Chapter 17
They entered the dining room, happy and smiling, their spirits revived. Thanks to Hardy, Chris knew what awaited them inside so he was unfazed when their names were announced and Townsbridge bolted from his chair.
“Sir Christmas!” his cousin bellowed then sought to amend his tone. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
The last was said without conviction.
“This is the news I’ve been waiting to share, sister,” Lord Astley-Milne said to Mrs. Helena Townsbridge, seated next to a surly man Chris didn’t recognize, and his cousin, the indignant Mr. Reginald Allister Townsbridge.
“What is the meaning of this, Reginald?” his aunt asked staring over her wine glass dumbfounded. “You needn’t act as if you are shocked. My brother has been searching for his son for years, and it is good to see him safe and sound.”
“Yes. My son has come home,” the viscount cheerfully explained, “and I could not be happier. I told you, sister, there really was no need to begin the procedure of proclaiming him dead. Apologies to your solicitor— Rhodes, is it? —for his wasted time. What a shame it is that he left his family on Christmas Day for this. Though I confess it will be a lovely dinner.”
“But—” Townsbridge railed. His cheeks turned ruddy, his eyes widened, and his jaw hung agape, giving his inner turmoil away. Apparently, seeking to smother the steam building inside him, he picked up his wine glass and downed the contents entirely.
Oh, what an easy egg to crack.
“While I am happy to see you home, Sir Christmas,” Townsbridge continued, “I . . . that is, we had all but given you up for dead. After all these years, you see, the odds were never in your favor, and I,” —he darted a glance at Emma, her apparent surprise causing a stammer— “I . . . Emma? Help me, please.”
“I shall not,” she spat with a vehemence Chris had never seen her triumph. What had happened between the two while he’d been gone? Whatever it was, it had left a lasting impression.
Townsbridge started toward Emma as if to plead for help, but Chris’s father waved his napkin in the man’s face to stop him.
“Do come in, my dearest son,” he said. “Emma, sister, nephew, allow me to introduce the newest member of our party, Lieutenant Daniel Barrett, a naval surgeon responsible for keeping my son alive during his captivity.”
“Thank you, Lord Astley-Milne, for that warm welcome, but I am not the only reason your son is alive. Miss Clavering’s cousin shoulders the bulk of your thanks.
” Barrett offered a stiff bow then followed Chris and Emma to the large dining hall table at which his mother and brother had once appeared.
Time warred with Fate, although nothing had obscured the beauty of the space.
Heavy curtains hung from the windows in their usual fashion, as his mother had long preferred.
Crystal chandeliers lit every corner, the tabletop basking in the glow and glimmer.
Four candelabras were stationed about the room.
Greenery, berries, and ribbon ornamented the centerpieces, with two sugared fruit towers flanking each end.
His mother’s china, stamped with the Astley-Milne crest, still dressed the mahogany surface.
Milne silver defended each plate in fine form.
Yet nothing felt the same. Not the décor, the room, the people in attendance, or even himself.
It was as if he were the stranger in his own home.
Not Lieutenant Christmas Astley-Milne. A mirror image of that man—boy, really—existed inside an empty shell belonging to one decorated captain.
The guiltless pup, who’d left his mother behind without a clue that he’d never see her again, assuming she’d be safe, had squandered innocence on combat when he could have forged a living for himself, appreciated his mother’s love, and protected her life.
Then there was Emma. Curse him for leaving her desiring to win a war with high aspirations.
War was not a game. Living when all else was gone had proved harder.
Convening at Spithead and boarding a ship damned to infamy had led him to years of anguish, anguish his family might have averted if not for his cursed ambition.
Why hadn’t he taken orders? Mr. Havisham, the local vicar, seemed to enjoy a saintly and serene life, when he was less, not more.
Barely human and yet, somehow still capable of love, unlike his sticky-fingered cousin who only loved himself.
“Come in. Come in,” his father said, snapping him back to reality with understated arrogance. “I have reserved seats for you at this end.”
His mother’s and brother’s seats. Blood and gall! Their empty spots loomed large and ominous, a reminder of all he’d lost while trying to make a name for himself. Nodding, he swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. “Thank you, Father.”
As they moved further into the room, he signaled Barrett to take the first seat they passed. Emma sat next—taking Noel’s place—leaving the chair closest to his father, his mother’s seat, for him. He lowered into it slowly, desiring to cast up his accounts.
Life wasn’t fair. How could this be? Their family had not been spared losses and heartbreak. It had been torn apart. He’d not been given time to mourn, or to come to grips with that fact that, like Barrett, he was a motherless child.
“A toast to my son,” his father said proudly, raising his wineglass.
“He is home where he belongs. Huzza! Milne Manor” —his voice caught— “is almost whole again. Yes . . . it is safer, sounder.” With a nod, and expecting everyone to drink to their heart’s content, he sipped his wine before erupting into a coughing fit.
Collins stepped forward. Emma immediately rose from her seat to offer help. Chris beat her to the viscount, however, his chair complaining against the hardwood floor as he jumped to his father’s side and rubbed his sire’s back.
“No. No. No,” his father complained. “Do not fawn over me. I am fit as a fiddle.”
“Uncle!” Townsbridge obviously took offense. Chris didn’t know what for. Probably all the words—safer, sounder, fit as a fiddle. “Lord Astley-Milne, we had an agreement,” he shouted.
Aunt Helena snapped. “You cannot fault my brother for enjoying his son’s return, Reginald.
Sir Christmas is all he has left in this world besides us.
Any agreement you might have had with your uncle is nullified now that the rightful heir to Milne Manor has returned.
I, for one, am thrilled that Fate has smiled so kindly upon us at last.”
“Thank you, Aunt,” Chris said. Though Providence had nothing to do with his circumstances.
If Townsbridge had had his way and his scheme had worked, what a web he would have spun, bankrupting his father’s coffers, and sucking everyone at Milne Manor dry.
“I am content to be back in Kent.” He glared at his cousin, warning the man. “And I intend to stay.”
“You’re not returning to the Navy?” Townsbridge’s ludicrous question had suspicious undertones.
“He cannot,” Emma said, her voice cracking with emotion. Chris met her stare, cut by her entreaty. “Not until his wounds heal,” she added.
He reached for her hand, seeking to console her, to offer her some sort of assurance that he meant to resign his commission. Wasn’t that what she wanted? Or had someone else won her heart while he was gone?
“You must stay.” She gazed up at him with tear-filled eyes. “You have only just returned.”
He leaned toward her, conscious of the years she’d been denied marriage, children, and happiness. “Please believe me when I say, I have no intention of leaving. I have served England—”
“Remarkably well, I might add,” Barrett offered unexpectedly.
Chris smiled with appreciation, but went on, explanations necessary to the woman he loved. “It is only a matter of time before the war ends.”
“How can you be so certain?” Townsbridge asked. “I thought Napoleon marched on the Continent—”
“There are other ways to serve England,” Chris said thinking about Ansell Ransome and his crew. They managed to feed the hungry, supply the needy, and help humanity by freeing captives. Oh, Emma’s cousin took greater risks than he or any other naval officer ever had without commendations.
Townsbridge grumbled, “None as prestigious as serving your king.”
“Your opinions about military strategy have no place here, cousin,” he said.
“How dare you!” Townsbridge’s face reddened. “What right do you have to—”
Barrett turned to Emma and said loudly enough for all to hear. “I find the most opinionated men to be cowardly and vain, though they would never own to it.”
Emma glanced back at Chris through her lashes, the humor she censured flickering in her eyes for him alone. Did she agree with Barrett? As for him, his silence would count as agreement.
Footmen entered the room with silver salvers topped with domed hoods. Bowls of turtle soup were placed before them.
Townsbridge eagerly picked up his spoon, not caring to wait for his host—the ingrate.
“What a splendid presentation,” his aunt chimed in sweetly, changing the subject. “I commend you, brother. Your cook has impeccable taste.”
His father cackled. “Do not cast your appreciation in this direction. My darling ward should be given all the praise. She has overseen every Christmas meal we’ve eaten these past five years. I have no doubt this Christmas will surpass all my hopes.”
“And mine,” Chris confessed.
Their eyes met. Emma rewarded him with that heaven-sent smile that cut through the hate, malice, anger, and guilt he’d borne on his shoulders so long. The weight appeared to lift whenever she was near like the sun clearing a thick fog. That realization nearly undid him.
He reached for his glass. “A toast to our hostess,” he said with a smile.
“Hear! Hear!” everyone but Townsbridge exclaimed.
“To the captain’s safe return,” Barrett offered.
“And our new friend, Lieutenant Barrett,” Aunt Helena said, drinking her fill.
Townsbridge refused to sip from his glass again. Was this how his cousin repaid his uncle? If so, it was a mistake of the highest order.
“Tell me,” Chris said, looking straight into his cousin’s face. “Had you planned to wait until after dinner to take my place, or were you preparing to toast my demise and then inform my father of your intentions as he supped?”
Townsbridge choked on his food. A servant rushed forward, but he waved the footman away and rose to his feet. His face reddening and his hands fisted at his sides with barely controlled rage, he shouted, “How dare you!”
“Come now, Townsbridge,” Chris’s father declared to his surprise. “Did you really think I wasn’t aware of your plans?”
“I thought . . . I was assured—”
“By whom?” Chris interjected.
“By me,” Aunt Helena said with the dignity of a queen.
“You?” his father asked dumbfounded. “My own sister conspires against me?”
“I had no choice, brother. You lost your son, your wife, and no one knew whether or not Sir Christmas was alive. I could not allow the viscountcy to fall into the wrong hands. It is our father’s legacy.”
“There are rules of nobility that cannot be outplayed, Helena.”
“You cannot know that for a surety, brother,” Helena vainly replied.
“We all have a choice, Aunt,” Chris said smartly. “Family is all. Unfortunately, you wagered on the wrong son.”
“Yes, but I could not allow my brother to die without naming his successor.”
“The law would have favored Townsbridge, madam,” the tactical-minded lawyer said, speaking up for the first time. “I told you so.”
“You see,” his father admitted. “You did not have to go behind my back to get what you wanted.”
“You could have contrived to sell the estate to your tenants,” his aunt said. “I know how much you dote on that meddling lot.”
Emma finally spoke, her voice shaky, her hands the same. “Am I to understand that it wasn’t the viscountcy and status you were afraid to lose, but Lord Astley-Milne’s wealth?”
“Must we discuss this at Christmas dinner?” Townsbridge knew he was backed into a corner and leaned on the spirit of Christmas for an end to his agony.
“This discussion is over,” Chris said reining in his anger. “Collins will see you to the door.”
“But it is Christmas Day. Not only a day to celebrate your return from the dead, but your birthday, nephew,” his aunt declared, her eyes scanning the feast. “Can we, at least, finish eating? My brother has gone to so much trouble and the turtle soup is superb. What would everyone think if we are unceremoniously cast out into the cold before the second course?”
“You have made your bed, Helena.” His father’s brooding voice brought Collins and the footmen closer. He snapped his fingers, the only signal Collins needed. The butler motioned to the footmen to escort the two Townsbridges and their solicitor out of the room.
Chris stood in a flurry of indecision. “Wait!” he finally shouted, startling everyone in the room, especially the staff. “I meant to do this another way, but it is only fitting that I do it now in the presence of witnesses, lest you scheme to rob my father again.”
He rounded the table to Emma, seated vulnerably before him.
“I have thought of nothing but returning to you from the moment I set out to sea. It broke me to be parted from you. Living day to day not knowing if you had married someone else, or if you still waited for me.” He lifted his hand to prevent her from interrupting.
“I was lost without you, and yet here I am, with you once more.” She bit her lip.
He took in her beauty, the clasped hands in her lap, her furrowed brows, and the doubt and elation and frustration mirrored in her tear-filled eyes, growing more determined.
“You are as beautiful and loyal as ever, Emma. I told myself numerous times that if God granted me another chance to make a life with you, I would not hesitate.”
He forgot everyone in the room. He only had eyes for Emma as he dropped to one knee.
“The king knighted me, and like knights of old, I kneel before you and promise you my undying love and fealty for a thousand lifetimes.” Swallowing hard, he took hold of her hands and kissed each knuckle.
“Please, Emma, do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
“Even after everything we’ve been through, you still want to marry me?”