Chapter 51
The road from Carrington to Finchley was always a hazard this time of year.
Standing pools of melted snow led to water freezing over, which meant ice.
And a carriage hitting a patch of ice at too fast a speed meant accidents.
Which is how Charles found himself arriving back to Finchley well over three hours later than anticipated.
He’d been in Carrington all morning, assisting the curate there, Mr. Hoxley, with distributing food packages to the fire victims. On his return journey, a slick patch of ice had spelled disaster for a hired coach carrying a family of six north for the Christmas holiday.
The carriage toppled and two of the horses were injured.
Charles found himself doubling back to Carrington to help find the poor family an alternative means of transportation.
By the time the soft lights of Finchley came into view, it was full dark, and Charles was exhausted. He couldn’t wait to return to the parsonage and soak his aching bones in the big brass tub.
Memories of the previous night flashed through his mind, distracting him from the wind and cold.
When he woke to find both Warren and Madeline gone, he’d been disoriented.
It wasn’t long before Warren returned, having taken her back to the great house.
Charles couldn’t believe he’d been so foolish as to fall asleep. Thank god for Warren.
He pursed his lips, giving his old mare another tap with his crop. She grunted at him, reluctantly picking up her pace.
His thoughts were in turmoil. What passed between them all had been . . . what was the proper word for something that so shook the foundations of your being that you felt unmade and remade into something entirely new? Revolutionary? Cataclysmic?
When Warren returned, he’d merely sat at the end of his narrow bed, looking down at Charles. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Charles could tell Warren was just as changed by it all.
And now it all fell to him, this next choice. There was the life he was expected to want that led down a sunlit path with absolutely no pitfalls or dangers. It was the path he was already on, and the destination was the vicarage at Bredbury.
Or there was a new path, an uncharted path that led through a dark and mysterious forest. And Charles would not be alone on this path.
He would become responsible for the lives of two people who were looking to him to provide them all a way out.
This path was mired in obstacles—slick patches of ice, ruts, sudden turns.
And all the while, there would be people lying in wait, watching them, ready to throw rocks and sticks at every turn.
Charles was as adventurous as the next young person, but to march down this second path didn’t feel adventurous so much as dangerous, reckless even.
If only he could be assured that there was indeed a way through.
If only he knew such a path had been followed by others before and actually led to happiness for the merry adventurers.
Because there was nothing more daunting in his mind than the idea of taking Madeline and Warren and breaking them, ruining their lives through loving him. If that happened, he felt sure he’d never forgive himself.
He left the borrowed mare at the smithy and crossed the high street towards the parsonage.
The village was quiet at this time of night, all the busy workers tucked away, eagerly enjoying dinnertime around warm fires.
He too wanted nothing more than a glass of brandy and a quiet fire, for he had much to think about.
He passed through the front gate of the parsonage and stilled. Something was wrong. He could see shadows moving in the windows and was that . . . music? Hurrying his footsteps, he opened the front door to a surprising display.
The coat tree was hung with half a dozen hats and coats.
Inside, the house smelled like . . . Christmas.
There was no other word to describe the tapestry of scents that conjured up for Charles fond memories of Christmas feasts eaten in this house—roasted venison, sizzling pork, the savory notes of rosemary and thyme, baked fruit pies spiced with nutmeg and clove.
And then there was the music. From the modest drawing room came the cheery sounds of a piano and violin playing Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Deep laughter echoed out over the music.
Charles hurriedly took off his outwear, his back turned, when Molly cried out, “Oh, gracious! Master Charles, home at last. We were about to send out a search party to search the roads for your frozen corpse! I was that sure you must have taken a tumble.” She bustled forward, her hand full of a tray of festive drinks.
“You naughty boy, where have you been then?”
“I—”
“Never mind, come in, come in! And be sure to thank Mr. Burke for his overwhelming generosity.”
Charles paused. “Mr. Burke?”
“Yes, yes, come,” she huffed, the tray rattling in her grip. She turned the corner into the drawing room with a shrill call of, “He’s heere!”
The music stopped as he turned the corner, standing in the doorway to see a wholly unexpected sight.
The room had been decorated top to bottom with Christmas decorations—colorful paper garlands were strung down the walls and the mantle was festooned with pine boughs and ribbons.
And the room was full to the brim with . . . well . . . everyone.
The duchess herself sat at the piano, a wide smile of welcome on her face.
Behind her stood Madeline, holding the violin.
Uncle Selby was bundled up warm in his favorite chair by the fire, James at his side.
Other prominent townspeople dotted the narrow room—Doctor Rivers, the milliner Mr. Ford and his wife, Sir and Lady Havens, Mrs. Jane Pilcock, owner of the Blue Lady Inn.
Nearest to him was Mr. Burke, standing with a glass of mulled wine in hand.
He stood with Warren and Mr. Trammel, who ran the post office.
“Surprise!”
“Merry Christmas, Charles!”
“Happy Christmas, Mr. Bray!”
The group welcomed him warmly and he glanced around wide-eyed, as Molly bustled forward and shoved a glass of mulled wine in his hand.
“Is this not ever a good surprise, Master Charles? Mr. Burke arranged everything,” she cooed, her eyes filled with so much love for the man that Charles was sure she was picking out curtains in her mind.
It was a comical thought, seeing as Molly Evans had always been of a firm mind that Horatio Burke was an irredeemable scoundrel.
“Molly exaggerates,” Burke replied. “The nugget of the idea may have been mine, but the execution was all Rosalie and Madeline. And I would have told you, but you’ve been slippery as an eel these past few days.”
The duchess stepped up at his side. “Well, we had to cancel our grand Christmas do, and when Burke mentioned his fear that Mr. Selby may not be well enough to attend our family dinner, we knew we had to bring Christmas to him. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Bray,” she added with a hand on his arm.
“I don’t mind, Your Grace,” he murmured.
In fact, Charles was touched beyond anything to see the way his uncle sat so peacefully by the fire, surrounded by all the townspeople who knew and loved him best. He glanced over and his breath caught in his throat.
Madeline knelt beside Uncle Selby, offering him a fresh cup of tea.
Her hair was up tonight, her golden curls a halo around her face.
She and the duchess sported festive holly berry garlands on their heads like crowns.
She wore a dress of emerald silk, with long white gloves.
A single strand of pearls sat at her throat.
Uncle Selby leaned down, his weathered face cracked into an enchanted smile as she adjusted the blanket on his lap, murmuring something that had him and James sharing a laugh. She gave his knee an affectionate pat before rising, her back still turned to him.
“He’s smitten, I think,” the duchess murmured, still standing with her hand on his arm. “She’s been most attentive to him.”
He glanced over at the duchess, whose lips were pursed into a knowing smile. “I thank you for your kindness,” he replied, taking a sip of the mulled wine in his hand.
“There is no thanks needed, Mr. Bray,” she replied. “You are family to us—you and Mr. Selby—and we take care of our own.” She gave his hand a squeeze and walked away, calling out to the room what carol they should like to hear next.
Burke shifted away too, following Mr. Trammel into the dining room, where all the delicious food had apparently been set. That left Charles alone in the corner with Warren.
“Burke made me come,” he muttered, clearly the least comfortable person in the room.
“As well you should,” Charles replied. “It’s Christmas, John.”
“Selby doesn’t want me here.” His dark eyes darted across the room towards the curate.
With a sigh, Charles grabbed his elbow, dragging him out of the corner towards the two empty chairs by Uncle Selby and the duke.
“Charles, you’re home safe,” Uncle Selby called. “I’m ever so relieved.”
“Sorry, uncle. The roads were quite icy. I had to aid an overturned carriage,” he replied, taking the first empty seat.
Warren sat stiffly in the second.
“You remember Warren, surely, uncle,” he added.
“Of course, I remember our dashing Mr. Warren,” Uncle Selby replied. “He all but lived in my back garden for half a decade. Sit yourself down, sir. Sit down there.”
“He’s been indispensable in providing help to the Carrington fire victims,” Charles went on. “Without him, they wouldn’t be so happily situated with game enough to see them through the new year.”
“Oh?” was his uncle’s reply, his gaze darting between them with a knowing look.
Charles could let himself feel awkward about it, but he was too tired to do so tonight. Let Uncle Selby think whatever he wanted. Charles was weary and anxious, and he wanted Warren close at hand.
“Warren is one of the best gamekeepers I have,” James added.