Chapter 12
Emma had no intention of leaving Sir Christmas’s side for longer than needed.
With so many anxious people seeking to aid him, she’d taken control, shouting orders to servants and family like a commander assembling his crew.
While waiting for her love’s return, she’d learned a lot about healing from Lady Astley-Milne and also taking care of the viscount.
Saints preserve her, she was bound and determined to administer aid to Sir Christmas, and no one would dare stop her.
On her way to refresh herself, she watched as Collins gently led a complaining Lord Astley-Milne away, reassuring the elderly gentleman that Sir Christmas’s companion, Lieutenant Barrett, was a surgeon.
The butler took particular care not to diminish the viscount’s dignity while he did so, for age, immobility, and bereavement had stolen much from the elder man, sickness and despondency weakening his once renowned stamina.
Lord Astley-Milne was an imaginative soul who cherished each new sunrise and sunset.
He gloried in his obligations to better the land, himself, and the lives of his tenants, dabbling in gardening, architecture and art.
His habit of good will was Milne Manor’s lifeblood.
The tenants and their descendants remained loyal because of the viscount’s kindness, support, and wherewithal.
Each family was made to feel as if they bore the Astley-Milne name, including Emma. She adored the man.
Collins and the viscount shuffled down the hall to a bench with what little strength Lord Astley-Milne had left. Emma knew that the rot infesting his soul and eroding his heart were the seconds, minutes, hours days and years that had passed without a word from Sir Christmas.
“It is a pox upon me that Fate practically mocks me with my son’s arrival. I am nearly too dead to appreciate the jubilation.”
Emma closed the distance between them and sank to her knees beside the father of the man she loved. “My lord, do not despair. I am sure your son will be beside you as soon as he is able.”
The old man grumbled. “If he is not, I will lose everything.”
“Our prayers will be answered,” she told him softly to ease his distress, much the same as she did every time his hope waned. Much depended on Sir Christmas. “He is home at last.”
The hairs on the viscount’s brow laid back down as his expression changed from despondence to relief. “My sister’s son will not be happy of it.”
She patted his cold, spindly hands, her heart sinking to the lowest depths.
It was a constant battle to fight her sadness and worry and appear unmoved.
Mrs. Townsbridge counted on her son inheriting the viscountcy.
“What care of it is ours, eh? Your son—my betrothed—has returned, and with a surgeon to care for him. Stay the course and weather whatever this day brings, I beg. Men have returned under worse conditions and survived.”
The viscount’s shoulders finally settled, and he heaved a relative sigh.
“Yes.” His eyes glistened with unshed tears, years of determination fueling his spirit and fending off the bad health that threatened his life.
“I pray for such an end to my turmoil daily. I have been plagued with thoughts of all that I own falling into my nephew’s lap.
For the livelihoods of my tenants, I cannot meet my maker before ensuring my legacy is secure. ”
“And it will be. You mustn’t worry,” she reassured him. “Your son needs you to be strong.”
“Townsbridge doesn’t love this land the way Christmas and I do. He’s been handed everything on a silver salver and lost it, living the life of a carefree rake, gambling without consequence. He’s a scoundrel through and through, that one, and I will not—”
He began to cough uncontrollably as he leaned over her arm.
Collins stooped to the viscount’s side. “May I be of service, my lord?”
“No.” The viscount righted himself. “I am well.”
“Take a deep breath,” Emma urged him. “You mustn’t upset yourself so.” She hugged him to her, saying a silent prayer for the frail man. “Concentrate on inhaling and exhaling. Think of the children who are so looking forward to Christmas at Milne Manor.”
“Oh my!” A maid named Jane hurried toward them, smelling salts clutched in her hand, fear and concern lining her face. “What’s all the fuss?”
The viscount sat back, waving a hand before his face as his breathing returned to normal. “Miss Clavering has everything well in hand.”
Collins wasn’t convinced. He lifted the viscount from his chair, guiding him by the arm. “Allow me to escort you to your chambers. The lieutenant said—”
“Never mind what Lieutenant Barrett said, Collins. I am a grown man and capable of taking care of myself.”
Emma erred on the side of caution. “Perhaps Collins is right, my lord.”
“Nonsense. I have a son whom I must ensure gets well, and preparations to finalize for Yule. I should see them done. Though,” —he shot a look at Collins— “I am quite cold. It would be much more preferable to sit by the fire with a glass of brandy while I check the log to make sure that everything is in place.”
“The lieutenant said—”
“I know you mean well, old boy, but Lieutenant Barrett need not worry about me. He’d better help my son. He is more important as he’s my only heir.”
They helped the viscount to stand. “Go and enjoy your brandy, my lord,” she said. “It should help revive you and restore your warmth.”
“But I would rather sit with Christmas,” he complained.
“I’ll sit with Sir Christmas until you are rested.”
Duty before affection, her mother had advised.
Affairs of the heart fluctuate like steel forged in a fiery furnace of love and pain, copper and tin and bronze melding from cherry to dark yellow to bright white.
In its purest form, love is established the same way while waiting and wanting and wishing for more.
She’d held on to her mother’s words for as long as she could remember, hoping one day that her efforts to support Sir Christmas with her heart and body entire would bear fruit. It hadn’t been easy.
In the years since Sir Christmas had gone to war, and especially when they hadn’t known if he was alive or dead, Emma had turned down one marriage proposal after another, preferring life at Claverfield and Milne Manor, and caring for the father of the man she loved, to an unfulfilling marriage.
Even that had not deterred Lord Lyddon, who continued to court her in vain.
And Sir Christmas’s cousin, Reginald Townsbridge, had professed his intentions to marry her, though she suspected his motivation was to inherit Milne Manor and become the next viscount.
Life without the promise of happiness had passed at an agonizingly sluggish pace.
Six years, ten months and twenty-two days to be precise.
Minutes, hours, days, months, years, battle after battle, had merged into one long season of fear and discontent.
Nevertheless, her love had never foundered, with Lyddon and Townsbridge requesting that she accept the possibility Sir Christmas might never return.
But if he had, and she wasn’t there—
She’d made Sir Christmas a vow that she meant to keep, pledging to love him until the end of time. She would not stop loving this broken man, particularly when he needed her most.
Hugging her sides, she opened the door to the red drawing room and stared inside.
This was where she longed to see Sir Christmas standing, by the hearth, looking heroic in his naval uniform, his shoulders broad and steady, his grin masking an unspoken inner turmoil that reached his eyes as he bid them all adieu.
Military men were never promised safe return. The insatiable enemy did not care about a man’s past or those left behind. Nothing . . . nothing whatsoever was guaranteed in life but hardship.
She stared at the hearth, imagining Sir Christmas in his formal naval uniform, gold braid and buttons reflecting the candlelight, his pristine appearance juxtaposed with what he must have endured throughout five years of imprisonment.
She’d read of British prisoners in France who were nomads, forced to march from one citadel to another, some shipped to Mauritius to join slaves purchased for plantations there.
The idea of anyone being forced into hard labor for any reason sickened her, especially starving men who needed medical attention.
Would Sir Christmas’s wounds heal? Would he outlive Twelfth night?
Growing up, she’d often admired the sight of Sir Christmas laboring in the fields, bailing hay, cleaning out stalls in the stables, and tending to obstinate oxen.
Normalcies witnessed on estates where there were stabled carriages and horses, and farming took place, with Sir Christmas eager to participate against his older brother’s wishes.
Being a second son had advantages.
Memories flooded her. Visions of garland and ribbon and yule logs which immersed the red drawing room in splendorous color, light, and warmth. Far different from the cold, forgotten space that befell her eyes now.
Sighing, she left the room and closed the door softly, offering a silent prayer that the red parlor would one day revisit its former grandeur. It was a foolish wish, but one close to her heart. Because she knew that day might have to wait until she and Sir Christmas were wed.
She straightened her spine and headed for the kitchen to ensure the delicacies she’d chosen for Twelfth Night celebrations were progressing as planned.