find you in here, miss.”
For a moment, Lucinda considered staying where she was. But, if she were found here, Betsy would be punished and Lucinda refused to have that on her conscience. She tried to catch James notice, to explain why she was leaving, but he was involved in some maneuver involving the goose, the spit and a bowl of hot fat.
Through the rear window, Lucinda saw the coach heading for the stables. It didn’t need Betsy’s frantic tug on her arm to tell her escape was urgent.
“We can use the servants’ stairs, miss. You have to come. Now.”
Lucinda bolted after Betsy, flying up the stairs and entering her room mere moments before she heard her mother’s footsteps along the corridor, followed by the turning of the door handle.
Her mother stepped inside. “There you are. Did you enjoy the drive?”
Speaking slowly and carefully in a desperate attempt to hide her breathlessness, Lucinda replied, “Yes, thank you, Mama.
Her efforts must have been successful, because her mother, unsuspicious, went on, “I don’t know that I blame you for avoiding the church service. Three hours! I could not believe anyone could preach for so long, even on the blessed occasion of Christmas. And the church was so cold!” She paused and looked at her daughter more closely. “The outside air seems to have done you some good, however. There is quite becoming color in your cheeks.”
“Th…thank you, Mama.”
“It pleases me to think you’ll be looking your best when Edward next sees you. He was not happy when you chose to accompany his brother rather than attend church with him.”
“You do not feel our acceptance of Lady Beaufield’s invitation has put us, put me—under any form of obligation or—or understanding, do you, Mama?”
“Well of course it has, Lucinda. People of the rank of the Lymons do not invite people such as us if there are not some expectations to be met.”
“But no-one has…approached you or my father about any matter in particular, have they?”
“Let’s have the thing with no roundaboutation. Edward has not yet asked your father for your hand in marriage. He has, however, informed us he has invited a few of the more notable local families for dinner on Boxing Day, where he hopes to be able to make a happy announcement. I expect he will apply to your father in the correct manner by the end of today or tomorrow morning at the latest. I am very proud of you Lucinda, for making such a conquest. How happy I shall be. What congratulations will flow in from our friends and family. My daughter, a countess.”
Lucinda had no intention of becoming a countess, but telling her mother so was likely to induce a fit of the vapors, at the very least. That particular piece of information could wait until such time as Edward actually proposed…and was refused.
Chapter Three
After the exertions of the morning, Lucinda was content to rest until it was time to dress for dinner. Like most homes of the well-to-do, the design of Beaufield House ensured that the sounds and smell emanating from the kitchen area didn’t encroach on the refined sensitivities of the family. So how was it possible that from time to time, she was sure she caught the faint waft of roasted goose and snatches of wassail-fueled laughter? She wondered if James was still down there, sharing anecdotes, sitting with his snow-damp coat removed, his sleeves rolled up, elbows inelegantly propped on the table.
She could imagine his mouth wide open in laughter, white teeth flashing and those tropical blue eyes sparkling in merriment.
He
would need no period of respite to regroup his energies. A modest young lady ought not notice, but Lucinda would have to have been blind not to be aware of his muscular build, the powerful thighs that showed to such advantage in the skin-tight fashions of the day—his general air of athleticism and strength.
She lounged on the day bed, trying not to compare him to his brother, but the effort was futile. In every way he cast Edward into shadow. Edward had never been the type to stir her heart or affections, but his attention had flattered her vanity and for a fleeting moment she had wondered what life would be like as a countess.
But then James had arrived and what had seemed possible now seemed appalling. If she had contemplated a conservative future with misgiving, now she dreaded it. James’ laughing face, his tales of adventure—forbidden at the dining table by Edward’s objection but given free rein during their Christmas morning drive—had given her a glimpse of a life far beyond the boundaries and restrictions she had taken for granted. Certainly James had faced danger and hardship and a great deal of discomfort, but one only had to hear the ring of satisfaction in his voice to know how greatly enriched his life had been by it.
In spite of what he’d said, and his generosity to the tenants, she didn’t think he’d been as well enriched financially. Certainly he talked about good investments, but a trading company could not provide the kind of income Edward commanded.
Yet who was to say Edward was the better off? In terms of happiness, of sheer enjoyment of life, James was clearly far ahead. If she could live like James, she would seize the chance.
But she was not James and she would never have the opportunity to go adventuring. The melancholy truth was after tomorrow, she wouldn’t see James again. Once she’d refused Edward, the Demerhams would be obliged to return home and all contact would cease. James would be off on his travels again, and she would…
She didn’t know
what
she would do. She couldn’t imagine there being a man she would be happy to marry. Couldn’t imagine a man who would match the ideal she carried. The image of a dark haired adventurer, charming his way through the world, shimmered in the back of her mind, but she shook it off. Reality had to be faced and dreams were best left for sleep.
She called Betsy to begin preparations for the evening.
Edward had made it clear this would be a simple family dinner, even though it was Christmas. So Lucinda couldn’t explain why she demanded Betsy dress her in her very best gown instead of saving it for tomorrow night. Or why she encouraged her to take special care with her hair, and insisted on tightening her corset more than usual.
While Betsy was occupied searching through the dressing cases for a brand new pair of shoe rosettes, Lucinda surreptitiously pinched her cheeks. Her mother, had after all, commented on how much better she looked with a bit of color.
Not that Lucinda particularly wanted to impress
anybody
. It was just that to a well-traveled man, pale English roses might seem a bit fair or faded and she felt it her duty to uphold her countrywomen’s honor.
She entered the drawing room for the pre-dinner gathering, determined to attract no adverse attention. She stood quietly, listening to Edward instruct her parents on some aspect of life he apparently considered essential knowledge. The countess was engaged in a brief consultation with the butler.
James stared out of the window at the gathering dark, but he turned and walked toward her when she came in. She tried to ignore the way her pulse fluttered as he bowed over her hand.
No one, she hoped would notice the heat coloring her cheeks, making her pinching redundant, or overhear James’ murmured comment.
“Why did you run away earlier?”
Checking to see nobody was paying any attention, she whispered back, “My parents would not have approved of my being in the kitchen.”
“Must your fun always be curtailed by your parents’ disapproval?” He arched an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth quirked upward.