Authors: Fiona Shin
His For Christmas (18 page)
Ivy nodded. “It did.”
“You refused. Just as I'm sure you refused to give up your body,” said Mrs. Chang in a startling display of frankness. “Don't give me such a look. I've seen a lot of the world, and I know what happens when girls such as yourself fall on hard times. It's either the brothel or the stage for them. But as you are here and not there, I can only assume you've refused to do so. Why?”
How could she possibly explain the revulsion she felt walking past such places, hoping people who just see a little girl in a large man's coat, maybe even a little girl with a belligerent drunk for a father, a man who would think nothing of killing someone, the daughter of a man who had nothing to lose. Had it not been for her small frame and young looks, she would have most certainly been unable to resist the advances of a man.
And that knowledge made goose bumps rise on her skin. “Mrs. Chang, I....well, quite simply, the truth is, I come…came from a somewhat wealthy family.”
“Obviously,” said the housekeeper. “That's easy to see. Your hands don't look like they've ever been put to use. You move like you've been raised with a ruler strapped to your back. Am I wrong?”
The memories of Lady Bellina forcing her to walk down a flight of stairs with a stack of books on her head and a yardstick tied to her back was enough to bring a smile to her lips. “Every day. Half an hour every day, even on Sundays. She would’ve made me walk up and down our stairs on Christmas if my father hadn’t stopped her.”
Her throat tightened almost painfully. “I miss them a great deal.”
Mrs. Chang squeezed her shoulder gently. “Of course, you do,” she said quietly. “Of course you miss them. Anyone can see that. But you needn’t worry while you’re here. Mr. Whitley, he’s a gentleman. And Timothy…well, I suppose you’ll know when you’ve gotten a chance to meet him. He’s like yourself.”
She remembered the boy, small and thin with a charming gap-toothed smile. “Like myself?”
Mrs. Chang twisted up her hair, her hands strong but gentle. After years of getting used to being burned by curlers and the unfeeling hands of her maids, Ivy relished the lack of pain. “Like yourself. Mr. Whitley found the boy curled up in the stable, half-dead. We took care of him. It took him two weeks to say anything, but Mr. Whitley has a way with people.”
Charisma. As quiet and still as he seemed, there was certainly a presence about him that made people want to stand and just look at him. “But he’s not married yet? And there is no one he is sweet on?”
Surely it was none of her business.
But she had seen the echoes of despair and unhappiness drift through those dark eyes, and they mirrored the pain in her heart.
She felt the cool metal of hairpins against her scalp as the housekeeper gathered her hair around into a bun.
“No, no one at all. He doesn’t seem to be interested. Of course, it doesn’t stop any of the eligible girls and some who are spoken for, striking up a conversation with him. Silly girls. You’d think they’d realize a man isn’t drawn to silly chatter.”
Weren’t they?
That certainly hadn’t been the case as she watched acquaintance after acquaintance laugh, chatter and giggle their way into a wedding. “Perhaps Mr. Whitley is in the middle of a grand love affair.”
The housekeeper guffawed and patted her on the back. “A grand love affair? Him? Perhaps with his ledgers and contracts, but certainly not with any girl I’ve seen. There, you’re all done now.”
Certainly, her hair was out of her face and cautiously, Ivy raised up a hand to pat the back of her still-damp hair. A complex system of coils and braids was evident to her fingertips, and she turned her head to and fro, testing to see if the hairpins and ribbons would stay. They were quite firm and she touched the back of her bared neck, feeling almost uncomfortably exposed. “It’s wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Chang.”
The woman laughed as she stowed the stool back next to the large fireplace. “Not at all. It’s good to know I can still do hair. When I was young, I used to be a lady’s maid. Did her hair, took care of her gowns, made sure she was awake before nine every morning.”
“Do you miss it?”
“I do not,” she said, shaking her head. “Margaret was a spoiled little brat who was never refused anything. She ran away with a good-for-nothing wastrel and last I heard, she had died from a difficult childbirth.”
What was one to say to such a statement? “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Mr. Whitley and Timothy arrived not a moment then, stamping snow from their shoes as they shed their coats and mufflers much caked with snow, and Ivy shivered at the memory of being out in such weather.
She went to assist Timothy as he struggled with a woolen muffler that seemed quite intent on strangling him.
Best not to think, and simply give thanks for the present.
For the third time since Elliot bumped his knee into a dining chair and subsequently slipped into it, he missed his mouth and ended up with yet another spoonful of stew in his lap.
Luckily, he had enough sense to place a napkin there, otherwise Mrs. Chang would’ve used his intestines for a clothesline.
He watched the girl make conversation with the other two people at the table.
Wait. No.
Girl was wrong.
Woman.
There was a beautiful woman sitting across from him, her eyes glowing in the candlelight, and Elliot Whitley couldn't remember the last time he felt like such a staring idiot.
For the fourth time, he missed his spoon, but mercifully it only skimmed his cheek.
The angel sitting across from him cast a glance in his direction, dabbing at her crimson lips.
“Mr. Whitley?”
He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the spell she had cast over him. “Yes.”
The girl, no, woman, put down her spoon carefully and observed him across the table in those curiously tip-tilted eyes. “Are you quite all right? You look pale.”
“I'm fine,” he muttered. “Nothing's wrong with me. Mrs. Chang, the stew is, as always, mouthwatering.”
The housekeeper looked as though she was having a difficult time maintaining her decorum at the dinner table. “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Whitley, but quite personally, I would consider it an even greater compliment if you deigned to get more than half of it in your mouth, rather than in your lap.”
“If I did that, I would get scolded,” said Timothy, with something akin to wonder. “I can't wait to be an adult. Adults don't get yelled at for wasting food. I want to be one. I would want to be one as soon as I could!”
“Wouldn't you?” replied Ivy. “There are responsibilities, you know.”
He let out a terribly adult-like sigh. “I know.”
Elliot put down his spoon and pushed his chair back, feeling out-of-sorts and besides, he had lost his appetite. Hard to eat when there was such a strange contradiction looking at him with violet eyes. “Thank you for that very excellent meal, Mrs. Chang. There are some documents I’ll have to look over before delivering them tomorrow morning, so if you will excuse me...”
Mrs. Chang let out a small sound of consternation. “But you barely ate anything!”
He refused to let himself feel like a beaten dog as he stepped away from the table. “Yes, but duty does ask for sacrifices now and again.”
“Well, at the very least, I will leave out some bread and meat for you,” called out Mrs. Chang and Elliot slowly closed the door to the dining room, unable to get out the image of a dog with its tail between its legs, out of his mind.
Damn it all and a half.
And for the next three hours, he threw himself into his work, burying himself behind documents, wills, property deeds, even marriage agreements, and he almost forgot about the woman.
Almost.
But not quite.
He was half way through skimming through Alvin Moseley's will when someone knocked on the door, most presumably Mrs. Chang with his late-night snack.
His stomach growled in anticipation. Perhaps, there was still some stew left over, and maybe crusty bread. And he would be able to eat it, for here in his small study, there would be no beautiful woman to gawk at as though he was still a half-grown boy newly arrived at Oxford.
“Come in.”
The bottom dropped out of his stomach as he saw the woman standing reservedly at the threshold of his messy and unorganized study, a wooden tray in her hands.
He greeted her, as only befitting a gentleman. “Grnngh.”
Immediately, he colored. Not what he had been going for, not by a long shot. He had meant to say “Good evening” but his tongue, twisting beyond belief, had gotten the best of him.
This time.
He promised himself it would not happen again.
She was just a winsome face. That was all there was. And he was positive he’d seen more beautiful women.
Somewhere. At some point. He just couldn't remember at the moment.
The tray held a bowl of steaming stew and a slice of Mrs. Chang's excellent brown bread, and she placed it at the edge of his desk.
He wanted to say 'Yes, thank you. You may leave now.'
Instead, the only thing that came out was “Erghm.”
He was completely and utterly mortified. What the hell was wrong with him? Was it the fact he'd been completely celibate since Meredith's betrayal? Was it because he sought to avoid female contact absolutely?
It had to be.
He waited for her to leave, silently begging her with his eyes to leave and never come back again, or not until he had availed himself of Lady Lili's girls next to the saloon.
But she did not get his silent plea and instead, opted to stay before him, hands crossed demurely at her waist.
He groaned inwardly and plopped down in his seat, fully aware it was rude to sit down before a lady did, but not really caring. He'd already proved himself to be a dolt, so what was a few bad manners here and there?
She took a deep breath and he couldn't tear his eyes away her chest. The borrowed gown belonged to someone with a more diminutive chest and when she took another deep breath, he watched half in horror, half in terrible interest, wondering if a button (it didn’t matter much, as all of them were crucial) was going to pop loose.
Knowing his luck, when it did, it would hit him square in the forehead with such force he would be immediately incapacitated and unable to remember a damn thing.
“Thank you.”
Good god, was she actually expecting some kind of answer from him?
He managed a curt nod and something resembling a grunt.
She stared down at the floor. That was something, at least. It was easier when she wasn't looking at him. “You took me in when no one else would. I owe you a great deal, sir.”
He swallowed his dry throat and looked around in vain for water, gin, vinegar, anything. “Don't thank me.”
There. That was something. He didn't sound as addled pratted.
Just very, very angry. But that wasn't half-bad.
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