17. Chapter 17
It’s merely the storm that feels wrong. Heavy flurries have swept through St. Ives by the morning of Twelfth Night, and the sky is dark with what’s to come.
Servants dart through corridors with ribbons trailing from their arms, voices are high and tight, and Cook scrambles for a misplaced tray of oranges as if the world depends upon them.
I creep through the kitchen to deliver Simon Balfour’s completed costume to the cottage, unable to shake the odd feeling of a hairline fracture somewhere deep within.
Something off.
Or about to be.
The thrum of excitement swells to a crescendo, then Uncle Elias’ voice echoes deep in the house. I keep to the shadows, tightening my hold on the costume. I’ve not crossed paths with him since the dinner.
His voice nears, then he bangs open the door, filling that low-ceilinged kitchen with his presence. “There you are.” Annoyance at having to search for me pinches his face.
I back toward the wall, cloak drawn tight around the bundle, and await Uncle’s judgment for the spectacle the other night.
Get out of this house.
Go and become a vagabond with that father of yours.
You’re no longer welcome here.
Any of these might come out of his mouth within the next seconds.
But they don’t. “I require your presence immediately.”
I frown. Everything that has relaxed in me this past week tightens again. “Now?”
“Twelfth Night is your responsibility, is it not?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Has he completely lost his senses? The man never forgets an infraction—and mine was a large one.
Only one explanation fits. Twelfth Night is simply too immense, too important. He may be an expert at sourcing and setting gems, but when it comes to hosting, he relies on his paste jewel to make his house shine.
“You must wear the blue gown and let Cosette do your hair. Every order she gives you concerning your appearance will be obeyed.”
My fingers knead the costume’s fabric hard.
I close my eyes for a moment and a rush of something larger consumes me.
Lift your eyes. The awe of stars and galaxies and their magnificent Creator overhead brushes my spirit, cleansing it with perspective.
I open my eyes, breathe deep, and say, “Very well.”
Uncle’s stare hardens, as if attempting to discern my scheme.
"Provided you will address me with kindness." I level a look at him and swallow the fight that wishes to surface, all the unspoken arguments burning in my soul. “Will there be anything else?”
But the small things loom larger again, trying to rise up. This is harder than I imagined.
“Yes. Restraint. From you, specifically.”
I clench my jaw and stare past his shoulder toward the window. “I do hope we might put the past behind us.”
His look hardens again, accentuating the bags under his eyes. “Nothing is behind us, merely delayed. And only because the guests are beginning to wonder if something is the matter with you.”
“I suppose it was not sufficient to explain I was indisposed? You made it seem just now as though some crisis has arisen.”
I say it flippantly, but his eyes flick toward the window.
I tense. “What? What has happened, Uncle?”
“We’ve a new guest coming. A rather important one. You must make certain of his welcome and see that he’s shown the newest settings.”
I frown. “Who is it?”
“You’ll know when he arrives.”
My stomach knots. A suitor? A potential husband?
“See that he’s comfortable… and that he’s shown the most unusual collections. His taste is for the more singular pieces.”
Ah, merely a suitable buyer for the oddities in Uncle’s collection—pieces that have put a strain on his pocketbook for far too long because no one in the belle monde would dare purchase them. No one except a man with wealth enough to do as he pleases.
“I’ve sent the men for several more crates of candles and glass balls. You will need to oversee the decorations. We shall light up the parlor so thoroughly,” he says, hands poised, “that it feels as though Christmas itself is glowing in that room.”
I frown. “Are you selling gems or holidays?”
“Give them brilliance enough, and they’ll decide you are the source of it. Then you can sell them anything you wish.” He lingers in the doorway. “See to it that enough flint is readied to light them all at once. Sally will assist you in everything.”
Uncle stalks out of the room, but I dare not run down the chilly footpath to the cottage now. I stuff the costume in the larder, explaining to Cook that she must give it to Simon when he arrives in search of me.
I spin and there indeed is Sally, inches from my elbow. “Here to assist you, miss,” she says, cheeks bright.
I’m swept up in the thrum of hurry, seeing to six geese that are delivered an hour late due to the snow and the missing crate of candles that must light the parlor at dusk for this mysterious new guest. I dip waxed balls in spirits to make them shine under the candlelight and instruct the staff to tie papier maché ornaments.
Snow pummels our little peninsula relentlessly, and both our orchestra leader and our illusionist telegram in the midst of merry clatter to report they were unable to take the train out of London that morning.
“It’ll all come out all right,” I announce with a smile to Sally, who’s wringing her hands. “We shall find a replacement.”
But there’s nothing. The snow has blanketed everything, and there’s no one in or out. Perhaps the special guest will not arrive, either.
In the madness, a figure sneaks through the shadows, and an idea sparks. It’s Anwen Dunn, the child who, I learned the night of her arrival, has the voice of an angel. “You must sing for us tonight,” I say.
Sally’s tight voice cuts in. “Oh, but miss—”
“Have you any holiday melodies prepared, by chance?”
“Oh yes,” says the bright-faced girl, glancing up at her mother. She’s a beautiful child, with shiny dark hair and eager eyes. “I do love Christmas music.”
Entertainment will last only as long as the girl’s voice, for there’s nothing else, save a cook who can juggle forks—mostly. What on earth might impress this special guest? What might we offer this man of unusual tastes that he hasn’t already seen?
“This is highly irregular. He will never approve. A child, carrying the night?”
“She’ll be performing in opera halls one day, Sally. Mark my words. And besides, who else do we have?”
“He won’t like it at all.”
“Perfectly reasonable.”
“But what if—”
“Sally dear, would you fancy a night to yourself?” I brandish the romance novel I’ve tucked beneath my arm. I swept it up from the library earlier, with a mind to be rid of my enthusiastic shadow.
She grabs it with a little cry, staring at the cover, then clutching it to her. “Oh, miss. If only you knew how much I—”
“But I do know, which is why I’m offering it to you. A gift—the entire evening to yourself, and a book.”
“But the master—”
“Will be watching me himself. You needn’t fret over me tonight.” I push the book toward her again. “Go, with my blessing, Sally. Lock yourself away in that room of yours and don’t pay us any mind.”
After a brief pause, as if she can sense what the night holds, she scurries off.
I expect relief to follow, but as Cosette helps me dress, the very air continues to ignite my nerves.
I forget all about my own mysterious guest until I turn on the grand landing not yet properly lit for guests and catch sight of a tall stranger in the black mask and cape of Robin Hood, his jaw once again clean-shaven and commanding.
He stands in the candle’s glow, looking up at me in my ice-blue gown and sparkling silver mask as if he’s been watching me for some minutes and cannot bring himself to look away.
I catch his gaze, and a smile flickers beneath the mask that covers his eyes and nose.
My heart pools at my feet, then swells back in a rush of heat.
By the time I reach the final step, my tingling nerves have cooled.
I stand nearly level with him and brush one gloved fingertip across his impeccably shaven jaw.
“You’ve shaved again.” My fingers linger as if he belongs to me. How bold this mask has made me.
A smile flashes. “I suppose you’ll have to keep me a bit longer.”
I lean forward, nudging his mask higher, and place a swift, gentle kiss on the edge of his jaw. “I accept.”
He’s still for a moment. “Accept what?”
Whatever you’re offering.
The warmth lingers. And before I can draw a breath, his lips touch mine for a brief moment of softness that leaves me weak.
Simon Balfour has blown into my life like a snowstorm—silent but all-encompassing.
I hadn’t realized how stifling life was until he came and I could finally take a breath.
I close my eyes, still tasting the tenderness of this stolen moment in the shadows.
The deliriously happy calm before the storm.
He moves back and casts a glance over me. “You look well tonight, my lady.”
“As do you.” I smile. “Only, make me one promise, Robin Hood.” I touch the side of his mask, just above his left ear, and his eyes flutter closed. “No robbing the rich, hm?”
He anchors my hand gently to his cheek with a playful smile. “No promises.”
It’s a rush of wind, this pull toward him, against which I’m powerless. I wish to cling to him, to walk beside him, withstanding life together.
Yet there are so many others who need a mast to cling to far more than I. The moment he has his feet on the ground again, he will return to them. He’d never abandon them, no matter his income, to live in a fine house with servants to wait upon him.
I shouldn’t want him if he did.
“I’ve a gift for you,” he says. “A proper one. It’s in the cottage.”
“I need nothing more.” I’ve watched people fall in and out of love.
This isn’t the same. It’s larger, deeper, more inescapable.
It’s a collision of two matched souls who are far better together than apart, who recognize something of themselves in the other, and who happen to be walking, though from different origins, in the same direction.