Yuletide Treasure (11 page)

“Nor will you.” Brigitte wanted to shout her joy to the skies. “Not now. Not ever.”

“Even Noelle was alarmed, and you know she's practically fearless. That first night she had a gruesome nightmare. She dreamed you'd died. I could scarcely stop her sobs. She loves you so bloody much …”

“You went to Noelle,” Brigitte interrupted, her pupils dilating with joy. “When she awakened from her nightmare, you went in to comfort her.”

“Yes. I did.”

“Oh, Eric.” Brigitte flung her arms about his neck. “You see? There are miracles.” She closed her eyes. “Thank God.”

Eric tangled his hands in her hair. “If God is to be thanked, it's for bringing you into our lives. Perhaps He finds me deserving after all.”

“Oh, He does,” Brigitte concurred fiercely. Leaning back, she caressed her husband's bearded jaw. “God sees you as I do. As I always have. As the man you truly are. A knight in a fairy tale: honorable, protective … extraordinary.”

“But sadly in need of a princess to rescue.” Eric brushed his wife's lips with his. “Would you know of someone who might fill that role?”

“Have you forgotten? It's already been filled—by your wife. You saved my life, remember?”

“I remember.” Sweeping Brigitte off the floor and into his arms, Eric made his way through the debris—crossing the past's threshold and never looking back. “And in return, you gave me mine.”

—

“Uncle?”

The hushed summons tickled Eric's ear.

“H-m-m?”

“Is Brigitte better? Is that why you're hugging her? Were you celebrating?”

Eric cracked open an eye, his arms tightening reflexively about his wife, now curved gently against him, the slow rise and fall of her back telling him she was asleep. Smiling, he recalled the exquisite hours preceding that slumber. “Yes, Noelle,” he returned in a whisper, grateful that he'd heeded Brigitte's advice and donned his trousers while she'd scrambled into her nightdress—just in the event of such a predawn intrusion. “Brigitte's much better. And we were celebrating.”

Noelle's sigh of relief was buried in Fuzzy's fur. “Then everything will be better, won't it, Uncle?”

“Yes, Noelle, everything will be better. Now go back to sleep; it's still night.”

“All right.” She hesitated. “Uncle? Remember what I said about how much Brigitte likes you?”

“Um-hum.”

“Well, I know a way she'd like you even better.”

Both Eric's eyes snapped open. “What?”

Noelle pressed her lips closer to his ear, her whisper loud enough to be heard across the room. “She thinks you're really handsome. She stares at you an awful lot. I think you should make it easier for her to see you.”

Eric's lips twitched. “What do you suggest?”

“Shaving your face and cutting your hair. It would make
you look ever so much nicer. Look how splendid Fuzzy looks since his bath. And I saw what a fuss Brigitte made over him. She'd probably make a fuss like that over you, too.” A pause. “Well, maybe not
as
big a fuss, but then Fuzzy was a lot dirtier than you are.”

“Thank you.” Eric bit back his laughter. “That's excellent advice. I'll put it to use this very day.”

“Good.” A satisfied nod. “Uncle, are we a family?”

Eric's amusement faded, emotion knotting his chest. “Yes, Noelle. Thanks to Brigitte, that's precisely what we are.”

“I thought so.” She kissed his cheek with a loud smack. “G'night, Uncle.”

“Sweet dreams.” Eric reached up and tugged one tangled dark tress. “By the way,” he said, “it's gotten quite cold these past few days. I think it might snow. Perhaps we should plan to move your birthday party indoors. My chambers are more than large enough to accommodate even the grandest of puppet shows.”

Noelle's eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really. Now get some rest. We have a busy morning ahead of us.”

The bright blue gaze narrowed questioningly. “We do?”

“Certainly. Didn't you hear me? It feels like snow. Therefore, we'd best fetch those numerous boughs of holly Brigitte so painstakingly collected—then abandoned when she dashed into the pond to save you. By tomorrow, they could be buried under layers of snow. If that should happen, and if the ground remains covered, we won't be able to retrieve them in time for Christmas. Nor are there enough boughs left on the trees to replace them.”

The significance of Eric's words sank in, and Noelle flung her arms about his neck, hugging him fiercely. “Oh, Uncle, I'm so glad you learned how to celebrate.”

“So am I, Noelle,” Eric managed. “Very, very glad.”

Lying quietly beside him, Brigitte smiled through her tears, giving silent thanks to the heavens.

In reply, a decision was made somewhere far above.

And the first snowflake deferred its descent one day longer.

“B
RIGITTE, DID YOU SEE
A
NNE
C
OREWELL'S EXPRESSION WHEN
Uncle gave her the Christmas shillings?”

“Yes, Noelle, I did,” Brigitte affirmed, cheerfully warming her hands by the sitting room fire. “I saw all the children's faces. They were elated.”

“Are some of them truly coming to Farrington this afternoon?” Noelle demanded, prancing about their gloriously decorated Christmas tree—the very fir Brigitte had selected scant weeks ago when Christmas seemed naught but an inconceivable dream. “Just for my party?”

“Actually, quite a few of them accepted our invitation.” Brigitte's heart swelled with gratitude as she recalled the generous response of the villagers, many of whom were postponing their own Christmas festivities in order to grant one precious four-year-old the first real celebration of her life. “And not only the children,” she added. “Their families as well. After all, sharing Christmas with those you love is what makes the day so special—right?”

“Right!” Noelle's head bobbed up and down, pausing as another thought struck. “Brigitte, what about your grandfather? Is he coming? He's family—and he's
really
special. It's 'cause of him that so many people like Uncle again. I heard Anne's parents talking—they said the vicar's been come-mending Uncle and saying everyone should welcome him, not fear him.” A tiny pucker formed between Noelle's brows. “What's ‘come-mending'? Does that mean Uncle was broken and the vicar fixed him?”

“No, love.” Brigitte grinned at Noelle's customarily inventive reasoning. “Your Uncle wasn't broken. Commending someone is praising them; the opposite of chest-izing them.”

“Oh! No wonder so many people are coming to my party. The vicar must have explained how Uncle saved our lives. Now they all know he's a hero, too.”

“Indeed they do. And, to answer your question, yes, Grandfather will be here.”

Noelle chewed her lip. “Do you think he'll be too tired to run the puppet show? His Christmas sermon was awfully long. I know 'cause, even though I stayed awake through the whole thing, Fuzzy nodded off twice.”

Brigitte's shoulders shook. “Grandfather wouldn't miss your party for the world. Rest assured, he and his puppets are en route to Farrington even as we speak.”

“Oh, Brigitte, Christmas is just as wonderful as you promised!” Noelle tossed Fuzzy in the air, where he bounced against a wreath and landed in Noelle's arms with an evergreen sprig about his neck.

“More wonderful,” Brigitte replied, glancing up as Eric entered the room. “Who was that at the door?”

“Bladewell—the Farrington butler.” A look of awed pleasure split Eric's clean-shaven face. “According to him, all the servants will be returning to Farrington by the first of the year. Not one of them refused my offer—my
request,”
Eric amended softly, “to assume their previous positions.”

“Oh, Eric, that's splendid!” Brigitte's heart sang at the wonder in her husband's eyes. “What else did he say?”

“H-m-m?
Oh, nothing more.” Swiftly, Eric averted his gaze, busying himself with readjusting the garland about the doorframe. “He had to hurry off to his sister's house. She's making Christmas dinner for their family.”

Brigitte's brows rose. “I see. If that's all you discussed, then why were you gone so long?”

An evasive shrug, followed by a chuckle. “I had a private matter to attend to, my inquisitive wife.”

“How many people will be living here, Uncle?” Noelle piped up, before Brigitte could pursue the subject.

“Lots.” Eric rumpled her hair. “Hundreds, perhaps. Is that too many?”

“Oh, no,” she assured him. “Fuzzy has decided he likes company after all.”

“Does he like surprises?”

Instantly, Noelle's eyes lit up. “Yes. Is that what the ‘private matter' was—a surprise?”

“Um-hum.
Upstairs.” Eric gestured toward the doorway. “Would you care to see it?”

“It's in your chambers, isn't it? You're finally going to show me the preparations you made for the puppet show!”

“Excellent guess. Unfortunately, however, it's only half right. Come.” Amusement curved Eric's lips as he turned to his wife, who was eyeing him in utter bewilderment. “Will you be joining us, Lady Farrington?”

“Is there something more than I already know?” she demanded.

“Accompany us and find out.”

“I fully intend to.” Brigitte sprinted after Noelle, wondering what on earth Eric had done in his chambers, other than that which she'd helped him effect: arranging Noelle's tea party and hiding her gift. When had he found time to do more? He hadn't left their sides for more than a few minutes at a time; not since that pivotal moment in Liza's room. Nor had he spent a single night in his old room. Brigitte herself could attest to
that
fact, she thought with a warm, sated glow.

Of course, there was that hour every afternoon when she and Noelle would take their naps—an hour she seemed to require more and more as the days progressed. Perhaps Eric had used those intervals to work on his surprise.

Which reminded her that she had a surprise of her own to share.

Lighthearted, Brigitte dashed up the stairs, hearing Eric's rumbling laughter as he followed in her wake.

By the time they reached the east wing, Noelle was soaring at a dead run.

“Uncle, it's locked!” she called out, jiggling the door handle.

“Of course it is. How else would I keep prying young lad
ies”—
he tossed Brigitte a meaningful look along with his emphasis of the plural—“from inspecting my handiwork.”

Brigitte was all innocence. “I?”

“You.” He strode up, extracting the key from his pocket.

“I didn't even know of the surprise,” she protested.

“What if you had? Would you have been disciplined enough to stay away?”

Silence.

“I rest my case.” Eric inserted the key in its slot.

“I believe I've just been chest-ized,” Brigitte muttered to Noelle.

“That's all right.” Noelle patted her arm soothingly. “Remember what I said: Uncle always smiles when he chest-izes you.” Her attention was recaptured by the sound of the bolt lifting. “Hurry, Uncle. Fuzzy and I are going to burst.”

“In that case …” Eric swung open the door. “Go in and behold your surprise.”

Noelle dashed in, Brigitte at her heels, and whooped with pleasure at what she saw.

Brigitte and Eric had set up the entire outer room of his chambers for Noelle's party, with a curtained stage for the puppet show and lots of chairs surrounding it, together with an elegantly clothed table laid out for the most exquisite of teas.

“Brigitte, did you help Uncle?”

“I did, indeed,” Brigitte confirmed. “Given the meager number of hours you sleep, it took two of us to accomplish this by Christmas Day.”

“It's perfect!”

Thrilled by Noelle's jubilation, Brigitte darted about behind her, watching as Noelle lingered over every loving detail of their preparations.

A towering silhouette of color in the inner room caught Brigitte's eye.

Puzzled, she pivoted—and her jaw dropped. “Oh, my … Noelle, look!”

Noelle's head jerked around, and she followed Brigitte's stare, gasping as she beheld the full effect of her uncle's surprise. Her eyes grew big as saucers, her mouth widening into an astonished O.

Eric's sleeping quarters were no more. The furnishings had vanished, but for a small side table upon which sat a diminutive version of Brigitte's fir tree, trimmed in full Christmas array.

Or maybe it just seemed diminutive because it was eclipsed by the dozens and dozens of presents that filled the room, some carefully wrapped, others open and on display, beckoning their admirers forward.

Toys, sweets, girls' clothing of every hue and variety, games, books—a floor-to-ceiling paradise of gifts awaited Noelle, each and every one of them with her name on it.

“Merry Christmas,” Eric said, his voice rough with emotion.

“Are all these for me?” Noelle managed.

“Other than the ones on the far wall, which are for Brigitte. They're from me to you: for all the Christmases we missed and should have shared.” He cleared his throat. “Well, tempest, what are you waiting for?”

It was all the permission Noelle needed.

She dashed forward, snatching up two dolls at once, together with an armful of outfits in which to dress them. Seconds later, she spied something and squealed, flinging the clothes aside, dropping to her knees to shove both dolls—and Fuzzy—into a three-level dollhouse large enough to fit another half-dozen miniature occupants.

“Eric …” Brigitte wasn't certain what to say.

“Aren't you going to inspect your gifts?” he asked, pointing to the thirty or more beautiful, fashionable day dresses and ball gowns that lined the far side of the room. “I hope they please you. I had the seamstress make a variety of styles, in case you prefer one over another. The boxes alongside the gowns contain accessories and undergarments, plus some fragrances and jewelry I thought you might enjoy.”