Chapter 7 #2
She nodded, smiling. How could she not in his presence? He seemed so assured. There were lines at his eyes, and she could tell he had lived, faced the difficulties of life, and yet he had not been pulled down by them. “You seem very merry, sir.”
“Oh,” he said. “How can one not be here? I’m alive.
I am surrounded by family. I have every good thing to eat.
And despite the fact that my work is always plaguing me, and I can’t get the things that I want done after many, many years, you see, there’s one true thing that sustains me.
The Briarwoods keep me ever optimistic about the state of the world. ”
She arched a brow. “Oh, indeed?” she asked. “How is it possible to be optimistic, given the state of this world?”
“You’re quite cynical for one so young.”
“I am quite informed,” she pointed out, taking another drink of the delicious tea that spoke of far-off places and the sort of strength that would keep her alert for a good few hours. “And I travel a great deal. I’ve been to most of the major courts of Europe. It’s rather bleak out there.”
“Ah, well, many outsiders of the Briarwood family feel the same way,” he said, undaunted. “But once you see the inner workings of it all, you understand that the only way to get anything done is to have a continuing and ongoing sense of hope that people will eventually do good.”
She sat a little straighter and considered her plate of food, its aromas delightful and teasing her to eat. She had seen so much bad done in the ballrooms and salons of Europe, and even in England, that she really struggled to take what he said seriously.
The girls forced to marry old men, the young boys sent off to war, the general lack of happiness of the working classes and the poor. But she supposed it was better to live in hope than to wallow in despair.
“You sing beautifully,” Laertes’s father said at last. “And you play very well.”
“Thank you,” she said in between bites of rashers. “I have spent a great deal of time practicing at it.”
“Yes, but you have a passion that cannot be taught.”
She lifted her teacup in a salute. “That is much appreciated, thank you. But the truth is your son? He pulled something out of me I did not know existed.”
“Laertes does that to people,” he said quite honestly. “Just like his mother and even his sister, Phoebe. Perdita did that to me the first Christmas I came here.”
Carefully, she lowered her cup, intrigued. “Was your first experience with the Briarwoods also at Christmas?”
He nodded. “Yes, interestingly enough, and she played the piano for me just as Laertes played for you.”
“Do you sing?” she queried, amazed by the man who was quite pleasant and very kind.
“Indeed, I do. I love singing,” he said easily, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“And the dowager duchess was kind enough to tell me that I could have been a professional. But I far prefer my life as an earl, trying to help people. I sing to make myself happy and those who wish to listen. Every Christmas,” he continued.
“I sing to the family. I sang often to Laertes, especially when he was small. And I love to sing to my wife, of course. She is my muse.”
“How wonderful,” she breathed. “And how interesting that Laertes and I…” Her voice died off.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Dear girl, everyone saw it.”
“Saw what?” she asked, tensing.
“You two are a perfect pair, just like his mother and I,” the earl said easily, as if he wasn’t insinuating that she and Laertes had the same sort of connection that a married couple had. “And it does not surprise me that the two of you bonded over music, just like she and I did.”
“Please,” she said, panicked. She had not meant to give any false impressions.
Though she feared that he had read her feelings correctly, even if she could not act on them.
An image of her mother came to mind, tight-lipped, disapproving, and she found herself feeling slightly sick.
“My lord, do not make assumptions about your son and me. He is perfectly pleasant. I enjoy him very much. But there will be no…”
“What?” he said, his eyes widening kindly. “No connection? No union like my wife and I?”
“Exactly,” she said swiftly. “My mother has certain expectations of me.”
“Oh dear,” he said with a rueful sigh. “Expectations. How tiring. You know, you don’t always have to fulfill other people’s expectations.”
“Yes, I do,” she said quite firmly and quickly, taking up a slice of toast and smothering a beautiful heaping helping of marmalade upon it.
Before either of them could say another word, she took a large bite, perhaps larger than she should, but she suddenly felt a large amount of distress under his gaze.
He was so kind. She hated that she had to be so blunt about her future. And her mother’s demands.
Why was everyone urging her to think of Laertes? Well, perhaps not everyone. But why were his father and mother urging her to go against what she was supposed to do?
She ate quietly then, allowing the tart marmalade to touch her tongue and make her senses swoon. How wonderful oranges were. How lucky they were to have them and what a luxury they were.
She took another drink of tea, trying not to squirm.
He was studying her, the Earl of Hythe, Viscount Hawthorn’s father.
“You know,” he said softly, “you could just pretend for this little bit of time that there are no expectations of you.”
She blinked and lowered her teacup. His thoughts mirrored her own. Remarkably.
“Ah,” he said, his lips curving in a knowing smile. “You have already come to this idea, have you not?”
“Yes,” she said honestly.
“Good. Go ahead and have a good time, my dear.” He nodded and plunked his teacup down. “The twelve days of Christmas are meant for joy and celebration, laughter, entertainments, and giving yourself over to the merriness of it all.”
She nodded, but she felt wary.
What would happen when it all ended? When January sixth came, the Epiphany, and she’d have to leave the light of this house and enter back into the darkness of the world?
That seemed almost cruel, yet she was here, and she wasn’t about to cut herself off from it all.
Much to her amazement, he reached out and patted her hand with his large one. “It will all sort itself out. It always does here.”
She swallowed. “Thank you,” she said. “I…”
“It’s alright, my dear,” he soothed without patronizing. “You don’t have to explain yourself. None of us need an explanation. We’re glad you’re here. Oliver is a wonderful addition to the family.”
At that, she beamed. “Yes, he’s a wonderful brother. I…”
“Yes?” he prompted.
“I missed him for a very long time.”
“Oh?” he queried.
She nodded, surprised at how easy it was to speak freely to the earl. “He felt the need to close himself off, especially at Christmas, for so long. And seeing him yesterday, so alive, so happy? It was heaven.”
“You could have that too, you know?”
She looked away. It was different for her. Their father was dead, the person who had shamed Oliver the most. Oliver no longer had to face their father. He had gone, and so perhaps it was easier for Oliver to revolt and recover than it was for her.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Well, the beautiful thing, my dear, is you don’t have to know today,” he said swiftly. “Now, I must go and find my wife. She is the key to all my happiness, and I’m always in need of a dose of it.”
With that, the Earl of Hythe stood, pushed back from the table, and much to her amazement, he gently patted her shoulder.
“Whatever the case, my dear. I’m happy you are here, as is the entire company. But I will say this. I haven’t seen my son so happy in a very long time.”
And with that, he charged off, leaving her at a table where the Briarwoods were all sitting around having a good gossip or reciting Shakespeare.
She ate her toast.
Why in God’s name would a man say something like that to her when she’d only known his son for twenty-four hours?
Perhaps here, everything was decided in a moment’s notice. But that’s not how she’d been raised. Not at all. She’d been raised to plan. She’d been raised to perfect every decision. And she’d most definitely been raised to believe that happiness didn’t matter at all.