Chapter 2
Williams, Violet’s lady’s maid, had gone ahead with Donovan’s valet to unpack their belongings and prepare a warm bath for their arrival.
The butler at Hamptonlea House had ushered the last two guests in and engaged a footman to take them straight to their rooms. Violet was deeply grateful for a chance to freshen up both her person and attire.
When she descended the stairs, feeling much more herself again, she found no one about but the servants, who were hurrying to decorate the public rooms in addition to their usual domestic duties, while the kitchen was, in all likelihood, equally busy preparing the Christmas feast.
Violet peered into several areas that had already been elegantly draped in boughs of greenery, but no sign of her hosts or the other guests was forthcoming.
Eventually, she entered the large drawing room, only to sidestep quickly as two footmen came struggling through the doorway with a very large log.
They headed straight for the hearth, carefully lowering the timber into the space that had been cleared for it, dusting off their palms and arching their backs with their hands on their hips to stretch as they straightened.
“I seem to have misplaced the entire household,” Violet told them. “Where is everybody?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Blayne are resting before dinner,” said one whose curly blonde hair was the exact golden shade Violet had always wished for herself. “The young master and his guests are outside collecting holly and ivy to decorate the rest of the drawing room.”
“Oh,” said Violet, disappointed. She was in no hurry to go outside, having just grown deliciously warm from her bath. “Will they be long, do you think?”
“I shouldn’t expect so, miss. They’ll be bringing what they collect inside as soon as they have enough. If you wait here, they should be along presently.”
Violet looked dubiously at the unlit hearth. The room was chilly and uninviting. Her cashmere shawl did little to ward off the cold.
To her immense relief, the sound of familiar voices drew near, the usual merry tones of Cecilia and the melodious tenor of her cousin Victor among them.
Cecilia entered the room first, spotted Violet waiting there, and rushed forward to greet her. But Violet’s restrained reception caused her to stop short, the armload of ivy tendrils remaining a barrier to their normally hearty embrace.
Next, Victor backed in through the doorway, chatting with eyes focused on the woman following close behind him.
Violet did not recognize her, although there was definitely something familiar in her features.
What captured Violet’s attention far more was the way Victor and the unknown woman gazed unflinchingly at each other.
The way she and he used to, before Cecilia made it all so dashed awkward.
“Mr. Blayne,” Violet greeted him, hating the strange sound of such formality upon her lips.
He spun around to face her, his face lighting up as he did so.
Her heart made an odd sort of leap to see his attitude toward her unchanged.
Or was it? Exactly how happy was he to see her?
Happier than before? Had Cecilia’s teasing words created a new expectation within him?
“Miss Hughes,” he responded, and Violet’s hopes were dashed. Was he, too, resorting to such stiff tones merely to match her respectfully? Or, could it be… Was he restraining himself from breathing her name too fondly?
“You remember Miss Thompson.” He gestured with an armload of holly at the elegant young woman. “Bart’s sister, back from her travels across the continent.”
Violet knew she had seen that face before.
Miss Pearl Thompson. Sister to Bartholomew, who was visible beyond the doorway, hidden behind a bundle of ivy that tickled his nose so that he wiggled it like a rabbit.
She had changed so much that Violet hardly recognized her.
Her blue eyes radiated the worldly experience of those who have seen more than just the English countryside.
Her brown locks were piled on top of her head, tendrils hanging down past her rosy cheeks into her slender neck.
Her manner had changed from the girlishness of one who had entered her first season to the sophistication of a well-traveled woman.
Miss Thompson, whose slender, milky arms carried nothing but a wrap drawn tightly about her, smiled warmly at Violet.
“Miss Hughes. Miss Thompson,” she said with a light mocking tone.
“Goodness! Victor seems to forget we are old friends. We used to hide under the wheelbarrow in the garden when it was their turn to seek. They never discovered our clever concealment. Of course, we were quite tiny then. With two braids each and white pinafores to keep our frocks clean.”
The words were friendly and engaging, but Violet let them slip by, unnoticed.
All that mattered was the realization that Victor had merely chosen to use formal terms for an introduction between them.
And if Miss Thompson could call him by his first name after being away for more than a year, Violet was certainly not going to be left behind.
“It’s good to see you, Victor.” She said his name boldly, shaking off her earlier uncertainty.
“And you, Bartholomew,” she added, leaning past Miss Thompson to wave at the young woman’s brother.
“Good to have you back, too, Pearl. It seems we are a full ensemble again. That will certainly make matters easier for dancing. Three couples without anyone having to sit out. But where is my brother?”
“I believe he is arranging for some mulled wine to be brought to us,” said Cecilia, who had been ignored until now. “We need something to draw the ache from our bones.”
“You sound a hundred years old,” laughed Bartholomew and pushed his way into the room to deposit his armload of ivy. Pearl had to scuttle forward to avoid his sudden lurching movement and ended up mildly crushing herself into the prickly holly Victor was holding.
“Bart!” she cried, “I am scratched all over. Look at my arms!”
Victor threw aside the vicious foliage and grabbed one of Pearl’s hands, holding out her arm to determine the extent of the harm done. “Not to argue against the discomfort you might be feeling,” he told her, “but your arm looks as lovely as ever.”
Oomph. The strangest sensation, as if hit by a fist, ached in Violet’s belly.
What was this? It couldn’t be. Was it… jealousy?
Since when did she feel jealousy? She had no right to such emotion.
Victor was not hers. He might compliment whom he wished.
He had likely said many such things to herself over the years and simply meant them kindly.
Yes. That was it. He was being kind. Pearl needed a little extra attention, being newly reunited with her childhood companions.
Victor was a thoughtful man. Violet would not expect anything less of him.
But the green-eyed monster would not look away. It saw the gentle blush emerge upon Pearl’s cheeks, noted the way she did not hasten to withdraw her hand.
And if she does like him, what is that to you, Violet Hughes? she asked herself. They are both unattached. No doubt they would make a lovely couple.
The ache in her belly twisted deeper. Why did Pearl have to look so womanly? How could poor Victor be expected not to notice?
Donovan arrived at last, rubbing his gloved hands together.
“Is that the Yule log?” he asked, casting a glance at the hearth.
“So, no fire here until tonight? That mulled wine is going to go down a treat then. What do you say?” He elbowed Victor lightheartedly, shaking loose the feminine hand that had, until now, been a willing captive.
Violet decided, in that moment, that she had the best brother in the world.
“I’ve always wondered why the Yule log is in the drawing room,” said Pearl, her attention still riveted upon Victor.
But it was Cecilia who answered. She loved this house, having practically grown up in it.
She knew every nook and cranny, including a secret passage she had shown only to Violet during one of their gatherings.
Pearl had never shown any interest in the house’s idiosyncrasies before, and Cece would therefore be jumping at the chance to feed any such interest shown.
Violet could see the pride in her friend’s eyes as she happily offered the details of her cousin’s home.
“This house, like so much of Hamptonlea, dates back centuries. You know that much. Of course, the interior has been made more comfortable over the years. No doubt, you know that too. But the enormous hearths of the past that warmed large stone spaces were not all bricked up. This particular one stayed, perhaps because this drawing room is of an unusually generous size and needs a bigger fire to heat it. That is why my uncle and aunt have the Yule log in here every year. It is the only fireplace that can accommodate a log large enough to burn for 12 days.”
“And thus ends the history lesson,” said Bartholomew, who was always the most practical-minded of the group.
“Let’s get this greenery hung and withdraw to a warmer room where the fire has already been lit.
Ladies, if you would be so kind as to make wreaths from the ivy, we will place them where you suggest and add the sprigs of holly.
Our gloves are thicker than yours, which will prevent such calamity as has befallen my sister.
” He might as well have rolled his eyes at Pearl for all the subtlety of his comment.
Pearl glared at her brother. Violet had to stifle a giggle. Truly, Pearl’s arm had barely a single scratch. It must have been more the unexpected sensation of the prickly holly than actual damage to her delicate skin that had made her cry out like that.