Christmas Belles (9 page)

"Bah," Lucy said. "You just can never admit
when you are wrong."

"Well, I will say this much. I was astonished to find
that the captain seemed possessed of much good sense." Agnes always
sounded agreeably surprised to find that virtue present in any man.

"Good sense!" Chloe cried, unable to endure any
more of this foolish chatter. "That shows all the more that you know.
Captain Trent has not been in this house five minutes and he is already
plotting to board up Windhaven and pack us all off to London."

But this dire announcement did not produce the effect Chloe
had hoped.

"London." Lucy sighed ecstatically, and even Agnes
looked thoughtful.

"The city does have a good many circulating
libraries," she remarked. "And only think of the bookshops!"

"Books!" Chloe nearly choked. She had just told
Agnes they might be exiled from Windhaven, and her sister talked of books!

"Anyway," Lucy interrupted, "we are having
tea early, Chloe, so Emma says you are to come down at once. We are planning
quite a party for tonight. Now that we have some gentlemen present, we might
even manage a little dancing."

And with that, Chloe's two sisters rushed out again,
oblivious to the fact that she had not moved a muscle to follow them.

As the door closed, she could hear Lucy teasing Agnes,
"It is such a relief to discover that Captain Trent is not the Blackbeard
you said he would be."

"I never said anything like that!"

The sound of their quarrel faded down the hall. Chloe still
made no move to bestir herself. Her two sisters' good spirits and unqualified
approval of Captain Trent left her feeling alone and isolated. She might have
known Lucy would be so silly as to be dazzled by a handsome man in a uniform,
but Agnes! Chloe's most sensible of sisters! Even Agnes was singularly lacking
in perception, unable to see the threat the captain posed to their happiness.

Maybe he wasn't any coarse, swearing brute, but as Chloe
recalled his hard gray eyes, she thought darkly that soon they would all find
out.

Blackbeard could come in many guises, even with a handsome
profile and bright gold epaulets.

Chapter Four

Trent parted the draperies of wine-colored brocade that
adorned his bedchamber window and watched the sun set. The bleak gardens and
orchard below and the trees shorn of their foliage by winter looked all the
better for having the mantle of night drawn over them.

The captain gave a restless sigh, the floorboards of the
room seeming too solid. It usually took him several days to accustom himself to
the absence of a deck rolling beneath his feet, to not constantly being obliged
to make decisions, rap out commands.

He was not a man framed for leisure, and he already longed
to be doing something. Going over accounts with the bailiff, inspecting the house,
interviewing prospective servants—anything. But, of course, none of that was
possible. It was Christmas Eve, with whatever sort of revelry that entailed.

Despite his disapproval, his bride-to-be was even now down
in the kitchen, supervising the preparation of the evening mea.l Until more
help could be engaged, Trent conceded the necessity of it. Perhaps later, he
could sit down with Emma and plan out the final arrangements for their wedding.
That much, at least, could be accomplished today.

Letting the curtain fall, Trent stepped away from the
window. With the fading of daylight, the bedchamber had descended into darkness
despite the fire kindled on the hearth. Trent lit several of the tapers in a
candelabra, the light casting flickering shadows about the room.

The simplicity of the guest chamber pleased Trent.  The
furnishing consisted of the old-fashioned bed hung with heavy curtains, a
single wardrobe, and one wing-back chair drawn up near a tripod table laden
with an oil lamp and several books. A dressing table stood near the door, a
pier glass mounted above it in a plain wood frame.

Emma had selected this particular chamber for Trent's use.
It was as though she already understood his tastes. He felt altogether
satisfied with his choice of a bride. Emma was all that her letters had led him
to believe: sensible, gentle, modest. And to add to that, she had turned out to
be quite pretty as well.

Her sisters also met with his approval—at least, two of them
did. He had been rather amused by the scholarly one, Agnes. At sixteen, one
often imagined that one knew everything. Agnes was positively certain of it.

As for Miss Lucy, she was charming after the fashion of the
reigning beauties Trent had met during his infrequent leaves in London. By the
time they had finished afternoon tea, Charles already seemed quite smitten with
her, and Lucy appeared nothing loath to encourage his admiration. As her
guardian, Trent supposed he should frown upon such forwardness. But Charles was
ever the gentleman, and for all her assumed sophistication, Miss Lucy had an
innocence about her as well. Trent meant to keep an eye upon the situation, but
a little mild flirtation was not going to break the heart of either one of
them.

The only sister who seemed calculated to give Trent any
difficulty was Miss Chloe. As Trent set the candelabra atop the dressing table,
his brow knit in a puzzled frown. He didn't expect to meet with universal
acclaim or even liking, yet this was the only time he could recollect anyone
taking a pointed dislike to him on first sight.

As soon as she had realized who he was, Chloe had regarded
him with a wariness and reproach that he sensed were unusual for her. It
appeared far more natural for her eyes to sparkle the way they did when she had
been hunting for fairies in the bushes.

 Perhaps she held him responsible for her father dying
upon his ship. It was not a comfortable supposition but one he was forced to
entertain. Trent would not have blamed her or any of her sisters if they had
harbored such a resentment. Yet somehow he did not fancy that was the cause of
Chloe's hostility. Sir Phineas's name had never even been mentioned.

 Trent was certain it was something else about him that
offended Chloe's sensibilities. He stared into the mirror, subjecting himself
to a critical examination. He hoped that he was not vain, but he thought his
features regular enough to please a lady. Maybe it was the uniform, and the
fact he had been too heavy handed earlier, rapping out his orders.

He had to remember he was no longer commanding the deck of
his ship. Perhaps shedding the uniform would help. Rapidly he undid the row of
gold buttons and began to shrug out of the blue broadcloth jacket. He was
wondering whether Miss Chloe might be more partial to tan or his gray-colored frock
coat, when he brought himself up short

What the deuce did it matter which she preferred? After all,
he wasn't marrying her. Since when did he allow himself to become so unsettled
by the disapproval of a mere slip of a girl? And yet in his own defense, he
argued that Emma was obviously close to all her sisters, and so his future
marital relations might be much more comfortable if he could coax Chloe into
tolerating him.

With this view in mind, he finished stripping off his
uniform coat. The silk waistcoat and cravat followed, but before he began
undoing the white duck-cloth breeches, Trent made an annoying discovery. His
trunk stood perched in one corner, never unlocked, and Mr. Doughty was in
possession of the key.

Scowling, Trent strode across the room and yanked open the
door to send for his steward. But, alas, there was no sentry ready at hand to
be sent scurrying at Trent's command. Nor could Trent bellow for Doughty at the
top of his lungs as he would have liked to do.

He would be obliged to descend belowstairs and find the
rogue for himself, likely out in the kitchen, impeding the cook's progress
while he flirted with that pretty parlor maid. Smothering an oath, Trent
stalked out of his bedchamber. He was halfway down the stairs when it occurred
to him he was clad only in his breeches and shirt.

But hopefully the ladies were all closeted in their own
rooms, busy with their toilettes. And Doughty, it seemed, was nearer at hand
than he had supposed. Trent could hear that infernal whistling, and it was coming
from the direction of the drawing room. What the blazes could Doughty be doing
in there?

The drawing-room door had been left ajar, and as soon as
Trent pushed it fully open, he spied his truant steward. Mr. Doughty stood
before the fireplace, his burly arms stretched upward as he struggled to
festoon some sort of greenery along the mantel.

"Mr. Doughty!" Trent snapped.

Doughty's whistled tune petered out in a startled squawk.
The seaman whipped around, attempting to salute, and nearly poked his eye out
with a sprig of holly.

"Oh, Cap'n Trent, sir!"

"What the devil do you think you are doing there,
man?"

"Decorating for Christmas, sir."

"And in the meantime, my trunk stands unpacked. I can't
even get into it because you have the key."

"Sorry, Cap'n. I will be there in a moment, sir."

"You'll be there now, Mr. Doughty," Trent said.
Gesturing toward the holly, he added, "And get that shrubbery back outside
where it belongs."

"Begging your pardon, Captain Trent," a clear
voice spoke up.

For the first time, Trent realized someone else was present
in the room. Turning, he saw Chloe descending a ladder propped near the window,
her hands likewise full of greenery. He felt a prickle of irritation. She had
never come down to take tea, claiming she had a headache. But she certainly
looked healthy enough, a delicate flush blooming in each cheek, her eyes bright
and defensive as ever.

No sooner did her slippers touch the carpet than her chin
came up, and she seemed ready to square off with him "Pray do not be angry
with Mr. Doughty, Captain. It was I who commandeered him to help with the
decorating. We always place holly and evergreen about the parlor on Christmas
Eve and leave it up until Twelfth Night."

"Twelfth Night!"

" 'Tis bad luck to do otherwise, Cap'n," Doughty
assured him.

"It sounds like courting even worse luck to leave it up
that long. In point of fact, downright hazardous. The evergreen in particular
will become quite dry and brittle. One stray spark from the fire or a candle
and this whole room could go up like kindling wood."

"I don't think such a dire occurrence likely,
Captain," Chloe said.

Didn't she? Trent grimaced. Mr. Doughty, while he awaited
the outcome of this disagreement, was already trailing one garland perilously
near the flames.

"At least keep that plaguey stuff away from the mantel.
Mr. Doughty, take it down from there," Trent commanded in what he thought
was a most reasonable tone.

But instead of Doughty's prompt "Aye, aye, sir,"
the fellow actually had the impudence to look to Chloe for confirmation of the
order.

"Mr. Doughty!" Trent was justly incensed by this
insubordination. He might endure the lady's hostility, but he'd be hanged if he
would permit her to incite one of his seamen to mutiny.

Doughty had the prudence to react with prompt obedience. He
began yanking down the holly. With a cry of vexation, Chloe started forward as
though she would intervene. She glowered at Trent

"We decorate the windows, the arch of the door, and the
fireplace, sir. That is the way it has always been done here for decades with
the exception of last year."

Trent felt himself to be a patient man, but he was getting
tired of Miss Chloe constantly telling him the way things had always been done
at Windhaven.

"And why were you afflicted with a bout of good sense
last year?" he asked harshly.

To his surprise, the color ebbed from her cheeks. It was
like watching a sudden frost blight a rose garden.

"Because last year was our first Christmas without
Papa. None of us felt much like celebrating." Her voice trailed off to a
whisper as though she was unable to say any more. But she didn't have to.
 Trent already felt as if she had dealt him a blow. He wished she had,
rather than looking so pale, those long gold-tipped lashes unable to veil the
grief in her eyes.

"I am sorry," he began, but she was already
shaking her head in rejection of his apology.

" 'Tis quite all right," she said. "Tear all
the decorations down, Mr. Doughty. I daresay it is not important, and, after
all, this is Captain Trent's house now."

She dropped the evergreen that she had been holding onto the
settee and stalked back to the window, where she stood hugging herself, her
profile averted from Trent's gaze.

Trent had never sworn at a woman, but Miss Chloe was
bringing him dangerously close to it. Blast the girl, he thought, for making
him feel like some sort of ogre, a villain who snatched sweetmeats from babes.
He hadn't meant to deny her all the decorations. He had simply been expressing
a natural concern regarding the safety of these arrangements. But Chloe seemed
determined to construe everything he said in its worst possible context. It was
high time that he and this truculent young lady came to an understanding.

Placing his hands on his hips, he said to his steward,
"You may go now, Mr. Doughty. I want a few words alone with Miss
Chloe."

"Oh, no need to do that, sir." Doughty spoke
anxiously. "Actually, it was my notion 'bout hangin' the greens. 'Deed it
was, Cap'n. My notion completely."

"Mr. Doughty! I said you were dismissed."

The big seaman shuffled toward the door, but he took his
time about it, his large brown eyes fixed upon Trent with reproach.

"Confound it, man," Trent said. "I am not
planning to keelhaul the lady, only talk to her. Now be off with you."

"Aye, sir." Doughty shambled out as Trent closed
the door in his face.

With her back to the two men, Chloe heard Doughty's
departure with dread, wishing it had been the captain instead. She had already
spent a wretched afternoon alone in her room, racking her brain for ways to
prevent Emma's marriage, coming up with nothing. It all seemed so hopeless,
beyond her control.

Only recalling Papa's words, to believe that the impossible
could be made possible, had managed to restore her flagging spirits, once more
reaffirm her hope and resolve. When she had recalled it was Christmas Eve, she
had brightened even more at the thought of doing the decorations both she and
her father had always loved. There could be a special magic in it, drawing her
somehow closer to Papa this night, no matter how distant the heaven he
inhabited.

Yet here was the odious captain finding a way to spoil that
joy for her as well, with all his practical talk of dried-up evergreen and fire
hazards, reminding her, whether he meant to or not, that Papa was truly gone.
And Windhaven belonged to the captain now.

She heard his footfall behind her, approaching her retreat
by the window. To her dismay, she felt tears filling her eyes, and she swiped
at them in desperation. She hated to cry in front of a stranger, especially one
so coldhearted as the captain. He would be bound to view any display of emotion
with scorn.

"Miss Chloe," he began sternly as he drew
alongside of her. Yet when he caught sight of her face, he faltered. Chloe
would not have thought it possible, but this man who had surely stood
unflinching before the cannon fire of the entire French navy looked positively
daunted. In a tone almost approaching panic, he said, "Chloe. Here now!
Belay those tears."

Unfortunately, this gruff command only made matters worse. Her
tears spilled over to trickle down her cheeks.  She mopped at them with
the back of her hands, but to no great effect.

"I am s-sorry," she stammered. "I don't mean
to be such a fool. It is only talking about the decorations and Papa. Christmas
always meant so much to him." Her throat squeezed so tight, she could
barely speak. "If you c-could just excuse me ..."

"No, I cannot," Trent said.

Blindly, she turned to make for the door, but his solid
frame blocked her retreat. He caught her face between his hands, his slightly
calloused thumbs whisking away her tears with great efficiency. His touch was
surprisingly gentle all the same