9. Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Pemberley
T he servant’s entrance at Pemberley was a narrow, dim flight of stairs leading down from the rear part of the house. The wooden steps were well worn from countless forays by maids carrying buckets or footmen taking errands. The long, narrow handrail down the side was smooth, burnished to a sheen by sweat and years.
It was this handrail that guided Richard on his descent. He carried no lantern, for he desired none to know of his late-night errand. No whisper of conjecture might be breathed through the house—not until he knew whom to trust. If he were correct in his suspicions, his next strategies must be planned with the utmost care. If he were mistaken… his stomach twisted.
If he were mistaken, this one ethereal hope, likely a mere figment of his own will, would finally die. The guilt of defiling a grave would be then the least of his sorrows, and he would learn at last to mourn without denial. You must face the truth eventually, his better sense chided. He grit his teeth, retorting back to that inner voice. While there remained a doubt in his heart, every avenue must be pursued. A good officer would do no less!
A step creaked under his foot, and he paused. He was in the midst of the flight of stairs, with no figures in sight at either top or bottom. His racing pulse eased. Of course, no one would be down here at such an hour—at least they ought not be. It had been a near thing, slinking from his room without attracting notice. Mrs Annesley had nearly caught him when he first slipped into the rear passageways. What in blazes was the woman doing in the back corridors of the house? Richard had slipped into a shadow, praying that the thumping of his own door had escaped her hearing. He had not drawn an easy breath for long moments after she had passed.
Richard dared a quick descent now, down the final steps, glancing once over his shoulder before he pushed open the door at the bottom. Objective number one: Successful.
He wrapped his dark cloak more tightly about himself as he darted away from the footpath. Perhaps such stealth was ridiculous, but his conscience already smote him for what he had set into motion this night. He felt like a rebellious youth once more, stealing off to the stables for a midnight escapade, and each breath of wind, each light stirring of some creature in the underbrush, arrested his heart.
Through the trees he threaded his way, marking the places where the needles pressing into the damp earth silenced his footfalls. At once, the snapping of twigs echoed through the wood. Richard jerked to a halt. The sound had not been made by his own boots.
He rounded behind the nearest tree, squinting against the shadows until a figure—vague and shrouded by tendrils of mist—moved apart from the rest. “Who goes there?” he demanded.
The figure—a man, he could see—froze. “Please, sir, do not wake the house,” a voice returned. “I was only off to see my mother—”
Richard’s eyes had traced his shape by now. That tall, lanky frame, the faint lilt to the syllables, were unmistakable. “O’Donnell? Why are you about so late?”
O’Donnell came near, his face made ghostly pale in the darkness, but Richard suspected it would have appeared so even under proper light. “My mother, sir, she lives just over the fen, across the wood beyond the estate’s borders. My sister has been ill, and Cook gave me a parcel I might take to them, but I did not wish to be late to my duties in the morning.”
Richard stared. “Do you mean you have walked over eight miles tonight?”
O’Donnell shifted his feet. “I ran part of it, sir.”
“Singular!” he cried. What was the protocol in such a situation? A soldier in a time of war could not leave camp at all without leave, but he had not the least idea of the permissions granted to a servant at a great house such as Pemberley. In truth, as he had never meant to inherit an estate, he had paid little attention to the inner workings of the staff. Did Mrs Reynolds know of his errand?
“If I may, sir,” O’Donnell ventured, “is there some trouble?”
Richard snapped back to attention. “Trouble? No, why should you ask?”
“Well, sir, it is rather late, and you seem to have misplaced your lantern.”
“Never you mind, O’Donnell,” he answered stiffly. “It is nothing more than I did on reconnaissance training as a young lieutenant. We were often required to venture into the night with no more than a pocket knife.”
“Oh!” the lad replied cheerfully. “It is admirable that you have kept up the practice—a good exercise for an officer, and all of that.”
“Certainly.” He cleared his throat, trying to affect a tone of command. “Carry on, O’Donnell.”
“Sir!” The lad touched his cap and sauntered away.
Richard beat his head against a tree. Fool! He would have done better to disappear into the shadows until O’Donnell had passed, but no, old soldier that he was, he had to play the sentry upon his midnight errand! With any luck, the lad was na?ve enough to accept his excuse, and intimidated enough not to speak of their encounter. He sighed, waiting until the boy had fully disappeared before resuming his path.
His hands were still shaking when he approached the estate chapel. True to his word, Broderick was there, and with him two grimy-looking souls.
“My apologies, sir,” Broderick spoke at once, “I know you wished for all to be prepared at least a fortnight ago.”
“Never mind that. Is everything in readiness now?”
Broderick jerked his head wordlessly to his assistants.
“Oh, aye, Cap’n,” one of them offered a toothless grin. “Me an’ Blunt, we got into one finer ‘n this. This tosser wan’d the wife’s jewels t’ give t’is fancy piece, see.”
Richard held up a hand. “Just get on with it, and remember I am paying you well for absolute secrecy!”
“Aye, Cap’n. Eh me boy!” he gestured to his companion.
Richard had been present at far too many a burial, but the unsealing of a family vault was an event to which he had never been witness. It was never meant to be an expeditious undertaking—rather, it seemed the architects of such a crypt felt that the very difficulty of the endeavour added some solemn momentousness to the occasion. Still, he was pleasantly surprised—and not a little disturbed—at the efficiency of the experienced grave robbers. He certainly wished the task over and done with quickly, but he wondered how many other final resting places had been desecrated by this pair.
“Sir, you will be wanting this.” Broderick extended to him a thickly folded cloth, soaked in camphor. “The odour will be rather bad by now.”
Richard nodded, accepting it. “Bring out the body,” he directed.
Down to the cold stone floor the grave robbers lowered the body, encased in a simple woolen shroud. Richard clasped the hideous cloth more tightly about his nose. What the devil was I thinking?
“D’yo’ wan’ to see the face, Cap’n?”
“No!” Richard fought a wave of nausea, and closed his eyes. “Turn the body over, then pull back the clothing just there,” he waved in the general direction he meant.
“’Ere, Cap’n?”
“A little lower. Yes, there. What do you see?”
The man cackled irreverently. “We calls ‘em grubs, Cap’n, but—”
“Not there!” Richard shuddered in revulsion, then stepped near to examine the body himself. His stomach heaved, his entire torso convulsing as he struggled to answer this one question. Briefly he turned away, dragging agonising breaths through the caustic mask. You started this, fool!
He reached within and found that well of fortitude which had seen him through so many battle fields. This was just one more dead man. That he had been in the grave for nearly four months should matter little—that he bore Darcy’s name mattered a great deal.
“Hold the cloth back a moment,” he ordered. With a final desperate grip on his courage, he leaned down. He narrowed his eyes, tilted his head, and looked again.
“Pull back a little farther, show me the right side.” Disgust was quickly forgotten. The mark—where was it? The skin was discoloured, certainly, but not so much that the mark could have disappeared. Had his infallible memory at last tricked him—now when he truly depended upon its accuracy? He searched for long minutes, left and right, up and down, until at last he admitted the truth witnessed by his own eyes.
“Don’ see nuthin’, Cap’n. You want I should turn ‘im back over?”
Richard stood back, his flesh prickling and his breath shallow. “No… no, I have seen quite enough.” He stared at the wall, blind to all but the starkly fresh images in his mind.
“Shall I put ‘im back, then, Cap’n?”
Noting the esteemed colonel’s indisposition, Broderick spoke for the first time in half an hour. “Thank you, yes, that will be all.”
“ No ,” Richard breathed. He shook himself, and his gaze—sharp like an eagle’s now—lit with sudden purpose.
“Sir? Did you wish to see more?”
“No. I have seen all I need. Take the body to the churchyard and give it a respectful burial, but it is not to remain here. I do not know who the man is, but he is not Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Christmas Eve Netherfield
It was Darcy.
There he was, in that same chair by the writing desk—a quill in his hand, the faintest flush to his cheeks as Caroline Bingley questioned him about his sister. Elizabeth glanced up from her own book, chuckling her amusement at his obvious frustration.
He penned half a line, and Caroline begged him to convey her admiration for a certain table design of Miss Darcy’s. His broad shoulders lifted, his head raised, and he all but glared at her. “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present, I have not room to do them justice.”
His head tipped immediately back to his letter, but his eyes were slow to follow. They caught Elizabeth’s and held—almost unwillingly—before he drew a visible breath and returned to his task. Miss Bingley made some flippant answer, to which he replied rather brusquely and almost thoughtlessly. He appeared to be struggling to find the right words, for his pen hovered in one place as his brow furrowed.
Elizabeth studied him in some fascination. Such a fastidious, precise man! She imagined that a letter from him would be so carefully phrased, so eloquently penned, that any sister would admire it excessively—but what depth of emotion might be found therein? He always seemed so expeditious in his sentiments, never lingering over four words when one would do, but there had been that tenderness in his eye, a faint softening of his voice, when he had made it clear that he wrote to his sister. And was it some intention on his part that had caused him to glance her way, as if ascertaining that she attended his words?
Mr Bingley was now having his share in the discourse, commenting with perhaps a little too much levity how Darcy habitually laboured over his words. All in the room found the jest most amusing, save the one at whose expense everyone laughed. Elizabeth had remarked a slight flinch to his cheek when he voiced an even, reasoned defence of himself… and then his eyes had found hers once more. There was a curiosity—she might even dare to call it a plea—deep within those dark lashes as they flicked her way.
What did he expect she would bring to the conversation? She did not know the man, could not possibly speak with any expectation of good information. She had done little but tease him herself—but he had never seemed to mind that so very much. In fact, there had been a spark to his expression and an energy to his responses whenever she rose to bait him. He had even supplied his own defects as fodder, all the better for her to banter with him.
Ah. At last I see all clearly! Mr Darcy despised being mocked, when what he perceived as his strengths were laughed about as faults to be made an amusement for others, but he loved being teased. It was a moment for him to prove before himself and others that he was, after all, human. If only I had understood him better!
“Lizzy? Lizzy, are you well?”
A rush of air filled Elizabeth’s lungs as she started in her seat. Jane had taken the place next to her and now rested her hand gently on Elizabeth’s shoulder in concern. “Forgive me, Jane! I was only thinking of something.” Elizabeth tried to brush off her sense of disorientation by smoothing a trembling hand over her skirts. She had worn her second finest gown in observance of this, Jane’s first Christmas Eve as Mistress of Netherfield. It was her light green satin, with the worked bodice—the same gown she had worn that long-ago evening in this very room….
Jane narrowed her eyes quizzically. “Is that what it was? I thought perhaps your head pained you again or your supper did not settle well. You had the most alarming expression just now!”
“Did I? Oh, I suppose I was running through the little tasks I must accomplish tomorrow, and of course the Boxing duties. I’ve so much to do, I really must learn list them all out rather than allowing them to clutter my thoughts so.”
“Did you wish to use the writing desk?” Jane inquired. “I think Charles will not mind.”
“The writing desk? Why no—I have never done so. Why should you ask?”
“You were staring at it just now. I believe there are pens and notepaper in abundance, and the gentlemen ought not to join us for some little while yet.”
Elizabeth looked once more to the desk. Was there truly no one sitting there? He had seemed so real just now, with that dark curl falling just over his brow, the faint crease in the back of his tailored coat as he leaned forward in his chair. There was a light trail from his fingers in the nap of the buckskin breeches at his thigh, the barest evening shadow over his chin, and his left foot was shifted just ahead of the other as he bent to his letter…. He had been there but a moment ago!
She straightened, forcibly pasting a smile on her face. “No, Jane, I thank you. I am afraid I should be carried away and become rather unsociable, and then only think of the questions I shall have to answer when all the gentlemen come in! It is Christmas, after all, and no one makes lists of their tasks at such a festive time.”
“Truly, Lizzy, we are quite easy here. If it would give you relief, then by all means, jot down your notes so that you may then put them aside. Surely it would be preferable this evening to be merry and not distracted by other cares.”
Elizabeth glanced toward the card table, where her mother had drawn in her aunt Gardiner, Kitty and Mary for her amusement. “I think I must rather take care to preserve my energies and not become entangled in my own tasks. I fear once the gentlemen join us, the remainder of my evening will be spent in exerting myself to save your many guests from Mama’s questions in regard to their portions.”
Jane laughed. “There are only six gentlemen, three of whom are married and quite safe! As for the remaining gentlemen, I believe they expect some questions from Mama. There is only one among them all whose familiarity with you is so slight that he should be surprised to see you engaged in some task, even during a dinner gathering.”
“Do you not think your Mr Bingley knows me well by now?” Elizabeth asked in mock innocence.
Jane giggled. “He certainly does. Charles adores you! He compares you to an angel.”
“I thought that was his name for you. He must not know me as well as he believes.”
“Oh, I did not say it was just any angel,” Jane blushed.
Elizabeth raised a brow. “To which of these cherubic creatures does he ascribe a resemblance?”
Jane could contain herself no longer. She made a most indelicate noise in her throat as she sang out, “Michael! The one with the blazing sword!”
“Charming,” Elizabeth retorted drily. “Is that to be my occupation tonight then, to place myself between this strange gentleman you have invited to dine and his Eden?”
“Oh, you needn’t be concerned about Mr Gray. The parish is not large, but he can comfortably afford a wife, and I thought Mary rather taken with him. I think he will be quite well suited in our little neighborhood, do not you?”
“I am sure that Mama is greatly in your debt for inviting the gentlemen to round out our party. Such a merry gathering we are!”
“ Some of us are,” Jane tilted her head significantly. “You hardly spoke two words to poor John Lucas. I always thought you rather friendly with him.”
Elizabeth lifted her shoulders. “John is as pleasant as a young man may be.”
“And you have known him since we were so young. I was glad he could complete our table this evening. Think what bad luck if we had an uneven number! I was sorry Lydia wished to remain at Longbourn with our young cousins, but in truth, a party of thirteen would have proved most awkward. Lizzy, tell me truthfully; what do you think of John?”
Elizabeth stared blankly. “There is nothing to think. He exists, I suppose. I hardly troubled myself to be offended by him. He is neither agreeable nor disagreeable. He is… innocuous.”
“Oh. Oh, dear, that does not sound very promising,” Jane sighed.
“Jane, I beg you not to match me up with a suitor, particularly not John Lucas.”
Jane smiled; the weak, tenderhearted expression of the disappointed, and took her sister’s hand. “I would wish you to marry for love, Lizzy, but finding love requires talking to men. You will have to attend balls more often this winter. You know how you can outshine any woman in the county—”
“Save for you!”
Jane was not to be deterred. “You must stop using Lydia as your excuse for remaining away from company. Of course, she needs a confidante, and who better than my dear Lizzy, who soothed all my own heartaches and nurtured my hopes? But, Lizzy, I am afraid for you. You have not been yourself. Even Papa is noticing.”
“Papa spoke to you about me?” Elizabeth raised a sceptical brow. “You may have embellished your entreaty a little too far, for now I no longer believe you.”
Jane glanced over her shoulder to the laughter emanating from the others at the card table, then her voice dropped seriously. “He rode over last Tuesday, Lizzy. He made as if he only wished to pay a sociable call on Charles, but he spent most of the time talking about you. I promised I would not reveal what was said, but look for words from Papa in the very near future.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “So, I am to have a suitor arranged whether I like it or not? Or does he propose again to send me to London with Aunt and Uncle after Twelfth Night?”
“You know Papa would never force you against your wishes.” Jane paused, permitting herself a little smirk. “It would be far too much effort for him to match wills with you!” She giggled softly, encouraged by a warming of Elizabeth’s smile. “Lizzy,” she continued, leaning closer, “it breaks my heart to see you downcast. Save for Charles, there is no one dearer to me, and when I am so full of joy, it pains me that you should not be.”
“You deserve your happiness, Jane, and ought never to be ashamed. Do not allow your concern for my present melancholy to dim your joy in the least measure.”
Jane drew her shoulders back, a welling up of the great tide of happiness she longed to share. “Lizzy…” her voice dropped to a whisper now. “I have a secret!”
Elizabeth’s lips parted, amazement dawning over her face as she searched her sister’s jubilant expression. “Jane, are you—” she hesitated, sweeping her gaze again over her sister’s form. “Can you be certain?”
Jane was nodding nervously, biting her lip but nearly bursting with tearful elation. “I believe so!” she breathed. “I told Charles yesterday. Oh, I know it was not fair of me to tell him so soon, but I was feeling so ill, and I was so deliriously happy, and he deserved to know for Christmas! I told him I wished to share the news with you, and he agreed, but we must not tell Mama just yet. Oh, Lizzy, please be happy with me!”
Elizabeth was numb. She swallowed, her ears pounding with the echo of her throat and her own drumming pulse. Jane’s joyous tears slowed like golden honey, glinting off her cheeks in the firelight as each of her words dropped with the weight of iron.
Jane. Dear, lovely Jane, for whom Elizabeth would jealously have claimed all the blessings the world had to offer, had been granted each one of her heart’s desires. She should be contented for her. Satisfied. Overjoyed!
One breath . Elizabeth fought her body to draw in a second, but it had betrayed her. “I—I am… happy, Jane.” Oh! There was nothing more painful than offering praise and glory on behalf of another, when the cost to oneself was so dear! She gasped softly, a silent rest between the rhythmic lines of her empty hymn. “It is wonderful, such a surprise. Charles must be so proud. I am delighted for you, Jane.”
“I hoped you would be!” Jane gushed in relief. “You really are the truest, dearest sister, Lizzy. Oh, but we must speak no more of it!” Jane tilted her head and Elizabeth raised her eyes to the door.
Mr Bingley was the first of the gentleman to enter, his tender expression immediately searching out his wife. Some shared intimacy passed in their look, and he casually wandered in their direction. Beside him followed John Lucas, who seemed glad enough of the opportunity to make a foursome with the Bingleys and Elizabeth by the fire. Elizabeth’s attention, however, was reserved for her father.
Mr Bennet looked her way, but did not deign to interrupt the quiet group. He offered a kindly smile, then responded to a jest between Mr Gray and Mr Purvis—a local widower who was working very hard to attract Kitty’s notice. Elizabeth watched as the larger group settled in at cards, and her father retired to a corner with a book.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, then resolutely turned her head. John Lucas sat to her left, and if she kept her gaze steadily on his face, she could no longer see the writing desk.
E lizabeth was late to bed that evening—later even than the rest of the family, who had all returned home in the long hours of the night. Lydia’s spirits had been her first concern, for she truly had begged off spending the evening in the company of Jane’s guests, fearing extreme discomfort when her marital status must be explained to the gentlemen. Elizabeth had tried gentle persuasion and promised to stand near for the whole of the evening, but Lydia had bluntly refused to meet the curious stares of the other guests and Jane Bingley’s pitying words.
Children, however, with their innocent affections and playful ways, seemed to work a magic in her. Elizabeth had hurried in from the carriage, still regretting that she had left Lydia to her own devices, but she had found her sister laughing riotously with their young Gardiner cousins. It seemed that the littlest had found one of the kittens from the barn and tied a bright ribbon round its short little tail, amusing them all for the better part of the evening. Clearly, her sisterly comfort was not required on this festive night.
Perhaps it was that very lack of purpose which troubled her at her toilette before she retired to bed. She gazed blankly through the flame of her candle, her face so close that she could smell its warmth fanning through the curls at her temples. Was she really so morose of late that even her father worried over her? Had she not just recently sported merrily with him over one of his favourite novels, and pointedly charmed each caller to attend the Bennet drawing room? Could the hollow sound of her laughter be heard by anyone but herself?
The mirror, staring back at her, gave answer enough. She was adrift, without direction or inspiration. And for what? For the loss of something that had never been hers? For envy of her beloved Jane, or disappointment over Lydia? A flash of anger rose in her eyes—the only life to spark back from her mirror. No! She swiped her hand over the flame, quenching it with a quick, stinging pinch of her fingers. There must be more .
Rubbing her eyes, Elizabeth tiptoed to the bed that was now hers alone and slid between her cold sheets. She shivered. It had never been absolutely necessary that she and Jane should share a room. Longbourn was large enough for the family and two guest rooms, after all, and seldom were both needed when company came. When they were still very small, however, she and Jane had found delight in long talks into the night, well after they were supposed to have been asleep. They had shared warmth and secrets, and never had the typical disagreements of sisters troubled their happy little arrangement.
Elizabeth burrowed more deeply under the counterpane, staring at the mound of Jane’s old pillow in the moonlight. It seemed so strange now, with no sounds of breathing, no second body dipping that side of the bed. So many times, when her feet and hands were cold, Jane and she would have snuggled close, giggling and tugging at the blankets. Hunching her shoulders, she tried to recall that sweet fellowship as she nestled her head into the pillow.
She tucked herself tightly all round and found that if she strained at the blanket just so, she could almost imagine that she was not alone—that her back rested securely against solid warmth, with a firm weight draped round her waist. She arched her neck, pulling back her shoulder to bare yet more of her skin as a breath of tepid air tickled below her ear.
The weight tightened over her stomach, rolling her close and cradling her head as a shiver thrilled up the back of her neck. “ Elizabeth .”
Was it a voice she had heard, carried on the wind, or merely the creaks and groans of the old house as it cooled and settled for the night? She inhaled deeply, catching a tendril of sandalwood fragrance with undertones of something more earthy. Her fingers touched the bare space of her neck—a warmth kissing her skin, grazing delicately over that sensitive place.
“I have thought only of you.”
Elizabeth turned her head languidly. Surely, she had heard the words spoken aloud! The prickles along her arms testified to the whispered breath over her flesh, the deep hum of masculine tones. I am going mad! she chided herself, but she could not desire to shatter the dream with the truth. There could be no one there! Yet, some intuition compelled her to raise up, to meet the eyes that had long since been dimmed from memory.
He smiled and lifted gentle fingers to touch her cheek. “My dearest Elizabeth, how I have missed you!”
A tear spilled over his fingertips. She could not speak, could not even answer with a smile. Her lips parted, but her throat was so choked that she was capable of no more than a garbled sob. She bit her lips together, trying to nod, to speak— something!
“It is all right, my love,” he soothed. Those deep eyes, like sweet warm chocolate, searched lovingly over her face. “You have been too much alone, as have I.”
Her breast heaved. She wetted her lips, swallowing. “You cannot be real!” she whispered into the darkness.
The corner of his mouth turned up. “I am not one given to fantasy or madness. You know that I detest all forms of pretense, yet you see me before you.”
She shook her head. “I have been seeing you everywhere! No, it is not you. My mind—I must be deceiving myself.”
His warm fingers brushed her chin. “Then you have longed to see me, my love, as I have you. You cannot know what comfort that gives me.”
A strangled cry trembled from her. “Oh, Mr Darcy, it is all my fault! I shall never overcome my grief! If I had only been gentler, forgiven more easily—”
“Do not linger over your regrets, my Elizabeth,” he murmured. “We must take what little we are given—do not let us return to the past.”
She bowed her head, trembling with tears, and felt his hand hesitantly rest upon her tousled curls. She leaned willingly into him, longing to feel more. He drew her to his chest, wrapping an arm about her, and simply held her. Shaking, Elizabeth at last dared to reach for him. Her fingers slipped over the smooth linen of his shirt, touching and testing and, at last, trusting.
She pressed her face into his chest, her hand fisting the material of his clothing and kneading the firm muscle of his shoulder. “Oh, my love! How shall I go on, knowing that what we share in our hearts, all that which might have been, can never be!”
“We have our small moments,” answered he. “All of life’s treasures may be stored up and accounted in moments such as these. My dearest Elizabeth, I have been a broken, lonely man in a dark place—from where I may never return. I have nothing left but these dreams of you.” His throat worked, his eloquent eyes imploring her to understand. “My Elizabeth,” he whispered, “forgive me for trying to invoke you into that darkness to be with me!”
She clenched her arm about his neck, greedily pressing her burning eyes to the thrumming warmth of his flesh. “I would rather face darkness with you than a world of comfort alone!”
His breath sighed through her hair, and his hands clasped her shoulders in fevered relief. “It is more than I can bear, Elizabeth! To never see you, to have no hope of such a life as I had always expected—it is too bitter!” His fingers traced up her neck, to her jaw, and he gently lifted her head to look into her eyes. “May I leave with you my heart for safekeeping? How I need you, my Elizabeth!”
She sniffled uncontrollably, little gasping cries muffled against his chest as she pulled him close once more. “Do not leave me again, Mr Darcy!”
His fingers burrowed tenderly through her hair. “ William ,” he whispered softly into her ear.
She lifted her head, her lips silently forming the intimate name. He smiled once more, the light in his eyes a ghostly shadow of former days. “It was my dearest hope that this year I might have wished you a Merry Christmas, my precious Elizabeth.”
His shirt was now damp with her tears. She clung to him, praying that if she only held him tightly enough, he would not vanish in the mist. Her entire body racked in spasms of anguish, but his arms held her close as his tender voice caressed her starving heart. She gasped, tasting the salty drops streaming down her face. “Merry Christmas, William,” she whispered.