Chapter 15
Later that evening, after a lovely meal of roast beef and venison, Emma descended the staircase to join the festivities in the red parlor.
She’d dressed in one of her finest gowns, a simple lilac silk with a Turkish shawl, and gloves, having saved the new ensemble for her wedding trousseau.
The dress was out of fashion now but the celebration provided reason enough to wear it.
They’d all lost so much in the waning years, driven to hollows of sorrow and dread. This night, however, symbolized a new start, and she could not be more thankful for the opportunity Providence had provided.
Determined to make the most of their situation, she smiled broadly, forcing the images of war and death to fade into distant memory.
Thanks to her cousin, Sir Christmas no longer suffered.
He was home where he belonged. Safe. And this Yuletide would not be spent laboring over memories and what-could-have-been.
They would actively create new reminiscences to replace the old.
Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, flapping about with no sense of direction.
She hadn’t kept company with Sir Christmas since they’d almost kissed in the red parlor.
Collins’s interruption had prevented the intimacy.
On the one hand, she was thankful the butler’s presence had stopped her from giving herself to Sir Christmas completely.
On the other, the interruption was another cruel blow when she’d already missed seven years of his life.
Naturally, it was too soon to throw herself into Sir Christmas’s arms, as her instincts begged her to do.
He needed more time to come to terms with all that had befallen him.
Time to experience what he’d been through before she added to his confusion.
She didn’t want him beholden to her, to know about her involvement in procuring his freedom, or the lengths to which she’d gone to provide for the village.
She wanted his undying love more than gratitude, and she meant to make him love her as he once had.
Lieutenant Barrett met her at the bottom of the stairs looking quite the opposite than when she’d first met him, and dashing in his uniform. A look of merriment twinkled in his eyes as he smiled up at her. “Miss Clavering.”
He reached out his hand to help her down the last step. She took it gladly, drawn to his happy countenance and delighting in his transformation. Men like Barrett were a reminder that good still existed in the world.
“May I tell you how lovely you look this evening,” he said slyly.
His flattery made her uneasy. She wasn’t used to it. “You are quite generous, Lieutenant.”
“Would you prefer I comment on how well dressed I appear? Though that would not put me in a positive light, I fear.” His was a comical soul, she discovered.
“I speak the truth, however. You look positively lovely.” He took her hand in his and studied it.
“Yours is more than outward beauty, which is undeniable. But a spark of decency and spirit that beams in your presence. I didn’t detect it before—given the circumstances—but I do now.
Is this your natural way or has something happened that has altered your mood? ”
“Lieutenant, you may ask me whatever you please, though I may politely decline to answer.”
“Well then,” he said with a quirked brow.
“I’m an astute man, trained to pay close attention to human faults.
I shall endeavor to learn any secrets you harbor straightaway, with or without your help.
Though I already have my suspicions as to where your feelings lie.
” Laughter bubbled up inside her as he tucked her arm in his elbow.
“May I escort you to the red parlor? If I’m not mistaken, that is the room we are to adjourn to for tonight’s festivities. ”
She nodded, aware that they were being watched by a tall figure standing at the end of the corridor. “I should like that very much.”
They marched down the hall, her eyes fixed ahead at the broad-shouldered man standing ominously alone. Sir Christmas was a mystery to her now, locked in the prison of his mind.
Nevertheless, she had every intention of freeing him from whatever plagued him.
The lieutenant leaned closer, whispering in her ear, “He spoke of you often, especially at Christmas, regaling me with tales of the sensible and quiet miss he’d left behind.
” The closer they got to the red parlor and Sir Christmas, Emma’s heart beat faster and faster.
He looked ruggedly handsome in his black jacket, white cravat, fawn-colored breeches and brilliantly shining boots.
“Forgive me,” the lieutenant said, drawing her attention back to Chris, “if I admit to being surprised. You are not the same woman the captain described, but more vibrant, steadfast, secure, and constant.”
I’m a smuggler. “You are too kind,” she said, guilt washing over her. A lady didn’t barter with pirates or employ men to distribute ill-begotten gains. “I do not deserve such high praise.”
“Oh, but you do,” the lieutenant swore loudly as he guided her past Chris into the parlor, making a great show of seating her on the settee opposite Lord Astley-Milne.
“I have seen you in action, if you recall. As has my dim-witted friend. I can also verify that the battle is won. His heart is still yours.”
He left her to absorb his words, accepting a glass of brandy from Collins and moving to the other side of the room to glare into the flames dancing in the hearth.
Chris joined them, increasing the tension that already gripped her wholly.
She shivered as the stark differences between both men struck her.
The lieutenant acted as if he was carefree and jolly, though he must have seen the worst of war while tending to the sick, injured, and dying.
What was Chris’s excuse? What had he endured? What event or events had changed him?
“Are you cold?” Chris asked suddenly from behind her, electrifying the space they shared.
“No.” She offered the lie without reservation, refusing to add to Chris’s concerns.
Her tremoring body knew the cause. Her nerves were attuned to every movement he made, lighting her up with anticipation.
She’d been seated next to the lieutenant at dinner, and across from Chris, bearing the brunt of his hypnotizing brown stare.
He’d watched closely as she and the lieutenant had chatted, speaking only when the viscount addressed him.
Lord Astley-Milne’s constitution appeared renewed, his joyous demeanor providing energy he’d not shown for years.
Oh, how I am glad of it! The poor man’s constitution barely allowed for a sip of wine, though he drank, infinitely amused by his son’s presence.
And in a vast homily, revealed how he planned to extend his wealth to the families leasing the farms around Milne Manor, three or four of them descendants of the original tenants of the 1st viscount, Geoffrey Milne.
The family name was later altered to honor one of the 3rd viscount’s grandsons, Richard Astley, who adapted the name when he became the 4th viscount.
“What do you suppose you’ll do now, Lieutenant?
” Lord Astley-Milne rubbed his thigh, something he always did come nightfall to ease the ache that always befell him.
Collins’s immediate response hindered the conversation as he lifted the viscount’s leg and positioned it on an ottoman, arranging a plump pillow below his calf. “Thank you, Collins,” he said fondly.
Barrett waited until the viscount was settled before answering his question. “After a debriefing at the Admiralty? The captain will have to undergo the same experience, I’m sure. But as for me . . . well, I’ve yet to ponder it.”
“Lieutenant Barrett was orphaned and joined the navy, learning every role he could from sailor and carpenter to quartermaster. During the battle off Cape Finisterre, he aided the ship’s surgeon in a fierce engagement that took five lives and wounded forty men.
That day he found his calling, apprenticing on one of the mightiest ships in the navy.
” Chris paused, a dark cloud descending over his face.
“That is where we met, aboard the 80-gun HMS Malta.”
“And it has been a friendship that changed my life,” the lieutenant said. “I wouldn’t have survived France without you, Captain.”
“You do not give yourself enough credit, Barrett.”
“Aye, sir,” the lieutenant humbly agreed.
The conversation continued, providing Emma more insight into both men and what the years had cost them: the many nights they’d kept each other alive, alternating watches to avoid the enemy; forced marches across the country, slave labor and disciplinary action.
“An opportunity arose to ransom Barrett, but the French refused, maintaining they had no one to care for the prisoners.”
“And you?” she turned to ask Chris.
“I found my calling too.” He cracked his neck, avoiding her eyes. “Continuing to devise ways for us to escape.”
He’d said this so matter-of-factly that she understood the hidden nuances.
Ansell had told her parts of Chris’s story, though she dared not ask the questions that plagued her heart.
But what was in the past must stay in the past. Scars remained.
Nothing could negate their suffering. Nevertheless, they could start again.
She had to get both of them to think of the future.
That was the only thing that could be altered now.
Besides, this was Christmas Eve, their first to celebrate in freedom.
Nothing—no talk of the past, no mourning what could have been—must ruin it.
“We must be willing to adapt,” she offered. “The past cannot be undone.”
Chris cleared his throat. “No, it cannot.” He ambled to the window, hands behind his back, then turned to face her. “While I am sorry for your loss, I am grateful the events led you to my father.”