Yuletide Treasure (5 page)

Brigitte wasn't certain she could speak. “Who said you were beyond redemption?”

“Mrs. Lawley. What does it mean?”

“It means Mrs. Lawley is a terrible judge of character,” Brigitte managed, striving for control.

“Is
she
beyond re-damn-sin?”

“I hope not. But at this moment, I'm not at all certain.”

“Her dog is. He tried to bite Fuzzy.” Noelle considered the matter. “Whatever re-damn-sin is, it must be a very bad thing to be. It has two wicked words in it—well, really only one. ‘Sin' is only bad when you do it; saying it doesn't count. ‘Damn' is bad all the time.”

Thank God for Noelle's precociousness, Brigitte reflected as she dissolved into laughter. Without it, she might have stormed over to Mrs. Lawley's house and slapped the woman across her thoughtless face—she and all the other
supposedly fine, decent families Noelle had been subjected to these past four years.

The truth was, this remarkable child had been passed about like a sack of grain, given only food, clothing, and a roof over her head.

Meager substitutes for encouragement, constancy, and love.

Suddenly, Brigitte knew what she must do.

“Neither of those words, wicked or otherwise, pertains to you.” She grasped Noelle's hand, leading her back inside the blue room. “Let's select appropriate romping clothes for you, shall we?” Squatting on the floor, she opened the traveling bag, assessing Noelle's meager wardrobe.

Clothing was the farthest thing from her mind.

“You know, Noelle, your uncle doesn't hate you,” she remarked offhandedly. “In fact, I think he loves you more than he knows. More, in fact, than he wants to.”

The last captured Noelle's interest, and she plopped down on the rug beside Brigitte. “What do you mean? Uncle
doesn't
love me. He doesn't love
anyone.”

“You're wrong. And not only with regard to you. Your uncle loved someone else. Very much, in fact.”

“Who?”

“Your mama.”

“My mama?” Noelle's eyes widened into huge, glittering sapphires. “Really?”

“Really.” Brigitte sat back on her heels, abandoning all pretense of sorting through clothing. “You're right about your mama being beautiful. She was. In fact, you look just like her.”

“Mrs. Willett told me that, too. The Willetts kept me longer than anybody. Mrs. Willett even liked me. She said I was real smart. But Mr. Willett didn't like smart girls. He wanted a boy. They yelled at each other a lot, especially when they thought I was asleep. And Mrs. Willett would cry. Finally, they brought me back to Farrington. That day, in the carriage, she told me I looked like Mama. I guess she was just being nice, so I wouldn't feel bad that she was returning me.”

“No,” Brigitte countered, determinedly squelching her own distress. “She was being truthful. You have Liza's eyes, exactly, and her delicate nose and chin. Even your hair is the same color—black as night.”

“Did you know her?”

“Yes I did,” Brigitte answered cautiously. “In fact, I knew your uncle, too. He doesn't remember me, because I was very young. But I remember him. And what I especially remember is how much he loved your mother.” That much was true. Reaching out, Brigitte took Noelle's hand. “Darling, this is going to be hard for you to understand. Lord knows, you're wiser than most adults, but you're still only four.”

“Three and ten months. I won't be four 'til Christmas.”

Brigitte's lips curved. “I stand corrected.
Nearly
four. Anyway, I'll try to explain. Your uncle was your mama's older brother. He took care of her throughout her life. When she died, it was like a part of him died, too. Not on the outside, but on the inside. Can you understand that?”

Noelle nodded. “I felt like that when Mrs. Lawley took Fuzzy away. She said I couldn't sleep with him anymore 'cause he was too dirty and I couldn't play with him anymore 'cause I was too old. I cried a lot that night, and my tummy hurt really bad. So, when everyone was asleep, I sneaked downstairs and fetched Fuzzy out of the rubbish.” She pursed her lips. “But Uncle couldn't do that—fetch Mama back, I mean. So his tummy must have kept hurting.”

“Exactly.” Tears stung Brigitte's eyes, glistened on her lashes. “I think his tummy still hurts, Noelle. And everything that reminds him of her makes it hurt more.”

Another sage nod. “The night Mrs. Lawley took Fuzzy away, one of the maids heard me crying. She brought me another toy. I didn't want it 'cause it reminded me how much I missed Fuzzy. Does Uncle feel like that when he looks at me?”

“I think so, yes. Except that, in your case, the new toy was a stranger. In Lord Farrington's case, you're a part of Liza—the wondrous legacy she left behind. So, yes, it hurts—maybe too much for him to endure. But that hurt
stems from love, not hate. He loves you, Noelle; he just doesn't know how to welcome that love without allowing in the hurt that's always accompanied it. It's our job to help him. We're going to succeed. I know we are.”

Noelle studied Brigitte with keen, probing eyes. Abruptly, her gaze lowered, and she began playing with Fuzzy's collar. “After that, will you go away?”

Brigitte had been expecting that question. Given the circumstances, it was more than natural.

So was her answer.

“No, darling, I won't. Not then. Not ever. I'm married to your uncle now, and Farrington is my home. I'm staying right here with you and Fuzzy.”

Relief swept over Noelle's face. “That's good.” A tiny pucker formed between her brows. “But what about your mama and papa—won't they miss you?”

“They can watch over me at Farrington the same way they always have,” Brigitte replied softly. “They're in heaven, just like your mama.”

Noelle's head came up. “Oh! I thought the vicar was your papa.”

“Almost, but no. Actually, he's my papa's papa—my grandfather. He raised me the same way your uncle raised your mama.”

“Do you remember your parents?”

“Only my father, and only vaguely. Mama died when I was born.”

“Same as my mama!”

At that instant, Brigitte actually hated Liza for abandoning this precious miracle—a miracle she didn't deserve. “Yes, Noelle, much the same. Then my father died in a carriage accident when I was two. Grandfather has been both mother and father to me. He's a wonderful man. I've been truly blessed.”

“I heard Uncle say the vicar could visit you at Farrington.”

“That's right. When he does, I'll bet you and Fuzzy love him as much as I do.” Brigitte rose, lifting a simple, loose-fitting dress from the bag. “Speaking of Fuzzy, didn't we promise him some exercise? Let's get you changed so we can
go explore the woods. Together we'll find the perfect spot to erect a huge pile of leaves. Then, Fuzzy can jump to his heart's content.”

—

Peals of laughter drifted into Eric's chambers, invading the darkness and the privacy he'd safeguarded for years.

Brigitte Curran.

Damn the guileless chit for intruding upon his life. She was supposed to be supervising Noelle, not permeating the sanctuary that was his and his alone.

What were they laughing about anyway?

With a will of their own, Eric's legs carried him to the window, and he moved the heavy drape aside so he could peer out. From his vantage point, he could see the entire section of woods surrounding the manor's east wing.

He didn't have far to look.

There, pouncing from the lowest branch of a nearby oak to a towering mound of leaves below, were his niece and his bride, alternately climbing and rolling about, leaves clinging to their hair and gowns.

His bride.

Eric released the curtain as if he'd been burned.

What the hell was wrong with him? What was the cause of this unanticipated reaction to Brigitte Curran and the sight of her bounding about like a child?

A bloody beautiful child. Vibrant and spirited, frolicking with a little girl who was the image of Liza.

Resurrecting a flood of memories long since buried. Memories—and feelings.

Everything inside him went taut.

He'd expected the past to haunt him—at least so long as Noelle was underfoot. That's why he'd married Brigitte. To rid himself of the unthinkable task of rearing Liza's daughter. Brigitte was the perfect candidate for the position: unattached, untainted, uncomplicated by shallow expectations and false hopes. Plus, she related to Noelle in a way he'd never before seen, much less imagined.

What he hadn't anticipated were the emotions she evoked inside him—not merely pangs over what had been, but over what could be.

She was a glimmer of radiance in an interminable hell.

She was also his wife.

In name alone, he reminded himself, scowling. To permit more would be insane. She wasn't one of his occasionally summoned, well-paid courtesans. She was a sheltered innocent who knew nothing about coupling and less about how to separate physical need from emotional involvement. To take her to bed would be cruel.

But, God, she was beautiful. Beautiful, exuberant, and as uninhibited as she was tenderhearted.

Would she be uninhibited in his arms?

With a muttered oath, Eric slammed his fist against the wall, squelching that tantalizing concept in the making. To bed his wife would be an unacceptable complication, threatening not only her mental well-being, but his own. He'd achieved what he'd sought: a governess for Noelle and peace for himself. Anything more was inconceivable.

He moved away from the window, closing his mind and heart to the ongoing shouts of laughter.

But at night, they haunted his soul.

“W
E HAVE TWO MAJOR CELEBRATIONS COMING UP,”
B
RIGITTE
informed Noelle, kneeling alongside the tub.

“What celebrations?” Noelle's nose wrinkled in concentration as she watched Brigitte lift Fuzzy from his first bath. Snatching him away, she squeezed him free of water, then began vigorously toweling him dry. “Fuzzy looks grand,” she declared, holding him up to admire. “Now even Mrs. Lawley couldn't say he was dirty.”

Brigitte was still reeling from the implications of Noelle's question. “Did you say ‘What celebrations'?” she demanded. “Why, your birthday and Christmas. Or have you forgotten December is but a month away?”

Noelle's motions slowed. “November only started a week ago.”

“Yes, but Advent begins at month's end—that's less than three weeks. A scant four weeks later is Christmas Day and your fourth birthday. We have hours of preparation ahead. Baking, selecting gifts, planning a party—”

“Fuzzy doesn't like parties,” Noelle interrupted, retying the ribbon about his neck. “He likes to spend holidays alone with me. Besides, Uncle won't allow guests at Farrington. He doesn't see anyone—you know that.”

“Only too well.” Brigitte sighed, feeling utterly discouraged by the lack of headway she'd made with Eric.

In the fortnight since she'd arrived at Farrington, he'd made no attempt to see her or—worse—to see Noelle. In fact, they'd spied him but thrice, each time by accident and each time only until he noticed their presence and vanished. Never had he ventured into their wing. Not even to investigate when Noelle's antics resulted in ear-splitting crashes that could wake the dead: the oriental vase she'd used as a croquet mallet, the flock of bird figurines she'd sailed over the second-story landing to prove they could fly, and the half-dozen other “incidents” that had accompanied her gradual but steady transition from a behavioral nightmare to a normal, high-spirited little girl who no longer needed to destroy her surroundings to receive the attention she craved. That attention, a natural expression of Brigitte's love, was now given freely, supplanting the reprimands of Noelle's numerous foster families.

How much easier Noelle's transition would be if her unyielding uncle would allow her into his heart.

But with or without Eric's help, Brigitte was determined to offer her precious charge the joyous elements of childhood that she deserved—Christmases and birthdays.

On that thought, Brigitte returned her attention to Noelle. “Even if your uncle maintains his rules
and
his seclusion, that doesn't preclude us from having our own private birthday party. We'll take tea and cake on the grounds—in the snow if necessary—followed by a rousing puppet show. Wait until you see how superb Grandfather is at puppetry …”

Panic widened Noelle's eyes, and she clutched Fuzzy to
her chest. “He can't use Fuzzy as a puppet No one holds Fuzzy but me.”

“Of course not. Fuzzy will be a guest. What kind of cake does he prefer?”

Silence.

Comprehension struck like a douse of cold water. “Noelle, have you never had a birthday celebration?”

Noelle buried her face in Fuzzy's fur.

Brigitte fought her rising anguish. “Noelle.” She stroked the child's shining dark head. “How have you spent the past four Christmases—and where?”

A shrug. “I was born on my first Christmas,” she mumbled. “So I s'pose I spent it at Farrington. I don't remember my next one—I was at some family's house, I guess. When I was two, I was at the Reglingtons'. They sent me up to the nursery without dinner 'cause I squashed a few of the presents when I was playing in the sitting room. When I was three, I was at the Ballisons' house. I clipped the needles off their Christmas tree and spent the rest of the day in the cellar. Do you promise the vicar won't take Fuzzy away?”

“I promise, darling. No one will take Fuzzy away.” Brigitte's stomach was in knots. After a fortnight of stories such as these, she'd thought herself beyond shock. She wasn't.

Lifting Noelle's chin with one damp forefinger, she probed the matter, needing to verify her suspicions. “You've never decorated a tree? Baked mince pie? Sent Christmas cards? Gone caroling?” Seeing Noelle's negative shake of the head, she sucked in her breath. “And what about your birthday? Surely the families with whom you lived didn't ignore it entirely?”