Chapter 25
“My dear girl!” Catherine had just turned back toward the pavilion when the familiar, commanding voice broke through the hum of conversation.
The Dowager Duchess of Raynsford was sweeping toward her, a vision of silver lace and good humor. Guests parted instinctively as she passed. Her sharp eyes softened when they found Catherine.
“Your Grace,” Catherine said warmly, dipping her head.
“Nonsense, child. You will call me Grandmother, as you are my granddaughter.” The dowager took both her hands, eyes bright with satisfaction. “I have been watching you from across the lawn. Do you know, I have never seen my grandson smile so much in one evening?”
Catherine blushed. “He smiles more than he wishes people to think.”
“Then you have discovered the secret of it.” The older woman’s gaze grew shrewd but kind. “Marriage suits you, Catherine. It gives you color.”
“I think happiness does that,” Catherine said softly.
“Then keep it, my dear. Heaven knows it has been long in coming for this family.”
They found a bench near the fountain and sat. The air smelled faintly of roses kept alive under glass; music from the orchestra drifted through the open doors.
“I hear you have been at Brightwater again,” the dowager said, folding her fan with a snap. “The servants tell me half the household is in awe of your energy.”
Catherine smiled. “It is a place dear to me. The children… they remind me of what matters.”
“And what grand scheme occupies you next?”
Catherine hesitated, then decided honesty was safest. “Christmas.”
“Christmas?”
“At Brightwater. I mean to spend the day there with Duncan. And with the children. They’ve never had a proper celebration.”
The dowager’s brows arched high. “You intend to spend Christmas in an orphanage?”
“Yes.” Catherine met her gaze steadily. “It seems the only proper place for it.”
For a moment, the older woman said nothing. Then, to Catherine’s relief, she began to laugh, a rich, delighted sound that turned heads.
“My dear, you are outrageous. And absolutely correct.” She patted Catherine’s hand. “You shall have whatever you need: ribbons, sweetmeats, musicians if you wish. We will make it an event to shame every ball in London.”
Catherine’s heart swelled. “You would help me?”
“Help you? I shall orchestrate it. I have not planned a proper Christmastide celebration in years.”
Catherine laughed, the sound bright and young. “The children will never forget it.”
“Nor should they. But promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That you will allow me to see my grandson smile like that again before the year ends.”
“Higher—no, not that high! You’ll pull the whole garland down, Thomas!”
The boy froze halfway up the ladder, a strip of ribbon dangling from his teeth. “But it looks crooked from here, Your Grace.”
“It looks perfectly straight from down here,” she called, hands on her hips. “And I am the one standing where guests will see it.”
A chorus of laughter rippled through the hall. Pine branches, ribbons, and scraps of colored paper lay everywhere; the scent of baking drifted from the kitchen, mingling with beeswax and cold air from the open door.
Catherine felt both triumphant and frazzled. Every child in Brightwater seemed to have found a task—most of them loud, none of them tidy.
Mrs. Simms appeared from the kitchen, flour on her sleeves and good humor in her eyes. “You’ll wear yourself to the bone, Your Grace. You’ve not stopped a moment since morning.”
“I can’t stop now,” Catherine said, turning to inspect a crooked wreath. “If I do, they’ll replace the candles with marbles again.”
Mrs. Simms laughed. “They’re only excited. It isn’t every day they’re allowed to decorate the hall.”
“I know.” Catherine’s tone softened. “And they’re doing beautifully, truly. They only need… occasional guidance.”
From somewhere behind the stairwell came the unmistakable crash of a falling bucket, followed by guilty silence.
Catherine closed her eyes. “Occasional,” she repeated faintly.
She went to investigate and found two small boys ankle-deep in spilled water, their faces pale as snow. “It was meant to be for the pine boughs,” one whispered.
“I gathered as much.” She knelt, wringing out a cloth, then looked up with mock severity. “If we hurry, perhaps Mrs. Simms won’t notice. Now fetch the mop, and not another word.”
By the time order was restored, the hall glowed with light. Candles burned safely in glass globes, garlands looped along the rafters, and the children’s paper stars gleamed proudly above the windows.
Catherine stood back, a strand of hair escaping her ribbon, cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire. She hadn’t felt this alive in years.
A shout rose outside, followed by the rumble of wheels on gravel. “It’s him!” someone cried.
Catherine turned as the door opened. Duncan stepped inside, brushing snow from his coat. The chilly air came with him, and for a moment every head turned. He looked unreasonably handsome in the plain dark wool, a small smile tugging at his mouth as he took in the chaos.
“My word,” he said mildly, “have I stumbled into a military campaign?”
“Only if ribbons count as ammunition,” Catherine replied. “You’re late.”
“I was told you had an army at your disposal,” he said, unbuttoning his gloves. “I assumed my presence unnecessary.”
“On the contrary,” she said, arching a brow. “We’re short one ladder and two sensible hands.”
“Then I fear you’ll have to settle for mine.”
Before she could reply, a group of children swarmed him. “Your Grace! You promised a race when the snow melted!”
“I did indeed,” he said gravely. “But since the snow refuses to oblige, I suppose we must invent another contest.”
“Hide-and-seek!” cried one.
“Marbles!” shouted another.
“Spillikins,” Duncan offered.
The roar of approval nearly shook the garlands loose. Catherine groaned. “You’re encouraging them.”
“Merely giving them strategic options.”
Within moments, he had been dragged toward the far table, laughing as the children argued over the rules. Catherine tried to reclaim order, but the sight of the dignified Duke crouched at a child-sized table, frowning in mock concentration, dissolved her authority entirely.
Mrs. Simms sidled up beside her, smiling. “He’s rather good with them, Your Grace.”
“Alarmingly good,” Catherine admitted. “He’ll have them sitting on his lap and begging to hear stories before the day is out.”
“You sound proud, not alarmed.”
“Perhaps both.” She couldn’t stop watching him, the ease in his posture, the warmth of his laughter. It was strange how the severity she had once found intimidating now seemed part of his charm.
A sudden cheer broke out. Duncan looked up, triumphant, holding a handful of marbles like trophies. “I believe I’ve been soundly defeated,” he said, grinning. “Does the victor demand his prize?”
Thomas puffed his chest. “A biscuit!”
“Then a biscuit you shall have.” Duncan rose, dusting off his coat, and turned to Catherine. “Would you allow me to raid your kitchen, madam?”
Catherine crossed her arms, pretending exasperation. “So long as you bring me one as well.”
“As Her Grace commands.” He gave an exaggerated bow and disappeared through the door, trailed by giggling children.
Mrs. Simms laughed softly. “I like him.”
“So do they,” Catherine said, quieter. Then, after a pause, “So do I.”
She giggled girlishly as the truth of her confession washed over her. When Duncan returned a few minutes later, his hair dusted with flour from some kitchen adventure, Catherine couldn’t keep a straight face.
“What on earth happened to you?” she snorted.
“Negotiations with the cook,” he said solemnly. “They turned violent.”
She shook her head, laughing. “I will never forget this.”
“Undoubtedly,” he said, offering her a biscuit. “But at least I come bearing peace offerings.”
She took it, their fingers brushing. The moment stretched, her pulse stuttered, his smile softened, and then one of the younger girls tugged at Catherine’s skirt, demanding approval of a ribbon bow. The spell broke, leaving warmth in its wake.
By afternoon, carol practice had begun. A dozen voices lifted through the hall, off-key but jubilant.
Catherine led them with determined grace, clapping the beat while Duncan leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching with the expression of a man who would rather fight ten battles than sing in public.
“Come, Your Grace,” she called. “You can at least keep time.”
“I assure you, I’m perfectly in time. With silence.”
“Coward.”
He stepped forward, mock-offended. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sing, or I’ll assign you to ribbon duty.”
“That sounds perilously close to blackmail.”
“Indeed.”
The children were already laughing, chanting his name until he surrendered.
His voice, when it came, was low and surprisingly rich. Catherine felt it slide through her, unexpected and stirring. She turned the page of music to hide her smile.
When the final notes faded, the room erupted in applause. Duncan bowed to the children’s cheers, then met her gaze over their heads. For an instant, the noise seemed to blur around them, leaving only the two of them and the faint echo of harmony.
Later, as dusk gathered outside, candles were lit and the chaos softened into something gentle.
Catherine and Duncan stood side by side, surveying the transformed hall. Garlands draped every beam; the air smelled of pine and spice and warm wax. The children drowsed by the fire, whispering about Christmas morning.
“You’ve done well,” Duncan said quietly.
“I cannot take all the credit. Grandmother has been very obliging, sending in packages and ribbons galore. Do you know that three enormous geese were sent to the kitchen earlier today and…”
“Clever birds. How did they know where to waddle?”
Catherine snickered at her husband’s foolishness. “Those geese will be roasted tomorrow, and the children will feast for days on the leftovers. Your grandmother really is quite special.”
“As are you.”
Duncan reached forward and interlaced his fingers with hers.
“It feels like home here,” she whispered.
He glanced down at her. “Home can be many places.”
She looked up at him, the candlelight tracing gold across his face. “And for you?”
He only smiled faintly in return.
Around them, the fire crackled, the children murmured in their sleep, and the world seemed, for a brief and perfect moment, whole.