The Christmas Spirit (5 page)

She liked the way his dark eyes glowed darker when he responded to her.

"What would that one thing be?"

"That it's the Yuletide, the time to be generous to yer inferiors. Don't ye think ye should be thinking of others and not of yerself?"

He raised an offended eyebrow. "Am I mistaken? Did I not just give that young lady a draft for twenty-five pounds?"

"Sure and ye did. But there are others who are needful, ye know, and it might do ye some good to think of their misery instead of yer own."

"Now, you even sound like Miss Faye Meriwether." The similarity did not seem to disgust him, though. As he focused his feverish eyes on her, a slight grin tipped the corner of his mouth.

Trudy gathered courage from his expression. "Then ye ought, at least, to go see that yer money's been put to good use. Can ye even be sure that she did with it what she should?"

Matthew smiled, and his gaze drifted, as if she were nothing more than his own voice in his ear. Trudy wanted to pinch him to show him how real she was, but she was afraid to get that close. She had seen the strength in his arms beneath his bedclothes and had no doubt he could trap her if he desired.

"Well?"

Matthew brought his piercing gaze back to hers. "I have a feeling that Miss Meriwether is indeed the person she pretends to be. There was something quite genuine about her."

"Oh? You think so?" Trudy asked, holding her breath, surprised by how much his opinion mattered. She was immensely flattered that her trick had been so well received.

But, then, she had felt almost human. In his library, concerned for his welfare and wishing nothing more than that he would follow her, she had had all the doubts and fears that poor humans were subject to. If he had believed her, then her emotions must have added some truth to her performance.

"Yes." He answered her question, and fatigue seemed to sweep relentlessly over him. His voice faltered. "I do believe she was genuine, so there is no cause for me to find her."

"But don't ye want to? Aren't ye tired of being here inside this house, sitting in yer chair?"

"Yes, I'm tired. But I am ill, too, and I shall not embarrass myself by falling down on my face in the street."

"Oh, is that all it is?" Trudy felt relief. "Well, I can help ye with that."

Matthew closed his eyes, and a derisive smile twisted his lips. "Delusion upon delusion," he murmured.

"Not at all." Trudy drew herself up.

She could help him. She knew she could, given time. It was not in her power to cure him with one simple tap of a fairy wand or a miraculous potion, but her magic was powerful nonetheless. If he would simply trust her enough to relax with her, then her voice alone would bring him some relief from his aches and pains. And if she could ever get him to promise that he would not try to capture her, her touch could do much more.

She stood and tiptoed like a leaf in the wind closer to his head, not even leaving a dent in the coverlets. "Just keep yer eyes closed, mannie, while I talk to you," she said soothingly and saw him acquiesce. The muscles in his face seemed to relax.

"You have a musical voice," he murmured.

"Aye. I'm glad ye like it," she said. "It'll do ye some good."

She could feel the pain easing out of his shoulders as she talked.

"Just relax, mannie," she crooned. "Relax and think about me, or this Faye if ye want. No harm in a little thought."

Another grin made his brows arch like a wolf's. "You think not?" he said. "Then your thoughts must be more innocent than mine."

A rush of blood started in her toes and ended in her face, nearly making her choke.

"Ye think what ye like, mannie, just don't tell me any of the details, mind?"

"Never fear." A deep, rumbling chuckle stirred his chest, but Matthew kept his eyes closed.

Which was a very good thing, Trudy decided, for her curiosity had brought her dangerously near his face again. She could reach out and touch his lips if she wanted, or run her fingers through his hair.

And it was not at all curious that she should want to do these things, for she knew they were designed to give pleasure both ways, and countless elves had pleased themselves with humans thus. The danger lay in giving into this urge before the man could be lured into elfland. Once there, it would be he, and not she, who was trapped.

"Let me sing to you, mannie," she whispered, "until you fall asleep."

* * * *

The next morning, Matthew was surprised by how well he felt. Sometime during the night, his fever had passed away without leaving him in its usual lake of perspiration, and it had not wrung him out as on all former such occasions. The bout had lasted a much shorter time, too. Mere hours, instead of long days. For the first time in more than a year, he had hope that its ravagements would someday abate.

He dressed fully and made his way down the stairs. Ahmad served his breakfast, content to act the manservant for want of other employment. As grateful as he was for this man's friendship, Matthew found himself wishing for an English servant this morning. His appetite, long missing, had returned with a vengeance, and he would have relished a large plate of bacon. Ahmad naturally could not be requested to overlook his religious objections to pork.

"The saab is better this morning." The Pathan's dark gaze looked him over approvingly.

"Yes, I am."

"Did you dream the dreams of the holy?"

A smirk tugged at Matthew's scarred lip. "I'm afraid Miss Meriwether would not have said so."

Never obtuse, Ahmad raised his thick brows, and his eyes sparkled. "If such is the case, Matthew saab, then you must indeed be well."

"Not completely cured, but well enough that I have given some thought to a morning outing."

His announcement brought an unmistakable look of delight to Ahmad's face, such a great delight that Matthew suffered a pang of remorse. In his illness and bitter disappointment, he had not considered how his friend might feel, cooped up in a London house with a man not fit even to make good company. Yet, Ahmad had tended him without complaint these many months with no diversions. This realization determined Matthew to go out, much more than his faint new restlessness for activity for himself. And it overcame the niggling fear that he had proposed such an outing in the hope of seeing Miss Meriwether again.

Trudy's reminder last night, that it was the Yuletide, had done nothing to inspire him to charitable deeds. But Ahmad's needs were altogether a different matter. Matthew remembered it was the custom at Christmas to turn all relationships topsy-turvy. At his school, the boys had become masters, serving none but the Lord of Misrule, who had been elected from among them and directed their games. In some households, the owners served their servants on Christmas Eve.

Matthew decided that in the spirit of the Yule he should turn the tables on his friend, at least enough to provide him with some exercise.

"We shall hire a carriage," he said. "Where would you like to go?"

Ahmad opened his mouth to speak before confusion bathed his features. "I do not know, saab. I am still a stranger in your land."

Once again, Matthew felt the sting of shame. "Well, it is time you saw something of it besides the market at Covent Garden." He searched his mind for some diversion that would interest his companion without offending his Mohammedan sensibilities. In truth, when he had first thought of going out, Trudy's admonition that he should visit the almshouse had seemed the logical choice. Without any better aim, such a visit would have satisfied his need for a destination, but now, with Ahmad's needs foremost . . .

All at once, the suitability of his intended outing struck him. What Ahmad undoubtedly missed most were people of his own kind. Even though he was Afghan by birth, his travels had taken him all over the Mohameddan lands. He was fluent in both Arabic and Ki-Swahili, and legend claimed his people to be of Persian descent. Surely, in this almshouse of Africans he would find men of his own religion at least.

"I have just the place in mind," Matthew said. "Now, all we have to do is find it."

He finished his meal, trying to remember whether Faye had given him the direction of the almshouse, but no such memory came to him. As he rose from the table, he wondered how difficult it would be to track it down. No matter how much better he felt this morning, he knew his strength would not last through a day-long search.

As he left the small dining room, his eye was caught by the sight of a salver lying on a table in the passageway. A card lay upon it.

Unaware of any other visitors in the past few days, besides Faye, Matthew picked the card up.

Engraved in elegant gold letters was her name, Miss Faye Meriwhether, followed by the words, "The Society for the Relief of Indigent African Natives," with an address on Whitfield Street, and a notation, "South of Tottenham Court Road."

"Ahmad," Matthew said to the man who had just caught up with him, "did Miss Meriwhether leave her card with you?"

"No, saab." Ahmad stared at the card in Matthew's hand, and his black brows snapped together. "Where did you find that?"

Matthew gestured to the plate on the table. "It was here."

"No, saab! That card was not on the salver. Neither yesterday, nor this morning before you broke your fast."

"Unless Miss Meriwhether can walk through wood, it must have been. I'm afraid your famed eyesight must be deserting you, my friend."

"No, saab!"

"Well, no matter," Matthew said, though a fresh worry had entered his head. Clearly, from the look on Ahmad's face, he had a greater need for rest than he had allowed. It was one thing for Matthew, in his state of self-absorption, not to have noticed the card earlier, quite another for Ahmad to have missed it. He had twice let a diminutive lady sneak past him. Matthew had no doubt that Faye had left the card unobtrusively on her way out, hoping its discovery would act as a reminder of her call. She clearly wished to spur him to greater efforts to the benefit of her society.

Not wishing to upset his friend, who appeared to be more than a trifle disconcerted about his lapse, Matthew let the subject drop, pledging to himself that he would never again allow his own selfishness to harm Ahmad.

Trudy had, in fact, slipped the card onto the salver while Matthew and Ahmad were eating, having rejoiced over Matthew's change of heart. She had decided that a small reminder might not be taken amiss, and, besides, she had no wish to wait all day for Matthew to discover the direction of the almshouse.

Now, all she had to worry about was how best to contrive an accidental meeting. Not that a simple ruse would be all that difficult, but she had far rather do something exciting. She wondered if she dared conjure a carriage of her own, complete with a dashing team of horses. She pictured herself tooling around London seated on the box of a high-perch phaeton of the sort she had seen in Hyde Park. She recalled one particular lady who had attracted many admirers with hers. Trudy thought she might be able to persuade her cousin Grace and her Aunt Petunia to pose as the horses, though assuredly Grace would insist on having a turn to drive herself.

No, it would be far better under the circumstances not to involve any other elves. Trudy would not put it past Grace to take a fancy to Matthew and to attempt to lead him into elfland as her own swain. And once she had caught on to Trudy's latest escapade, she might decide it would be fun to pose as a London ingénue, too.

With these sobering reflections in mind, Trudy skipped around to Tottenham Court Road, designing a whole new ensemble to wear on the way.

By the time she spied Matthew and Ahmad stepping down from a hired carriage in Whitfield Street, she had dressed herself in a becoming shade of pale green. A redingote of yellow cloth with triple pelerine velvet for trim and padded sleeves covered her gown to her ankles, and a green silk bonnet with a fashionably high crown bedecked her head. She had copied the outfit from a pattern book she'd found in a store in Bond Street, and she thought it vastly became her.

Sir Matthew must have thought so, too, for when he saw her coming down the street, his eyes lit. His nostrils flared as his gaze swept her from head to toe, and he barely hid a smile.        A natural flush of pleasure warmed her as she greeted him on a note of surprise. "Sir Matthew! What a fortunate meeting, sir. I had not dared to believe you would come around."

"Perhaps not," he said, "but you had a fairly good guess that I might."

Trudy did not pretend to misunderstand him, but gave him a coy look. "Let us just say, I hoped that the spirit of the season would inspire you."

Now that she had approached him, she offered him her hand, which he took with a bow. She couldn't help admiring the way his jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, though it hung fairly loosely about his waist, revealing the weight he had lost. A cravat was knotted carelessly about his neck, which showed he had no care for fashion. The casual appearance of it suited him far better than the starched knot and high shirt points she had seen on other gentlemen.

Aware of his friend, who was observing them with interest, Trudy held out her hand to him. "Good morning, Ahmad."

Taken aback, the Pathan hesitated only a moment before making his salaam. Turning to Matthew, Trudy was surprised to see a warm look upon his face. Then she realized that a real London ingénue would undoubtedly have ignored Ahmad, if she had not gaped at him instead, and she understood the reason for his approbation.

"Shall we go in?" she said with a sweeping gesture at the building behind Matthew.

Matthew offered her his arm, and Trudy slipped her hand inside the crook of his elbow, tremblingly aware of the sturdy muscles beneath his sleeve.

They were admitted through a gate by a stooped, dark-skinned man in floor-length robes, who bowed his respects to them. Trudy greeted him as she would an old friend. This was not her first visit, since she had delivered Matthew's draft on the very day he had presented it to her. She had tried to acquaint herself then with the names of the almshouse staff, but the steward of the facility had been away. She had nothing more from which to recognize him now than his name and a sketchy description.