Chapter 3 #2
“She is a perfectly pretty young woman. And as bland as the snowfield outside,” said Douglas.
“That’s not an insult, just an acknowledgment that youth is rarely interesting, only nice to look at.
If she is very lucky, in ten years, she will have gained the wit you possessed then.
I always loved hearing you spar with others when they dared to draw you out over tea or dinner.
Men used to speak of you in tones of dread. ”
“They didn’t speak of me at all.”
“I assure you they did, madam. Not in your hearing, perhaps. But among ourselves it was well established that many potential suitors held their tongues around you in abject fear, lest their carefully planned bon mots would be outdone by your responses. No one wanted to lose what regard they might hold with you.”
Just then, a man stamped in from the kitchen to the hall, swathed in a massive wool scarf. Yet the innkeeper recognized him and asked if the storm was slackening.
“Not a bit!” the chilled man replied in a booming voice. “If anything, it’s getting worse. I’ve never seen such snow in all my life!”
The guests within hearing gave little resigned sighs.
Joy herself felt a rush of despair. When would she be able to leave and not constantly have to look for Douglas, with his crinkled eyes and his proclamations of her beauty?
She had many Christmas wishes, but spending the holiday with the man who jilted her was not one of them!
[section]
The hour was late, but Joy couldn’t sleep in the unfamiliar setting of the inn.
The previous night, her exhaustion was so extreme that she’d hardly noticed her surroundings.
But this night, she was wide awake. Wren was fast asleep in the bed they shared, oblivious to all the noises in the other rooms, the snoring, the opening and closing of doors, and footsteps moving along the passageway, to say nothing of the creaks in the roof and the constant howling of wind.
The storm had not abated. If anything, the fury of the weather had increased.
Feeling extremely desolate about their chances of escaping the inn by tomorrow, Joy threw on her dressing gown and slid into her slippers.
She opened the door as quietly as possible, and then tiptoed down the corridor, hoping to not annoy the other guests, and in fact hoping to be completely ignored by them.
That turned out to be easy, since no one appeared to be awake at all.
The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen once she reached the ground floor, and the front door appeared to be bolted shut.
Normally, this would be a sensible decision in case some thief or footpad decided to try their luck in the middle of the night.
But with the snow hitting the window panes with enough force to make dozens of soft plopping sounds every moment, the idea of someone wandering outside was absurd.
She crept into the common room and was drawn to the fireplace, where the last log was still burning, the flames almost invisible, but the heat radiating out in the most comforting way.
The room was so dark that she had to hold both hands out in front of her as she walked so she didn’t run into an unexpected piece of furniture, and just as her right hand touched the back of one of the high-back winged chairs placed in front of the fire, she jumped in fright as a large hand closed over hers.
“I didn’t mean to startle you” came Douglas’s quiet voice. “But I also didn’t want you to sit on me.”
Joy’s heart thudded as she snatched her hand back and said, “You nearly killed me with fright!”
“I am sure I would’ve done that even if it had been full daylight. Clearly my appearance is the stuff of nightmares for you.”
She shook her head, and then realized he couldn’t see the gesture. She said, “I’m not scared of you.”
“Then have a seat,” he offered, his hand once again touching her, this time to lead her to the empty chair beside him. “You can completely ignore me, I’ll understand. I know you’re only down here because you can’t sleep.”
“How do you know I can’t sleep?” she asked, feeling quite resentful of his assumption that he understood how her mind worked. If he understood that ten years ago, he wouldn’t have hurt her so badly. And it wasn’t as if he’d had any chance to learn more about her in the meantime.
“I know you can’t sleep because you’re here and awake. If you could sleep, you would be asleep.”
It was simple logic, and she hated that it made so much sense. He got up to toss another log on the fire. It caught immediately, giving the room a ruddy glow.
“Well, I shall sit,” she said after he’d resumed his own seat.
“But pray do not attempt to make pleasant conversation as though this were a social call.” She sank back into the leather chair, which was most excellently worn and delightfully comfortable, especially having been toasted by the fire all evening long.
She stretched her feet out toward the embers, reveling in the heat. If only the company was as welcome.
Douglas didn’t say anything, and after a few minutes, she became perversely annoyed at his silence. But after all, he was only following her request. And before, he’d really only done the decent thing in offering his room. She ought to apologize.
“The room is very comfortable. My maid is fast asleep.” She hoped she didn’t sound too petulant.
“I’m glad,” he said. “It was ridiculous for the innkeeper to even entertain the notion that no accommodations could be found.”
“I suppose we’re just lucky that there weren’t more travelers, since at some point, even the largest inn would fill up. Then again, most people who would be traveling for the holidays would already be done. At their destinations, I mean. I started late.”
“Where are you bound?” It was a perfectly polite question, but Douglas’s voice did have a note of curiosity.
“I was invited to spend Yuletide with a cousin. In truth, I didn’t particularly want to go, and that was perhaps one of the reasons I found it so difficult to pack and start off until it was obviously too late.
Even if we get out tomorrow, I will miss Christmas Day itself.
The cousin in question lives in Gloucester Vale. ” She paused, then asked, “And you?”
“I’m going home. The house I prefer to stay at most is near Coventry.”
Since that was not where his family was from, she assumed it must be a house that he owned with his wife. Though she would rather chew her own tongue off, Joy asked with icy civility, “Your wife is already there?”
“My wife died this past spring.”
“Oh, I am sorry! I didn’t know.” Sudden shame engulfed her. How petty she had been, while he was grieving.
“Why should you know? Our social circles have hardly overlapped lately.” His comment was wry, and there was very little grief in his tone, though grief was an odd thing, and people didn’t always display it.
Before she could offer more condolences in her surprised and awkward state, he volunteered, “My son is there, and I was very much hoping to spend Christmas Day with him, since it will be his first Christmas without his mother.”
“That must be difficult for any child. How old is he?”
“Eight this past October. Kit is—” Douglas broke off. “I shouldn’t bore you with praise of my child. I am well aware that every father thinks his boy is the finest creature in the world.”
“Your own father never fell into that camp.” She remembered Douglas’s parents, and in particular his father, the previous earl.
He’d been a stern and exacting personality who always made it clear that Joy was never going to be good enough for his son, even though his own son was never going to be good enough for the family name.
Douglas gave a short laugh, and the sound stirred something in her chest. It had been a very long time since she’d heard his laugh, and a long time since she had been the one to make him laugh.
“Have you any children with your husband?” he asked.
“No,” she said, not bothering to hide the relief. “And indeed I have no husband anymore. He passed four years ago and I have been living the quiet widow’s life.”
“I wish I’d known.”
“Would it have mattered?”
He shrugged, the gesture barely visible in the dimness of the room. “I would have sent condolences. For what that would be worth.”
“I received a fair number of condolences. I must say that in the end they didn’t make much difference.”
“Other people’s words can’t do much to assuage grief,” he said, totally misapprehending the situation.
The fact was that she felt only the slightest amount of grief when her husband passed.
He had been significantly older than she was, and even early on in their marriage, he’d made it clear that what he expected from a wife was a pretty face to grace his house and his arm when he went out, and a pliant and ever accommodating presence to act as a nursemaid and household manager.
He grew ill about three years before his eventual passing, and it was the beginning of the end, though he was the last person to see it.
She became his nursemaid in truth, as she found herself responsible for choosing his meals, then helping to dress him and undress him and bathe him and soothe his querulous attitude when their servants found it easier to disappear.
Becoming a widow meant that her days became suddenly wide open and utterly calm. It was such a change that it took her about a month to fully appreciate just how little time and attention she’d had for herself in those last few years.
Her husband had been a well-off gentleman.
She found herself garnering attention from acquaintances and acquaintances of acquaintances, and sometimes rank adventurers.
As a widow of means, she was assumed to be utterly desperate to have a man in her life, and be willing to pay for that man in one way or another.
Instead, she found that no flirtation was as attractive as freedom.
She resolved to never marry again, and indeed to largely ignore the entire idea of either courtship or a clandestine affair, which, as a widow, she would’ve been quite able to indulge in without censure from society.
“You weren’t happy,” he said. The words came softly, and were all the more surprising for it.
“No, I wasn’t happy. Not that it’s any business of yours.”
“I deserve that. I realize that you have no reason to believe that I am concerned for your well-being, but all the same it is true, and I am sorry that you were unhappy in your marriage.” He paused. “If it helps, I wasn’t happy either.”
“You didn’t marry for happiness. You married for financial advantage.” She sounded harsh as she spoke, and regretted the words.
“I did. But I believed that I was going to experience something like love and affection as well. I was very quickly corrected in my belief.”
“If you’re seeking sympathy from me, I will have to correct that belief as well.
I could scarcely step outside that winter without hearing some person tell me how I missed out on a fine match and wasn’t it too bad that I’d have to wait before receiving a proposal.
Everyone assumed that I had done something to turn you away from me. Everyone thought it was my fault.”
He shook his head. “I should have realized how cruel people could be. But I suppose I was too busy being cruel myself.”
She looked over at him in surprise. He noticed and turned his head to hers, and she couldn’t look away from his intense gaze.
He said, “I was an absolute beast to you. The truth was that I didn’t know what to say and so I said nothing.
And it wasn’t fair to you. You deserved a full explanation, and really a warning.
But it all seemed to happen so quickly, and I convinced myself that my decision was practical and sensible, and that as long as I didn’t see your face again, I wouldn’t regret it. ”
“As I recall, you never did see my face again. You vanished from the social scene, even though the season hadn’t even truly begun that year.”
Douglas nodded. “I was hiding from you.”
His admission shook her. “You don’t hide from anybody,” she said.
“I hid from you. Your family. And all your friends. And indeed anyone who might know you. Because I knew all of them would tell me that I treated you horribly.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. She’d dreamed so many times of Douglas groveling before her, begging forgiveness for hurting her feelings so harshly.
But now, his simple admission made her realize that all those dreams ended abruptly at the moment he professed his guilt. In her dreams, she’d never had to sit with his words and respond to them.
Douglas was still looking at her, a strange expression in his eyes. “Joy, can we not be friends?”
She thought about it, and shook her head. “After what’s happened between us, after so many years? After we’ve only met again because a storm forced us to shelter at the same inn? No, I don’t think we can be friends. Good night, Douglas.”
She got up, turned, and walked to the door as quickly as decorum would allow. Did it feel like running away? Yes. Did she have any other choice? Who knew?
And why did part of her wish to feel Douglas’s hand on her arm, preventing her from leaving? Turning her back to him, looking into her eyes, then kissing her as if the past ten years hadn’t happened?