Chapter 18
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
“It’s fine work, Gordon, incredibly fine work.
” Alasdair ran the flat of his hand along the ashlar wall, admiring the perfect seam where the cornice protruded.
Standing back, squinting beneath his hat against the bright, pale gray sky, he recognized Clafton Hall.
It was the place of memory itself, right down to the pieces kept from a fifteenth-century Norman castle.
“This hill looks complete now,” said Gordon. “Nearly. Close, Mr. Kerr! Very close!”
Unfinished or not, it was inevitable now.
Clafton Hall rose to preside over the slopes and pond and streams again.
Another month or two of work and he could start filling it with art from their storehouses in London.
The limestone gleamed. Each of the three wings on the five-bay, three-story building was finished with a slate tile roof and rendered chimney stack; the entry and windows faced south toward the pond and stream that cut the border between the Richmond property and his.
Voices, low with disagreement, arrived from the other side of the build site.
Just as Alasdair began assigning them to Robert and Lillian Daly, the first fat, spinning snowflakes began to fall.
He stepped back from the wall, held out his hand, and watched a flake land on his glove, comically perfect, a many-pointed star with sparkling bridges and designs that soon became no more than a tiny puddle.
“I say, this is quite the climb, and I did not dress for it!” Robert exclaimed, huffing with effort as he appeared along the right wing of the house. He stabbed his cane into the ground with annoyance, resting one knuckle on his hip as he came to a stop.
“It’s refreshing to take in the air after that long carriage journey—”
“Be quiet, Lillian. I’m rumpled and without a brandy.
It’s clearly your fault. Ah! There you are, old friend!
We’ve quite scaled the Matterhorn to find you!
” Robert crowed with laughter beneath the narrow brim of his black hat, gesturing his wife forward as they came to join Alasdair and Gordon beneath the swirling dance of snowflakes.
Alasdair took a moment to introduce Robert and Lillian to Gordon, who didn’t seem at all impressed by their London fashions and manners.
“Work to do,” Gordon said, excusing himself. “Get what we can covered before the snow gathers and send the lads home for Christmas Eve.”
“You’re just in time to see our luck run out,” said Alasdair, glowering up at the sky. “I was convinced we would finish before the first snow.”
“You must be disappointed, Mr. Kerr, how awful,” Lillian consoled him quietly.
She had been considered a magnificent beauty in her debut season, though years of marriage to Robert had tarnished her like a well-worn necklace.
Still, behind that influence one could detect the sweetness of a young lady who had spent most of her youth smiling.
A sharp, feline cleverness hid behind the English roses blooming in her cheeks.
It appeared in flashes when she glanced at Robert and a suggestion of something more wild, more stalwart emerged.
“Awful? Don’t be silly, wife. This is precisely what you wanted—your sugared treat forest for Christmas.” Robert took a single glance at Clafton, Alasdair’s most prized achievement, and started back toward Sampson.
“I didn’t want it at the expense of your dreams, sir,” Lillian said in an undertone. Alasdair walked beside her as they returned to Sampson. “And I said I hoped we might enjoy a forest dusted with winter sugar. He never remembers a thing I say.”
“I only recall things worth remembering!” Robert called grumpily from up ahead.
“Clafton Hall is sure to be the feature of the county when it is finished,” said Lillian, staring at the back of her husband’s head.
“Thank you, Mrs. Daly. And may I welcome you to Sampson Park?”
“You may.”
“And may I also suggest that, while you warm yourself and settle into your accommodations, I take Robert to the forest to look for our Yule log? You must be exhausted after—” Robert interrupted him, swearing as a branch swiped his cheek. “You must be exhausted.”
Lillian beamed up at him. “Sir, there is no need for further gifts. That singular one will do.”
Indeed, once Lillian was escorted to the house and pleasantries were exchanged with his mother and brother, Alasdair forced Robert right back out into the snow.
“Come,” Alasdair barked at him, swinging the axe to rest on his shoulder. “It will be the most heroic thing you’ve done in ages.”
“I don’t need to be heroic,” said Robert. “I pay someone to do that.”
Yet it was supremely amusing to take Robert into the steepest climb of the woods as the snow came down and began, hour by hour, to stick.
He made his friend hold his hat and coat while he swung the axe at a big, obliging log, chips of bark and wood flesh flying after each meaty thunk.
The exercise heated him through, and with the churn of hot blood came the churn of other things—the familiar buzz in his head of mingled guilt and desire.
He had declared himself to Violet, and now he was building to a confession.
To himself. To her. Most unpleasant of all, to his family.
“You have the strangest look on your face,” said Robert, laughing nervously.
“I’m merely thinking…”
“I wouldn’t suggest it. I’m always at my worst when I pay too much attention to myself. Better to just do and live with the consequences. One can get lost in the forest of thoughts and never emerge.” As if reminded that they were in a very real forest, Robert glanced around, shrinking.
“Soon,” Alasdair muttered to himself, lowering the axe and leaning against it, breathing hard. “It can’t go on like this.”
“I won’t pretend to understand you. And don’t expect me to drag that log through the forest.” Robert sniffed, dodging debris. “These Hessians are new.”
The log was wrapped in hazel twigs and brought back to Sampson Park.
The groundskeeper met them at the edge of the wood and helped them carry the load to the great hearth in the main drawing room, where Lady Edith was already swaddled in her shawls, presiding over a book of sermons.
The house was filled with greenery, every mantel, corner, and pillar hung with fragrant boughs, snow-crisped holly shining beside wreaths of ivy and rosemary, though per Lady Edith’s instructions, no mistletoe was allowed.
Robert and Alasdair retired to the library to refresh themselves after their Yule adventure, sipping port while Robert perused the books on offer and decried the lack of novels.
“Lady Edith is not fond of the secular,” Alasdair explained.
“I gathered that from the décor,” said Robert, shuddering. “And how the devil do you go on living with all these martyrs staring at you while they bleed out?”
“Without sin, or so my mother hopes.”
“Is it working?” Robert barked with laughter, leaning against one well-stocked bookcase, several volumes of Fordyce’s work lined up near the rake’s head. “How fares your brother?”
“Poorly. He’s floundering.” Alasdair drained his port.
“Send him to London. I’ll take him ’round. You know we dine with a bishop every month; I’m certain your brother will warm to the profession once he sees the size of that man’s rings.”
Freddie did seem more himself when they sat down to dine that evening, and as much as Alasdair found fault with Robert, his friend did seem invested in Freddie’s good cheer.
He engaged him in animated conversation, picking his subjects deftly and delighting both Freddie and Lady Edith with stories of hosting the bishop and going to Pargan Poole in previous years for Christmas, as well as listing out all the recent paintings he had acquired.
Lillian sat largely silent, though she seemed content to let Robert hold court while she ate the succulent roast goose and received compliments on her stately bearing from Lady Edith.
In fact, by Christmas morning, Alasdair was feeling proud of himself; he had accurately assessed that all Sampson Park needed was a dose of new faces to feel lively for the holiday.
Lady Edith insisted that they go to the church at Anselm for the service, Mr. Danforth’s replacement giving the overlong sermon.
His mother repeatedly swiveled in her seat, gazing off toward the door as if expecting Mr. Danforth to return at any moment.
For the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, Alasdair felt a building sense of unease.
His stomach was in knots as he dressed to go down for Christmas dinner; what if he had too much wine and blurted out that he wanted to marry Miss Arden?
Maybe he ought to. He couldn’t contain the secret much longer.
Freddie and his mother would be enraged for very different reasons.
Glancing out the window, he watched the snow continue to fall and mound into higher and higher satin-white pillows.
The trees drooped, their branches not so much lightly sugared, as Lillian hoped, but weighted until their tips brushed the drifts rising to meet them.
That was it, he decided, that was the source of his unease.
What if Robert is trapped here for a fortnight? How will I survive it?
The house was more quiet than usual, the snow blocking them in muting every sound until it threatened to drive one mad.
He thought of Mrs. Richmond’s generous invitation to attend her benefit, and he imagined Pressmore wearing its elegant emerald Christmas finery, musicians tuning their instruments, actors practicing their scenes, cooks mixing the wassail bowl, guests choosing their feathers and jewels for the event of the season, and among them…