Chapter Eight
“Tea, Mrs Daniels, if you would?”
“Of course, sir.” His housekeeper scurried away, leaving Blaine secure in the knowledge that by the time he and Gerry had arrived in the parlour and settled themselves, the kettle would already be on the boil.
His guest had removed her gloves and struggled out of her tight-fitting jacket with a grimace.
“You do prefer the more practical clothing, don’t you?” remarked Blaine with amusement.
“Of course I do. Any sane woman would.” She sighed with relief as he offered his arm and escorted her into the parlour. “Oh, how nice.”
He thought so too. Being a quietly traditional sort of man in many ways, he had pulled upon happy memories from a long time ago and had asked for pine and holly to be used along mantels and wherever else the staff felt it appropriate.
As a result, the room looked and smelled quite festive; the brisk tang of pines mingling with the smoky warmth of the fire blazing in the hearth.
“My Mama loves this time of year.” Geraldine took a seat near the flames and warmed her hands.
“As do I.” He joined her, turning his back to the blaze and watching her as his arse toasted nicely. “Perhaps that’s why I’m so wholeheartedly in favour of the Mistletoe Cup. It’s a long-standing tradition, isn’t it? One of the best kinds for a small country community.”
She nodded. “Without a doubt. There will be plenty of tankards shared at the Bickle Arms over the next few weeks. The harvest’s in, the meat is smoked for the winter…
there is not a lot to keep anyone out in the fields for very long.
It’s a lull, albeit a cold one, that is welcomed. As is the Mistletoe Cup.”
The door opened to admit Mrs Daniels with a tea tray, and Blaine thanked her as he took it, placing it near Gerry. “Do you know how long the race has been going on?”
She turned and began to pour tea without even thinking about it. “From what I’ve heard, it’s been close to a hundred years or so now.” Suddenly aware of what she was doing, she paused. “Um…I apologise. I’m so used to doing this at home, I didn’t think…”
“Not at all,” laughed Blaine. “You looked so natural, we didn’t want to interfere at all.” He grinned at Mrs Daniels. “I believe we have everything we need, thank you.”
She grinned back. “It would certainly seem so. Thank you, sir.” A quick curtsey and the woman was gone.
“Right. Where were we?” Blaine drew a chair nearer Gerry and helped himself to a teacake.
“The Mistletoe Cup, I think.” She leaned back and sipped. “Many say it was an effort to appease the King…” She frowned. “I want to say George the First, or possibly the Second…”
“A hundred years?” Blaine narrowed his eyes and dredged up his history lessons. “Yes, that sounds about right. Definitely a George.”
“Well, anyway, it was an attempt to honour His Majesty and bless him with fertility.”
Blaine snorted. “Good God.”
“Every monarch wants an heir and a few spares.”
“True.”
“The story goes that His Majesty King George-the-whatever actually rode through Upper Bicklesworthy on his way to somewhere more important, and as he did so his loyal citizens emerged from their homes waving sprigs of mistletoe for good luck and increased fertility.”
“And the triumphant procession resulted in how many children?”
“I have no idea. Probably none, since I think the king was getting on in years by that point.” She sipped again. “But the emotions were sincere.”
“Of course. Most appropriate.” He hid a grin.
“Anyway, it happened to be the first year of any kind of horserace in these parts, so it was agreed to name the race the Mistletoe Cup and award a trophy to the winner.” She glanced at him.
“You’ll be impressed to know that the goblet awarded to the winner on Boxing Day, is in fact the original article. ”
“How big is it?” asked Blaine, his eyes wide. “That’s a lot of names to engrave on a simple cup…”
Geraldine chuckled. “It’s not very big. But the accompanying book is bigger, because that’s where the names of the winners are recorded, not on the trophy itself. In fact…” She put her tea aside and stood. “You might have it right here.”
“I might? The Cup as well?”
“Yes. As host of the event, Kendall Manor has traditionally kept the official register pertaining to the race. And as you know, the Cup is returned in November to be cleaned up for the next winner. Perhaps the book is here…”
Blaine watched her as she walked to one of the two bookshelves in the room and began perusing the volumes. Trim and elegant, although she’d have scoffed at the description, she moved as gracefully as any thoroughbred, and could give most of London’s Incomparables a run for their money.
She sighed. “I don’t see it.”
He stood, putting his cup on the tray. “It’s probably in the library. Come.” He held out his hand, and she took it without a murmur, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Blaine sucked in a breath with the pleasure of it, but being a mostly sane man, he kept his thoughts tucked away as she allowed him to lead her from the parlour out into the hall and down to another door.
“We should have better luck in here.”
He pushed the door open, then stepped back to let her enter. Her gasp of surprise and consequent sigh of delight warmed him better than any fireplace.
“Oh Blaine, how magnificent…” she whispered reverently, walking slowly toward the shelves. “Oh yes. Yes, indeed.” Her hand reached out and caressed the nearest spines, a tiny shiver of her fingers betraying her excitement.
He’d never seen a library so sensually appreciated, and he found himself wondering if she would whisper in just that way beneath a man.
Beneath him.
Lost in the glory of being surrounded by so many books, Geraldine completely forgot about the man behind her.
She loved to read, devoured books with pleasure, and standing here – at the gateway of what seemed like a literary paradise – it was truly one of the more memorable moments of her life.
Looking up, she realised there were two levels to the Kendall library; the one upon which she stood, and the second, reached by a circular staircase at the end of the room.
A balcony circled above her head, more shelves, a comfortable chair or two, and a beautifully carved balustrade running along the edge.
Tall windows at the far end allowed light to enter, although today was grey and cloudy and little in the way of illumination shone through the glass.
But she could imagine it on a summer’s afternoon and yearned to be able to curl up in one of the many chairs begging for a reader. She glanced over her shoulder at Blaine. “I’d never leave this room.”
“Except for your horses, of course.” He grinned at her.
“Well, yes. Of course. But oh…Blaine…” She spread her arms wide, eager to embrace every word contained by every book on every shelf.
He cleared his throat. “I’m glad my library meets with your approval, Gerry. At least my father did one thing right.”
She walked slowly toward the centre of the room. “He wasn’t a very nice man, was he?”
“No.”
“I am sorry.”
“Certainly not your fault. Let’s see if we can find the book and the Mistletoe Cup, shall we?”
Understanding that this room must be redolent with memories for him, and that some of them were doubtless unpleasant, Geraldine nodded.
He moved to a cabinet, the top of which held an angled shelf. There was a bible there, a family bible most probably, but he bent to the glass doors beneath. “Aha.”
She went to his side. “That’s it. Right there.” She pointed. “I’m so glad it’s been taken care of.”
He carefully removed the Cup, a shining piece a little over a foot tall. “We can probably thank Mrs Daniels for that.”
“It’s quite pretty, isn’t it?” She gazed at the two elegant handles affixed to either side of the Cup, gentle swirls that were clear evidence of the metalworker’s skill.
“Indeed it is. A fine piece.” Blaine nodded.
“So somewhere here is the record book, too, I’ll wager.” She glanced at him. “Should we ask Mrs Daniels?”
“Let’s see if we can find it ourselves first. I can’t go running to my housekeeper every time I’m looking for something. I’ve done that enough already.” His lips curved into a wry grin. “I swear she thinks I’m slightly daft.”
“I doubt that,” muttered Geraldine, already running her gaze over the nearby shelves.
Silence fell as they both began an intense search for the Mistletoe Cup register.
There were murmurs now and again, especially from Geraldine when she found something of interest and regretfully had to return it to the shelves.
It was alluring and intriguing, and she regretted that today was for one purpose only.
Sometime, she vowed to herself, sometime she would return and allow herself to get lost here amidst all these fine and fascinating volumes.
“Well, if I decide to raise sheep, I’m fully equipped to do so,” sighed Blaine after ten or fifteen minutes of fruitless wandering. “There’s an entire shelf here devoted to that topic alone.”
Geraldine couldn’t help a giggle. “I don’t see you as a shepherd, I’m afraid.”
“That’s all right. Neither do I. Although I’ll confess a fondness for their dogs.”
“Ah…” She let out a small exclamation. “I’ve found the shelf with Kendall Manor record books. At least I think that’s what they are…”
Blaine came to her side. “Hmm.” He reached past her and pulled one of the volumes down from a higher shelf. Thumbing through it, he nodded. “Yes, you’re right. This one is all about the plantings, and it’s from twenty years ago.” He returned it to its place.
Standing this close to him, Geraldine allowed herself a brief moment to inhale his scent.
Leather, wool, with perhaps a touch of sandalwood…
it was heady, attractive, and she breathed him in, resisting the urge to sway against him and rub her head against his shoulder.
She wasn’t a horse, and he wasn’t her rider.