A Gamble on Love (18 page)

~ * ~

By evening of the following day
Pevensey Park’s elegant entry hall was engulfed in greenery, from
genuine laurel wreaths adorning the brows of the classical statues,
peering down from their niches, to trailing vines wound round the
banisters on staircase and gallery, while evergreen boughs, swagged
with red velvet, were suspended in great splashes of color against
the pale green walls. Although it had been many years since
Pevensey had worn so much green, Relia could still hear her
mother’s cautions quite clearly.
What goes
up must come down!
Frequently, in showers of unwanted
tiny needles well before Twelfth Night. Therefore, following the
principles laid down by Lady Ralph, decoration in the state rooms
consisted solely of trailing vines and red bows over mantles and
doorways, thus avoiding a daunting clean-up of Aubusson, Axminster,
and Persian carpets.

The entry hall, however, with its tile floor
and direct access to the outside, could be decorated with near
reckless abandon. With a shake of her head, Relia finally gave up
all attempts at supervision when it became apparent that the three
Lannings, aided and abetted by a full compliment of footmen and a
bevy of housemaid, had plunged hip deep into exercising their
creative imaginations. Retreating once again to the gallery, Relia
simply stood and watched. Truth to tell, the hall looked quite
lovely. If it brought back bittersweet memories, then she alone
should suffer them, for the Lannings had not known her parents. Nor
was she so unreasonable as to think they, too, should mourn.

Mr. Lanning’s voice rose above the excited
buzz below, giving orders. Then he stood with his head cocked to
one side, clearly pondering what to do next. A question from
Nicholas, remarkably handsome with the sullen look gone from his
face. A consultation between Thomas and Olivia. Quick smiles
between brother and sister, then off Livvy went to drape a garland
around the shoulders of one of the more forbidding Roman
generals.

“
It is all right, you know,” Gussie
said as she joined Relia on the gallery. “You will notice even the
servants have taken the Lannings to their hearts. All this”—Gussie
arced a hand around the bustling and colorful entry hall—“is so
much better than finding they have acquired a new master who does
naught but sit on his high horse and scowl.”

The idea was so ludicrous when applied
to the tall man handing up greenery to a footman, who was standing
on a ladder laid against the gallery balustrade, that Relia could
not suppress a giggle. It was true. As annoying as he could be at
times, Thomas Lanning possessed a good nature. Although in
her
presence that nature was well
hidden beneath a forbidding façade or a mask of faintly derogatory
humor, her husband was . . . well, rather appealing, with his hair
rumpled and his cheeks still pink from the cold. With his gray eyes
sparkling with something besides annoyance . . . or his latest
effort to urge her in a direction she did not wish to
go.

He should not be down there, of course,
doing what he was doing. No matter what Gussie said, he should not
be enjoying himself in such a plebeian fashion. And stealing her
servants’ approbation.
Cit!
Had he no proper notion of how to go on?

Relia stepped away from the back wall of the
gallery and, hiding herself behind a column wound with greenery,
focused her gaze on her husband alone. He was . . . strong,
dynamic, a true dragonslayer.

He was replacing her authority in her very
own household. Filling it with strangers. With noise, laughter . .
. perhaps even joy.

And she hated him for it.

No, she did not.

Shoulders slumping, Relia turned and headed
blindly toward her bedchamber, her feet finding their way to the
room of her childhood, now stripped of everything that had been
hers. She sat, shivering, before the cold grate, her mind lost in a
confusion of contrary emotions. Was this what was meant by that old
saying about winning a battle, only to lose the war? Was that what
she had done? She had saved Pevensey Park . . . by losing it.

Or was it she herself who was lost?

Excitement hummed at breakfast the next day,
for the great Yule Log expedition was about to commence. Relia,
nagged by her conscience, rose early to see them off. Fortunately,
Olivia had conceded that two days of winter cold were quite enough
and did not insist on joining what was generally an exhausting
all-day male event. So the ladies enjoyed the comforts of
home—Relia making a list of the amounts to be given to each servant
on Boxing Day while Miss Aldershot and Olivia worked on the boxes
to be given to the poor. Thomas, however, rode off on the bench of
a farm wagon, with Nicholas tucked up behind among a collection men
that included Pevensey Park’s gamekeeper, two gardeners, two
stableboys, and three footmen, all wearing their oldest and warmest
clothes. They were also accompanied by a long two-handed saw, plus
an intimidating array of sharp axes. Behind them trudged a farmer,
leading the team of heavy workhorses that would be needed to haul
the great log home.

What was that old nursery rhyme? Thomas
thought as they bounced along the road, wheels clattering and
harnesses clanking in the cold crisp air . Something about
Lawks-a-mercy me, can this be I?
Said
by an old woman, as he recalled, but the words were all too apt. If
his friends from the City could but see him now. And the friends
from Mayfair? Thomas laughed aloud. His true friends, like Charles,
would rejoice for him, even while shaking their heads. The others
did not matter.

His wife, of course, thought him an ill-bred
lout. Yet disconcerting her by demonstrating his Cit ways was
remarkably enjoyable. And yesterday, Nicholas, in a moment of
unrestrained excitement while teetering on a ladder, had actually
addressed him as Thomas. A good lad beneath his sullens, Thomas
surmised. Perhaps being sent down from school was not such a bad
thing, after all. It was high time he became better acquainted with
the child not born until he was at university.

Thomas judged that with the most of
Pevensey’s people, if not his wife, he had made considerable
progress. Next . . . next must be Squire Stanton and his family,
important acquaintances to steer him through the maze of county
neighbors. Mourning or no mourning, Thomas determined, there must
be some sort of social mingling this holiday. Perhaps Miss
Aldershot could advise him.

A shout went up as a likely log was found,
already felled by lightning and lying conveniently on the ground.
Thomas gave the gamekeeper an inquiring look. But it seemed the log
was too dry and would burn too quickly, unable to last the proper
length of the twelve days of Christmas.

Oak, declared the head gardener. Ash,
countered the gamekeeper—all knew the Yule Log must be ash. The
argument lasted off and on for half a day until the perfect tree
was found and felled, its branches lopped off. Thomas, asserting
his rights with a good-natured grin carefully calculated not to
offend, confirmed the gamekeeper’s measurements by pacing off the
length for himself. The entry hall of Pevensey Park was not the
ideal place to discover another two inches must be sawn off before
the log would fit. He tended to offend his bride all too easily
without being blamed for a mound of sawdust or—heaven
forfend!—nicks in the tiles.

The early dark of the winter solstice was
beginning to settle over Pevensey Park before the Yule Log party
was heard jingling up the drive. The ladies, throwing on their
heaviest cloaks, stepped out onto the broad landing to watch as the
horses were brought to a halt, leaving the great log they were
dragging directly before the front steps. The men piled out of the
wagon behind, and in a short time, the heavy ropes hitching the log
to the horses had been transformed into three loops for pulling the
trimmed tree trunk up the twelve imposing steps.

In spite of the lowering light, Relia had no
trouble finding Thomas, as he topped the tallest of the other men
by at least three inches. And Nicholas . . . she smiled to see the
boy rushing in, right at the forefront of the work and the men
cheerfully making room for him. With three men who sported the most
stalwart shoulders pulling, and the bravest pushing from below, the
Yule Log bounced slowly up the steps, Relia, Olivia, and Gussie
retreating before it. Inside at last, with their goal in sight, the
men dragged the log across the tiles with renewed vigor. As they
were removing the ropes before the final shove into the fireplace,
Relia looked up to discover a good portion of her household ringing
the room, including her housekeeper.

“
Mrs. Marshcombe,” she asked, “is it
possible you still have the remains of our last Yule Log put by? It
has been so long—” Relia added, hoping she had not put her
housekeeper out of countenance by asking.

“
Of course, ma’am,” Mrs. Marshcombe
declared, as if the proper storage of a five-year-old charred bit
of wood was a foregone conclusion. “Wrapped in stout canvas and
still where I placed it when Lady Ralph last celebrated
Christmas.”

“
Thank you,” Relia murmured just as a
shout arose behind her.

“
It fits!” Olivia cried. “With scarce
an inch on each side. Oh, well done!”

Relia swept through the crowd about the
fireplace. Indeed, the Yule Log fit to perfection. And high time
she shook off the sad echos of nostalgia and did her duty as lady
of the manor. “The Wassail Bowl is ready,” she declared, raising
her voice to be heard over the happy noise of satisfaction and
congratulations. “My thanks to you all!”

The men swiftly doffed their caps, offering
her appreciative grins and salutes before sweeping off in a general
rush for the table set against the far wall that held a huge silver
punch bowl, steaming with hot spiced wine. The table also groaned
under a layer of meat pies, tarts, and other pastries that could be
easily devoured by men who had done a hard day’s work. Swiftly,
Relia grabbed Nicholas and Olivia, pointing them toward the pitcher
of spiced cider. But where was Thomas?

Being offered the first mug of wassail, of
course. He raised his drink high, in salute to all those who had
helped, before lowering his dark head to take a swallow of the
heady brew. Another triumphant shout echoed through the festive
hall.

Miserable man!
Only a few days in Kent and he had won the men’s good
will.
Dear God, his hands!
Relia charged straight through the men crowded around the
trestle table. “What have you done to yourself?” she hissed at
Thomas, tugging on a cape of his greatcoat to get his
attention.

“
My dear, there you are!” he exclaimed,
admirably playing his role in their charade.

“
You’re covered in blood,” Relia
snapped. “Come with me!”

Thomas held up both hands, one still
clutching his mug of spiced wine. “An exaggeration,” he proclaimed,
regarding his hands with interest. “Nothing but a few
scratches.”

“
Men have lost hands, even arms, for
little more,” Relia returned, transferring her grip to the sleeve
of his greatcoat. “You may keep your wassail, but those cuts must
be cleansed at once.”

Meekly, and to the accompaniment of urgings
from all those around him, Thomas Lanning allowed himself to be led
away. But, once out of earshot, he said to his wife, “I am
surprised you did not cart me off by the ear, my dear.”

“
I cannot reach that high,” she
retorted as she plunged down the stairs to the basement, still
holding fast to his coat.

“
Are you taking me to the dungeons?”
Thomas inquired amiably as they continued down the long corridor,
marked by closed doors on each side, barely visible in the dim
light of a few tallow candles.

“
Palladian houses do not have
dungeons.”

“
I am relieved.”

As the smell of roasting meat grew stronger,
indicating they were approaching the kitchen, Relia opened a door
and swept inside, still dragging her husband behind her. “Sit,” she
told him, indicating a plain wooden chair set under a long deal
table whose finish had long since disappeared under numerous
vigorous scrubbings. “No, wait!” Relia amended. “I will help you
off with your coat, else you will have blood all over it. If you
have not already,” she added, casting a swift glance over him. But
the room was lit only by what little light there was in the hall,
and she could see nothing.

When her husband was seated, she took a spill
from a jar and, obtaining a light from the hall candle outside, she
soon had a candelabrum and an oil lantern casting their glow over
the table. Visible now, though lurking in shadows, were row upon
row of wooden shelves, lining two walls of the stillroom and
holding a massive collections of glass jars filled with jams,
herbs, spices, and medicaments reflecting the wavering light from
the candles. From ropes strung across an ell near the fireplace
depended a variety of plants, brought in from outside drying racks
as winter approached. On a short third wall were two ceiling-high
cupboards, filled with miscellaneous supplies. And along the
outside wall was a cast iron double sink with its own pump, plus a
long drainboard and a cooling rack.

Although Relia did not consider herself an
expert, she was proud of Pevensey’s stillroom. Here, she and her
staff were capable of maintaining a long tradition of efficacious
remedies without having to rely on the area’s aging doctor for
every minor ailment. In fact, now that the only younger doctor in
the neighborhood had gone off to the Peninsula, Relia suspected
Pevensey Park was better off following the old ways than allowing
the doddering doctor to come through the door bearing his box of
leeches or with his lancet at the ready.