A Christmas Promise (7 page)

One of the hardest things she had done in her life, she found half an hour later, was dismissing her maid and leaving her dressing room to descend to the breakfast room. She dreaded seeing him again—the stiff and contemptuous stranger who had so hurt and degraded her the night before. Her husband. She drew back her shoulders and raised her head high.

But the breakfast room was empty except for the butler and a footman and rows of silver-covered warming dishes on a sideboard.

“Good morning, m’lady,” the butler said, bowing deeply and drawing back a chair for her.

And that was what she was, she thought with some incredulity. She was my lady, a countess. The Countess of Falloden. The thought made her heart sink lower than it already was.

“Good morning, Mr. Starret,” she said, smiling at him as she always smiled at her father’s servants. “Good morning.” She looked at the footman. “I do not know your name.”

“Peter, my lady,” he said, seeming startled and jumping to attention. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, Peter,” she said.

The butler had a message for her. His lordship would be ready to escort her to her father’s house as soon as she had breakfasted. The words brought on a wave of nausea and she asked only for a slice of toast. He was going to come with her, then, as he had told Papa the day before that he would. She was not going to be able to escape from him. And Papa. She realized with a jolt of surprise and shame that she had not thought of him all night or even when she had got up. How could she not have thought of him? How could she have slept?

She felt a wave of panic. Had he lived through the night? Would they arrive home only to find that he was already gone? What would she do? She would not be able to face the aloneness with Papa gone. Especially now. And yet the selfishness of the thought filled her with new shame. She set her napkin beside her plate and the half-eaten slice of toast, and the butler rushed forward to draw back her chair.

“Thank you, Mr. Starret,” she said. “Will you inform my husband that I will be ready to leave in five minutes’ time?” She had to use all her willpower not to rush from the room.

———

S
HE WAS THE MARBLE
lady again, seated silent and straight-backed beside him in his carriage, watching the world go by outside her window. He watched her as they rode through the streets of London. She looked startlingly lovely in rich brown velvet, a color that might have looked drab on any other woman. But it suited her hair. She sat stiff and proud. She might have been a duchess, he thought, and guessed that she must have rehearsed her triumphal entry into the ranks of the
ton
with great care. No one would realize, seeing her this morning, that she was nothing but a cit’s daughter.

And his countess. He remembered the night before with renewed shame. He had never handled even a whore with such roughness as he had used on his wife. He might have apologized to her. In fact, he had rehearsed an apology when waiting in the library while she got up and had breakfast. And yet she had looked at him with such cool disdain when she joined him in the hall, ready to leave, and had bidden him good morning with such cold haughtiness, that his apology had faded from his lips and his mind. He had bowed and returned her greeting.

The only words they had exchanged that morning. And yet, he remembered in amazement, she had been like a tigress the night before. A tigress in heat. It was difficult to reconcile that memory of her with the very real image of the ice goddess seated beside him. He unclothed her with his eyes but could not quite see the same woman with whom he had been naked and wildly intimate a mere matter of hours before.

“I thank you for your escort, my lord,” she said as they approached her father’s house. She did not turn to look at him. “But there is no need for you to descend. I shall return to Grosvenor Square later in my father’s carriage.”

“On the contrary, my lady,” he said, “I shall pay your father the courtesy of a personal call.”

He vaulted out of the carriage ahead of her and handed her down. Straw had been strewn about in a thick layer on the pavement and roadway in front of the house, he saw, and yards of cloth had been wound about the brass knocker. He was thankful for the moment that his wife was cold and insensitive and reacted to these signs of desperate illness and imminent death within the house just as if she did not see them.

Mr. Transome was upstairs in bed with his physician in attendance, the servant who opened the door explained in answer to the earl’s question—his wife stood silent at his side. And yes, his lordship could indeed wait upon the master. Mr. Transome had requested it.

They waited until the physician came downstairs. She led the way into the parlor and stood facing the fire, warming her hands. He might have moved up behind her and set his hands on her shoulders and offered some word of comfort. But she looked unconcerned. Would not any normal daughter have bounded up the stairs two at a time, physician or no physician?

The physician was shown into the parlor as the earl had requested and bowed obsequiously and shifted his weight from foot to foot with embarrassment. Mr. Transome was gravely ill. Miss Transome—her ladyship, that is—must prepare herself for his demise at any moment. The doctor had left instructions for the medication to be doubled in dosage, but Mr. Transome had refused to take more than his usual amount before speaking first with his lordship and her ladyship. The doctor finally bowed himself out.

The earl, for good reason, felt no great affection for his father-in-law. Nevertheless, he looked in anger at his wife’s back. She had not once turned from the fire while the physician was in the room.

“I shall wait upon your father now, my lady,” he said. “You may stay here until I come down. I shall not be long.”

She said nothing.

The difference in the appearance of his father-in-law was appalling. The earl realized in a flash just what superhuman effort of will had brought the man to Grosvenor Square on two separate occasions the week before and to his daughter’s wedding just the day before. Now he was very obviously a man close to death. And yet he managed the ghost of a smile when the earl came to stand beside his bed.

“Ah, my lord,” he said in a voice that was little above a whisper, “you will excuse me for not rising to make my bow.”

“How are you, sir?” the earl asked, feeling all the foolishness of his words.

“I have felt better,” Mr. Transome said, and even attempted a chuckle. “So what do you have to tell me?”

“Your daughter is my wife and my countess in every sense,” the earl said.

“Ah.” Mr. Transome closed his eyes. “I wish I could see my first grandchild, my lord. But I must not be greedy.”

The earl looked down at him, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Where is Ellie?” Mr. Transome asked.

“Downstairs,” the earl said, “and impatient to be with you, sir. But I thought you might wish to have a private word with me first.”

“There is a small parcel and a letter in the top drawer of the bureau,” Mr. Transome said. “Fetch them. And here am I giving orders to you, my lord. You must forgive me. You are my son now, after all.”

The earl found the two items with ease. The top drawer of the bureau was empty except for them. He brought them back to the bed and showed them to the man lying there.

“A Christmas present for Ellie,” Mr. Transome said with the hint of a smile. “I had it made on the chance that I would live that long and yet be too ill to go shopping. I could give it to her now and watch her face when she saw it, but it is better kept for Christmas. Give it to her, my lord. And the letter to explain a few things.”

“It will be done,” the earl said.

“Ah.” Mr. Transome closed his eyes again. “I shall be saying good-bye then, my boy. Forgive me for the trick I played on you. Eventually you will thank me, I believe, but for now forgive me. She is all that has made my life worth living since her dear mother passed on.”

“She is in safe hands,” the earl said, feeling a twinge of guilt at the lie, his mind filling unwillingly with memories of the night before. “On that point you may rest assured. Good-bye, sir.”

He let himself out of the room and stood still outside the door for a moment before descending to the parlor. And yes, he thought, he almost could forgive the man. He had made arrangements for his daughter’s future security in the only way he knew how—by using his money to buy what he wanted. And who could blame him?

The only pity was that all the love and work and scheming had been expended on such an unworthy object. The earl gritted his teeth and turned toward the staircase.

S
HE STOOD STARING INTO
the fire. He was dying. She had known that. She might expect his demise at any time, the doctor had said. She had known that too. But all the horrible reality of it had come home to her when the horses’ hooves and the carriage wheels had suddenly become muffled and when she had stepped down from the carriage onto straw and looked up to see the knocker wrapped with cloth. It had come home to her then in all its harsh truth.

And it had been her husband, not she, who had asked for news, who had directed that the doctor be shown into the parlor as soon as he came downstairs, who had questioned him when he came. It was her husband who had gone up first to Papa, not she.

She had been paralyzed by the new knowledge that was not new at all. The full stark realization that her father was dying, that soon she would be left alone. Alone with a cold and frightening stranger who had not spoken even a single word of sympathy during their wait for the doctor. Not that she sought or wanted sympathy from him. But—oh yes, she did. She wanted a kind voice and kind hands—anyone’s, even his.

The door opened behind her.

“You may go up, my lady,” he said. “He is waiting for you.”

How is he?
she almost asked. Foolish, fruitless words. She turned from the fire. “I will stay with him,” she said, looking him directly in the eye, “until he is dead. With your permission, my lord.”

He nodded. “I shall return later,” he said, “to see how he goes on.”

She was still wearing her cloak and bonnet, she realized suddenly. She removed them and set them down on a chair, folding her cloak carefully. She dreaded going up. She knew that after yesterday he would have finally given in to his inevitable end. She knew he would be very close to death. She wanted someone to go with her. She wanted an arm to lean on.

“Do you want me to come up with you?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she said, looking at him coolly and sweeping past him in the doorway and up the stairs. She felt like two quite separate people, she thought, the one who thought and felt and the one who spoke and acted. She was frightened by the thought that she could not be sure which was the real Eleanor Transome—Eleanor Pierce.

Her father sounded as if he were snoring. But when she tiptoed to his bedside and nodded to the housekeeper to indicate that she could leave, she found that he was awake.

“Papa?” she said.

“Ellie.” She knew he was smiling even though his face did not quite register the expression. “My own little countess.”

“Yes,” she said, bending to kiss his forehead very lightly.

“Is he treating you well, Ellie?” he asked.

“Yes, Papa,” she lied. “He is very kind.”

“And gentle, Ellie?”

“And gentle,” she said, remembering the searing pain.

“Forgive me, Ellie,” he said. “I know this is not what you wanted. But I know more of life than you. I believe you will be happy. Forgive me?”

“Papa,” she said.

“I loved your mama,” he said. “And you were born of her, Ellie—more precious than anyone or anything else in my life.”

“Papa,” she said, “don’t talk anymore.” His words had been interspersed with loud rasping breaths.

He obeyed her for a while. He lay still with closed eyes, looking and sounding again as if he were asleep. But he opened his eyes eventually.

“Promise me something, Ellie,” he said.

“Anything, Papa.” She leaned closer.

“Don’t mourn long for me,” he said. “I know you love me, girl. You don’t need to show it to the world with black clothes and gloom. You are a new bride, Ellie, and will be a new mother before the first year is out, I have no doubt. And Christmas is coming. Promise me you will put off your mourning before Christmas and have a wonderful celebration. Have Christmas for me. It was always my favorite time of year. Promise me.”

“Oh, Papa,” she said.

“Promise.” He reached out one bony hand and grabbed feebly for her wrist.

“I promise,” she said. “We will have a warm and wonderful Christmas, Papa.”

“Ah,” he said.

They were the last coherent words he spoke. When he grew restless a short while later, she fetched him his medicine and gave him twice the usual dose. And she sat beside his bed, her hands in her lap, not touching either him or the bed, afraid of causing him more pain. She watched him sink into a deep stupor, which gradually lightened as the hours passed until it was time for a renewal of the medicine.

And soon a pattern was established, the hours of relative calm interspersed with intervals of tossing and turning and muttering. He mentioned her name many times and her mother’s name. Eventually he called her name no more but only her mother’s and once her grandmother’s and her grandfather’s.

She had no idea how long it lasted. She did know that several times she refused to be persuaded to go to bed for a rest and that once she allowed herself to be persuaded to eat, though the tray went back almost as full as it had been when it arrived. She was only half aware that the doctor and the housekeeper and other servants came and went from the room. She only half heard the housekeeper tell her on three separate occasions that his lordship had called.

She neither knew nor cared if it was hours or days or weeks that passed. It was actually the evening of the day following her arrival. His breathing had changed. There were longer intervals between the loud raspings.

“He is going, poor dear soul,” the housekeeper whispered.