5. Chapter 5
Iwait until the claret is served to ruin Christmas.
The reception has gone drearily well, with guests circulating in tidy orbits, laughter rising at appropriate intervals, the fire obligingly bright.
Dunn House is at its most polished. Its most certain—until eight o’clock when Simon Balfour blows through the front doors, ushering in a fresh gust of sea air we feel all the way in the parlor.
Turning, I clutch my friend’s hand. “Jane, I’ve done something brash.” This night is about to go wonderfully wrong.
“You’ve worn the pearls.”
“No—I’ve brought a man home.”
She laughs, a soft, amiable little sound that’s so very Jane.
Yet Felix Mandeville, the achingly handsome neighbor standing just behind her, does not laugh at my announcement. He stares openly, punch stilled halfway to his lips.
I redden. Life’s worst tragedies are often not what happens, but what we thought would happen… and didn’t. Felix Mandeville is one of those for me.
He grimaces. “A suitor, Miss Snow?”
I glance at the doors, then down at my glass. They take my silence for agreement.
“Good heavens, Rosalyn, you cannot be serious,” Jane says, her smile falling. “Where on earth did you—”
“He’s from Exeter.”
“Exeter!” she cries, as if it’s the moon. “How will you tell your—”
“Oh no, we mustn’t.” I squeeze her hand and risk a glance toward Uncle Elias at the rear of the room. His stare, renowned for picking out the worthless paste jewel amidst authentic ones, hardens on me now.
“What sort of man is he?” she asks.
“Tall.” I gulp my cider. It burns. The crystal chandeliers shiver as a door slams again deep within Dunn House, then the butler comes to announce a new guest. “Jane.” I tug on her arm, hiding my eyes. “Jane, who’s just come in?”
Her arm stiffens. She sucks in a breath. “Oh, Rosalyn.”
I turn, gloved hand over my eyes, then part my fingers.
But no one darkens the doorway.
“Who is that?” Jane breathes.
I follow her stare toward the very center of the room, and there, draped in purple and gold robes with a white powdered beard and surrounded by delighted guests… is Saint Nicholas.
Is it…? But no, it cannot be.
Heart hammering beneath my bodice, I weave through the crowds toward this festive stranger, the warm, engaging man at the center of attention distributing foil-wrapped chocolates. He certainly bears a likeness from the back, but this man is much too animated and lively to be my stranger.
But then he turns with that tall, pointed miter atop his head, and those very same flashing brown eyes that had narrowed on me in Exeter, and all logical thought grinds to a halt.
I gasp, gloved fingers to my mouth as he catches my gaze and offers me a quick, private half-grin.
Then he turns back to the guests with a swirl of capes.
Now I have no plan. I’m not certain what it was before, but this entrance has left me blank.
The corner of my eye catches movement. Uncle Elias is advancing upon us, shoulders squared like a bulldog. I push my way through the crowds to stand closer to the new guest, to do what I can to blunt the inevitable catastrophe.
Yet before I reach him, a nervous maid stumbles, her tray going weightless in the air.
A gasp.
She collides with someone and deep red liquid blooms across the distinguished Colonel Fitzgibbons’ crisp white shirtwaist. Shards of glass explode like sparks at his feet.
Silence falls.
The colonel sputters, eyes wide, as the poor girl—barely seventeen—goes pale as paper.
This night has been a test of her skill in the front rooms. Uncle barely allowed it. The butler had warned against it, but she had begged.
Now she’s sacked.
Music has stopped, polite chatter quieted, and every eye is turned on them. I can hear my pulse. The guests shuffle about and pretend not to watch, but they’re all stealing sidelong glances at the aftermath. At their host’s humiliation.
I reach them as Uncle’s wide, beet-red face comes within an inch of Esther’s pale one. “You silly, empty-headed fool!” He hisses in her ear. “Pack your things and—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Shoes click on tile, then the striking Saint Nicholas positions himself between master and maid, bending down toward the girl. “Give me your hand.”
Esther drops to her knees, head in her hands. Simon kneels before her. His voice rings with authority even at a low tone. “It happens to the best of us. What’s your name?”
“Esther.” She’s shaking. “Esther Simms.”
While all the guests look on, Simon Balfour removes his cravat and sweeps up the worst of the broken glass. Two footmen rush to take over.
Uncle Elias glares at Simon Balfour’s back, one angry vein throbbing down his forehead. Then his gaze shifts to me and hardens as he realizes that I am somehow to blame for his public disgrace. “I do hope you have a brilliant explanation for this.”
My back stiffens. I cannot breathe, and my corset has never felt tighter. “I’d best see to the Colonel.” I escort the man out and into the main hall. After several calming words, I escort him to his guest chambers with the upstairs maid and arrange for the servants to see to him.
Upon my return, Uncle Elias is hovering like a thundercloud. He spots me immediately and advances through the crowd. With a smile polite enough to fool onlookers, he lowers his voice as he nears. “I advise you to remove your circus performer from my house before the meal is served.”
I check over the room. “I believe he’s already removed himself.”
“Where did you find him, in some back alley with a ‘for hire’ placard ‘round his neck?”
I meet Uncle Elias’ stare. I’m no gem to him, so instead I aim for unforgettable. “Under a bridge, actually.”
Even paste jewels sparkle.
He stares, then scoffs at my supposed jest and moves away.
But I am burning. “Which has caused you offense, Uncle? Having a man in your home who’s less than genteel, or not being able to sack your own maid without seeming an ogre?”
He stops. Turns. “Would that you acted more like your mother, instead of that—”
Instead of Papa.
In a flash I see his face. See the jolly way Papa told a story, see the smile that dawned like daybreak over a bleak horizon. How fortunate I’d be to take after such a man.
My low voice doesn’t quiver. “You can say his name aloud, you know.”
Uncle turns his back on me and strides away, his gold-tipped cane punctuating each step.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
What a foolish man. A foolish, pompous hypocrite. He doesn’t even need a cane. It’s all part of an act to paint his shallow, insipid self with a spit-polish he didn’t earn. I squeeze every muscle along my spine to still my shaking as I stare at his retreating back.
“Well played, Miss Snow.”
I jump.
Felix appears at my elbow, his countenance all good humor as he hands me a glass. “You had me fooled. No mysterious beau after all, but an entertainer you’d employed. A trifle deceptive, having us believe you’d snared a suitor, isn’t it? But I suppose it was all done in sport, to vex poor Jane.”
“Not at all,” says Jane, inserting herself into the conversation. “I’m not prepared to dismiss the notion of this man as a suitor. He is lacking in polish, but somehow he’s perfect for you, dear Rosalyn.”
“Why, because I am lacking in polish?” Jane, who memorized Burke’s Peerage and ranked the suitable bachelors from the time she was twelve years of age, will never settle. That she would allow me to supposedly cast my affections upon a man of unknown connections surprises me.
“Sheathe those daggers, dearest. I said no such a thing. I have only to look at the man and the way he managed your uncle so handily to see his suitability.” She gives a prim smile. “Dear Rosalyn, I believe you’ve met your match.”
My hand goes to my warm cheek. “Have I?”
She leans forward, scanning the crowd for the missing stranger. “There’s something else about him that strikes me.”
I bite my lip.
“His eyes. They’ve quite a singular look, do they not? There’s something almost… familiar about them. I cannot place him, but I’m certain I know the man. Rosalyn, what clever scheme have you devised? Have you plans to unmask some noble and shock us all?”
Something moves just beyond Jane, outside the doors. The dim hall lamps glint on a purple and gold robe, but the figure vanishes almost immediately.
Felix flashes a smug grin. “You’re mad, Jane. She’s a well-bred lady and the ward of a respectable gentleman. Why, she’d fare better as a lady of independent means than strapped to such a wastrel.”
I fix him with a look of unmistakable disapproval. “What’s so deplorable about him? Have you even spoken to the man?”
Jane flashes an amused smile “Do tell us his merits, won’t you, Ros?”
I face Felix. “My question stands.”
He huffs an awkward laugh. “You’re not serious, are you, Miss Snow?” Once my tree-climbing, bareback-riding, fairy-tale-loving friend next door, Felix is now a notable barrister and he wears that distinction even on holiday. “Such an alliance would disgrace your uncle terribly. And yourself.”
Across the room, Uncle Elias throws back his drink to catch the last drops and deposits the cup on a passing tray.
His red, blotchy face is distraught with the cares of the wealthy, and puffed with excess.
“I rather think it’s the other way around.
If you’ll both excuse me.” Brushing past them, I make my way into the corridor where I’d seen that flash of purple and gold.
I strain in the near-darkness for any glimpse of my guest.
It’s drafty in the corridor, like the breath of some unseen watcher. The spare candles along the wall flicker with every moan of the wind. A chill spiders through and then he’s behind me, brushing my bare arm in the dimness. “What an odd pairing,” he says softly.
“Who?” My heart palpitates as he nearly repeats Jane’s words.
“You and them. You and this enormous house.” He stands beside me, looking in at the slice of brightly lit parlor through the door. “Tonight came off well, no?”
“You might have warned me of your plans. I suppose you conned the servants into helping.”
“Just the costume. And a bit of rice flour for the beard. It was Cook’s idea.”
“How lovely that you enjoyed yourself.”
His eyes sparkle with mischief. “And you did not?”
I twist the finger of my glove, shoving aside the memory of poor Esther Simms. “You’ve made this far more difficult for me, you know. You’re meant to be on my side.”
He rubs his beard absently, then dusts flour off his hands. “I did everything you asked. Bath. New clothing.”
“And the beard? Your hair?”
“They worked in my favor tonight.”
I glance down, face burning. “A fine way to repay kindness.”
All teasing falls away.
Ah, right. It’s charity that offends him so.
“Perhaps you ought to keep to your own and leave us to ours. Why is it important that I impress those people, anyway? Why does any of it matter to you?”
“Because we can show them. Prove to them—”
“What, that a vagrant can become a gentleman?”
I lock eyes with him. “I merely want to convince a few people to open their hearts to the men of other classes, and perhaps open their doors, too.”
He considers me. “Why is it worth opening, Miss Snow? To you. Why trouble yourself with opening doors to the likes of us?”
“Because.” I exhale, then steel myself. “Because if those doors are opened, there’s every chance my father will walk through them one day.”
His look is steady, fathomless, but it softens.
Silence pulses between us. Expectancy. Perhaps he’s waiting on the rest of the story.
I shall have to disappoint him. I’ve already given him entirely too much.
I study that face beyond the powdered whiteness, searching his thoughts. Wondering what Jane believed she recognized in him. “The beard. Why are you so attached to it, Mr. Balfour?”
“Aside from the obvious?” He tugs it hard. “Because it’s cold and come tomorrow, I’ll be glad of any warmth. Particularly if I can grow it myself, free of cost.”
I tap my chin. “Perhaps I shall give you a scarf for Christmas. Then you may trim that beard. Or have done with it entirely.”
His eyebrows rise. “Why should I?”
I offer a tenuous smile. “Because then I shall see what your face looks like.”
He looks past me into the deeply shadowed hall, running his hand down the grizzled beard with a frown. After a long moment, he says, “No one has seen me in years.”