Yuletide Treasure (4 page)

The vicar cupped her chin, raising her face to meet his gaze. “Your preoccupation with the earl began earlier than I realized.”

“I suppose it did. But, preoccupied or not, what I beheld was fact, not sentiment. Lord Farrington was an exemplary brother. He doted on Liza. A man like that doesn't need to be taught to care.”

“Brigitte,” the vicar said quietly, “all that altered near the end. The earl changed after he lost his fortune; he became angry, bitter. His transformation must have been dreadful—and I'm not only referring to his physical transformation, although that alone was intimidating enough. But his unkempt hair and unshaven face were eclipsed by the hollow darkness in his eyes, his soul. How many times did we hear of his torrents? The way he cast the manor in darkness, permeated with silence, but for his terrifying fits of rage? 'Tis no wonder that less than two months later Liza ran off.”

“If she was so afraid of her brother, why did she return?” Brigitte demanded.

“She was alone and with child. She had nowhere else to turn. So she sought refuge at Farrington, where she gave birth to Noelle on Christmas Day. Again, according to the servants, the weeks that followed were torturous. Torturous and violent.”

“Liza died abroad, Grandfather, not at Farrington.”

“Yes, I know. But what caused her to flee again? What if it truly was fear? What if the earl does have a temper as dangerous as the servants claim? What if that temper did, in fact, provoke Liza's flight and, ultimately, her death?”

“I don't believe that. Lord Farrington would never hurt Liza. Didn't you see the pain on his face just now when he looked at Noelle? That wasn't guilt, Grandfather, that was anguish—anguish that makes it unbearable for him to have her near. Why? Because she's the image of her mother. He's never gotten over losing Liza.”

“Even if that's so, Noelle is the one now being hurt.”

“I agree. Noelle sees only her uncle's rejection, not the pain beneath it. She's far too young to understand. But I do understand. I want to help. Please, Grandfather, let me do this. I know in my heart it's the right thing. And, at the same time, I'll be offering our parish the funds it needs to survive. Not only now, but always.”

The vicar smoothed Brigitte's hair from her brow. “Child, even if I disregard my qualms about Lord Farrington, I'm still not at ease. You have no idea what it means to be a wife. I've never prepared you …”

“I know what's entailed,” Brigitte interrupted softly. “However, your worry is most likely unfounded. Lord Farrington gave us no indication that he wants anything more than a governess—someone to share his name, not his bed.”

“Still, you're a beautiful young woman. And the earl is a man.” Curran frowned. “I should have anticipated this day and better planned for it. But somehow the years dashed by without my notice. One moment you were a shy little girl. The next, you're a woman grown, eighteen and ready to begin your own life.” He shook his head in wonder. “Did I fail to see the signs? Have there been gentlemen who've shown interest?”

“No,” Brigitte returned adamantly. “At least none whose interest I've returned.”

“Because of Lord Farrington?”

Utter candor shone in her eyes. “Yes.”

The vicar fell silent, wondering why all his supposed
wisdom wasn't sufficient to provide him with the insight he needed right now. Torn between reason and affection, he sought a higher voice, beseeching Him for advice.

In the end, he wasn't sure which was more compelling, God's will or the appeal on Brigitte's face.

“All right, child,” he relented. “I'll marry you to Lord Farrington. I only pray I'm doing the right thing—for you and for Noelle.”

“You are.” Brigitte gave him a fierce hug. “Thank you, Grandfather. I'll hurry and finish packing. I have only three students left to visit. Then I'll be ready.”

“I'll await your arrival in the church.” A hint of a smile appeared. “That is, if it's still standing. The earl and Noëlle have been there for hours. By now the entire structure may be reduced to a pile of debris.”

Brigitte grinned. “Then we'll rebuild it.”

“Structures are far easier to rebuild than lives.”

“True. But the results are not nearly as rewarding.” Gently, Brigitte kissed her grandfather's cheek. “Don't worry,” she whispered. “I shan't be going to Farrington alone. I'll take with me your most precious gifts: love, determination, and an abundance of faith. Armed with those tools, how can I fail?”

T
WO HOURS LATER,
B
RIGITTE'S CONFIDENCE WAS SUBJECTED TO
its first test.

Before her loomed the tangible evidence of her onerous challenge: Farrington Manor.

Slipping off her coat, she took a long look about her new home. The entry hall was barren, devoid of furnishings or objects, other than one upset chair that sprawled across the wooden floor and a small traveling bag—Noelle's, she assumed. The light was minimal, the ceiling high, the walls bare.

Walls it would be up to her to fill.

She drew a fortifying breath, reminding herself that no task was insurmountable. Farrington was hollow, not cold. Its heart was asleep, its soul encased in darkness.

But how to awaken it?

“You and Noelle may do as you choose,” Eric pronounced, tossing his coat in a nearby cloakroom. “As you can see, the manor is quite large. The grounds surrounding it are extensive. Most of my time is spent in my quarters. Therefore, there's little worry that we'll cross paths.” He bent, gripping the handle of Brigitte's one and only bag. “I'll place this in your room.” With that, he headed toward the staircase.

“Wait.”

Shoulders taut, he pivoted to face his bride. “What is it?”

“Before you take your leave, I have several questions I need answered. For one thing, where
is
my room? And Noelle's, for that matter? Not to mention the kitchen and the schoolroom?” As she spoke, Brigitte lay a restraining palm on Noelle's shoulder, perceiving—and understanding—the child's restlessness. After all, she'd been confined for hours: first waiting in the church with Eric, next standing by while the vows were being exchanged, and last, sitting still for the carriage ride home. As a result, she was a coiled spring ready to explode. And if she did … well, Brigitte wasn't eager to see Eric's reaction.

“I won't take much of your time, my lord,” Brigitte continued, using her unoccupied hand to scoop up Noelle's bag. “But as you yourself just said, the manor is huge. So unless you have a map to provide me, I will need some instructions.”

Eric's gaze delved into her's, his expression unreadable. At last, he nodded. “Fine.” He stalked back and relieved her of Noelle's traveling bag. “Follow me.”

“Fuzzy and I aren't staying in that pink room,” Noelle announced as they rounded the first-floor landing. “It's ugly and Fuzzy hates it. He doesn't much like the green room either. It's filled with dumb statues that don't do anything Except break.”

Brigitte saw the corded muscles in Eric's neck go rigid— the only indication that he'd heard Noelle's outspoken
stipulations. She herself had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

They headed down a seemingly unending hallway.

“The blue room is my favorite,” Noelle continued. “It has a big window and long drapes. When I'm bored, I use them to climb down to the ground.”

“You destroyed those drapes during your last stay,” Eric returned icily. “You cut them to shreds to make a winter coat for
that
tattered thing.” He jerked his head in Fuzzy's direction, never stopping or breaking stride.

“Fuzzy isn't a ‘that.' He's a ‘he.'”

“Nevertheless, the drapes are gone. The remnants have since been carried off by real animals. Ask your governess to order new ones.” Abruptly, he halted. “The blue room,” he announced, flinging open the door and depositing Noelle's bag within.

Brigitte peeked inside. “It's lovely,” she murmured, appraising the canopied bed and wide—though blatantly curtainless—windows with a smile. “Very well, if this is to be Noelle's room”—turning, she glanced thoughtfully across the hall—“I'll take the chamber directly opposite it. In a flash, she sprinted over and reached for the door handle.

“No'”

Eric's command fired like a bullet. Jolted, Brigitte backed away, her eyes wide and questioning.

“That room is not to be disturbed,” he thundered, advancing on her. “Ever. It is locked. It will remain so. Is that clear?”

Wordlessly, Brigitte nodded.

“Good. If you wish to be near Noelle, take the room next to hers.” Eric gripped Brigitte's elbow and ushered her down to the next room. “I'm sure you'll find these to your liking. If not, there are a dozen other bedchambers to choose from. One will doubtless suit you.”

Catching her breath, Brigitte inquired, “Which chambers are yours?”

His brows arched, anger evidently eclipsed by surprise. “None of these. I reside in another wing. Why?”

“Because I want to know precisely where Noelle and I are
prohibited from entering. That way, we can prevent unpleasant displays of temper like the one you just subjected us to.”

A flicker of something—was it admiration?—flashed in Eric's dark eyes. “I suppose that's prudent. My quarters are at the far end of the corridor in the east wing. As to your limitations, other than the bedchamber you just approached and, of course, my own, you're welcome to frequent any room you like.” He cleared his throat. “Treat the manor as your home.”

“Thank you,” she replied soberly, searching the harsh lines of his face. “Now, if you will just tell me where the kitchen is, I shan't trouble you again. Noelle, Fuzzy, and I will settle in and begin to get acquainted. Perhaps we'll explore the grounds. Unless, of course, Noelle shatters that lovely lamp on her nightstand—the one she's rolled to its side and Fuzzy is vaulting over. In which case, we'll spend the afternoon sweeping up slivers of glass. Right, Noelle?”

Noelle jumped, stunned to realize Brigitte was aware of her actions. “How did you know what Fuzzy and I were doing?” she demanded, staring at Brigitte's profile. “You're looking at my uncle.”

“I'm smart.” Brigitte grinned, turning to face her. “And so are you. So I'm sure you'll agree it would be a shame to waste the remainder of this crisp autumn day scooping up pieces of the very lamp by which I planned to read you a bedtime story. I admit that Fuzzy's antics are amusing. But are they worth sacrificing an outing
and
an hour's reading adventure? The choice, little tempest, is yours. And of course, Fuzzy's.”

Noelle's eyes grew wide as saucers. “You're not going to punish me?”

“For what? You haven't done anything—yet.” A conspiratorial wink.

Slowly, Noelle stood the lamp back in its original spot. “Fuzzy likes to jump,” she informed Brigitte, twining a lock of hair about her finger. “But he likes leaf piles better than lamps.”

“I can understand that. Dashing about the woods presents far more exciting, and safer, possibilities than skipping
about a small nightstand.” Brigitte's smile reached out to Noelle, enveloped her in its warmth. “If you'll give me a moment with your uncle, I promise to help you amass the tallest mound of leaves you've ever seen—one that will impress even Fuzzy. Would that be acceptable?”

A decisive nod.

“Excellent. And, Noelle,” Brigitte added with undisguised pleasure, “I'm proud of you. That was a mature and responsible decision. Fuzzy is lucky to have you looking out for him.” With that, she turned back to Eric, nearly laughing aloud at his stunned expression. “The kitchen, my lord?”

“H-m-m?
Oh, the kitchen.” He dragged a hand through his thick hair. “It's directly beneath the pantry area—which is down the stairs to your right. Groceries are delivered once a month, as is coal, wood, and whatever other supplies I require. I presume you can cook?”

“Of course.”

“Fine. Because my own needs are meager and I see to them myself. However, I pay the delivery men well. So order whatever additional groceries you want for you and Noelle. They'll see you get them.”

“Excellent.” Brigitte's eyes sparkled. “You may leave us now, my lord.”

Eric's lips twitched ever so slightly. “Clearly, I can.”

With a mystified glance from Brigitte to Noelle, he swerved and headed down the hall toward the east wing.

“He likes you,” Noelle piped up.

“Pardon me?”

“Uncle. He likes you.”

Brigitte folded her arms across her chest. “Really. How do you know that?”

A matter-of-fact shrug. “The way he looks at you. And even though you made him mad, he almost smiled after he chest-ized you.”

“Ah.
I see.”

“You like him, too. Don't you?”

Brigitte gazed wistfully after Eric's retreating back. “Yes, Noelle, I do. Very much.”

“How come you don't lie?”

“What?” Brigitte's attention snapped back to her inquisitive young charge.

“Grown-ups always lie.”

“Not all grown-ups. And certainly not always.”

“You're different,” Noelle countered. “You don't lie. You don't talk to me like I'm too dumb to understand. You don't ignore Fuzzy. And you don't even hate me.”

“Hate you?” Brigitte felt a knife twist in her heart. “Why would anyone hate you? You're intelligent, witty, and spirited.”

Another shrug. “Papa hated me. I heard Mrs. Lawley say he never even wanted to meet me. 'Course, Mrs. Lawley hated me, too—just like all the other families who brought me back to Farrington. And Uncle? He hates me most of all. He never keeps me for more than a day. Then he finds another family for me to live with. But they always return me, and it starts again.” Noelle stared at the tip of her shoe. “My mama didn't hate me. I could tell in the picture of her I saw. She was too beautiful to hate me. But she's dead. That's probably why I'm beyond re-damn-sin.” Noelle's lashes lifted, and she inclined her head quizzically “What's re-damn-sin?”