Chapter Eleven #2
Gwendolyn put down her spoon and gazed regretfully at the trifle she had not even tasted. Roland, as attentive to her as he had been since the beginning of the meal, said, “Would you like me to pass you some of the trifle?”
Gwendolyn shook her head. “Everything is so delicious but it isn’t wise to over indulge.”
Roland had no such qualms and tucked into a generous portion of the creamy dessert.
Gwendolyn watched Roland as he sunk his spoon into the concoction. The red currant jelly shimmered against the soft yellow of custard and the whiteness of the cream all held together with lady fingers. She let out a little sigh, just loud enough for Roland to hear.
He paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth, remembering that fatal evening when he had met her at Lady Wetherspoon’s ball and how her mother had scorned her when she wanted a petit four.
“You should try this. It’s absolutely delicious.
” He held the spoon towards her mouth. She looked at the heaped spoon and then at him, and opened her lips.
He placed the spoon into her mouth and she ate slowly, savoring every morsel.
Roland watched her, satisfaction and something else burning in his eyes.
When she had finished the mouthful of trifle, he tore his eyes away from her and concentrated on eating his dessert.
He really shouldn’t indulge in his fancy for her.
It wasn’t fair either to her or to himself.
There couldn’t be a future for them. His mouth flattened and his eyes skimmed over the table, wondering if anyone had noticed his foolish action.
It wasn’t done for a gentleman to show share such an intimate moment with a lady in public, especially a lady he had no intention of marrying.
To his relief, Peggy had caused a disturbance by knocking her glass of lemonade over and was devastated because her Christmas pudding was now doused in the sweet drink instead of custard.
Mrs. Ewbanks was clearing away the mess and Jim was looking for another plate for his sister while Hugh was eating a bit of the ruined pudding, trying to decide if it was a flavor that could prove tasty.
When finally even the hungriest of the children could no longer stuff another morsel into their mouths, the merry party removed to the living room.
Extra chairs were brought in from the dining room and the younger children sat on cushions on the floor.
The yule log was still burning steadily in the hearth place.
Mr. Ewbanks took his position at a side table, rolled back his sleeves and mixed together a punch with rum that had been heating near the fire, water, sugar, a scraping of nutmeg and a squeeze of lemon juice.
Mrs. Ewbanks set a plate of sweetmeats, dried fruits, and nuts next to the punch bowl, in case anyone felt a little peckish.
When they were all comfortably ensconced in the living room, Mr. Ewbanks rubbed his hands together. “Time for a little fun,” he declared. The children called out suggestions of games they wanted to play, little Maisie’s shrieks of Blind Man’s Bluff rising above the rest.
The large farmer smiled at her and lifted her into his arms. “That will come later. We’ll start with something a little less boisterous.”
“What’s boyster?” she asked.
“The noise and energy of you and your brothers and sisters.”
Maisie frowned at the other children. “Do you want us to be still and quiet like at school?”
“Not today, pet. It’s a day for having fun. And we’re going to start with a game of Yes and No.”
“Me first, me first!” The children all shouted together. Mr. Ewbanks studied them seriously as if he were judging the merits of a prize horse.
“I think we should ask our main guest, Lord Montgomery, to lead the game.”
Roland laughed as the children cheered and Hugh, Will, and Peggy crowded around him as if being close would make it easier to guess what he was thinking of.
Roland looked at Gwendolyn who was sitting on a sofa near the window, his expression enigmatic. “I am thinking of something fancy,” he began.
“Is it something in this room?” Hugh asked.
“No,” Roland said smugly.
“Oh, I thought you were thinking of Gwen’s hair,” Gracie said. “It’s the prettiest and fanciest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Gwendolyn blushed and Roland laughed. “Miss Burroughs does have very pretty and fancy hair, but that’s not what I’m thinking of right now.” The way he looked at her refuted his words, but the children were ready to continue the game.
“Is it an animal?” Jim wondered, his thoughts on Queen Mab, a horse he considered mighty fine.
“No,” Roland said.
“Is it something to eat?” Maisie called out.
“Yes!” Roland laughed.
“Sugar plums!” “Mince pies.” “Roast goose.” “Christmas pudding.” The children shouted over each other as they tried to guess.
Roland shook his head at each one, looking more and more smug at each wrong answer.
“I think it might be trifle,” Gwendolyn ventured.
Roland grinned triumphantly. “Yes! Gwendolyn wins!”
Gwendolyn’s cheeks were deep red both from confusion and embarrassment. Roland had all but ignored her after he had given her the taste of trifle at the table. She wasn’t sure if anyone else had noticed, but it was unfair of him to remind her of that intimacy now.
“Your turn!” the children shouted, rushing over to her seat.
When Gracie had correctly guessed that Gwendolyn had been thinking of a hair ribbon and she, in her turn, had stumped everyone with her object, which turned out to be a frog, Mr. Ewbanks called for a game of Bullet Pudding.
Mariana and Gwendolyn were surprised when Mrs. Ewbanks brought in a flat pewter dish on which flour had been heaped into a large pile.
This was placed in the middle of a small round table and everyone gathered around.
Mr. Ewbanks dug in his pocket and pulled out a bullet which, with a flourish, he placed on the top of the flour.
Gracie, as the winner of the previous game, picked up a cake slicer with which she carefully sliced a piece of the pudding, making sure not to move the bullet. “Perfect!” she crowed.
One after the other, they each tried, although Maisie shook her head, refusing to take her turn. She tugged Roland’s arm. “You do it,” she urged.
Roland eyed her. “I think you are setting me up to be laughed at.” But he took the cake slicer and examined the diminished pile of flour.
The bullet was precariously tottering on a very narrow ledge of flour.
Cutting away a slice without toppling the bullet was almost impossible but Roland thought he might just manage it if he sliced only a little of the flour.
The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire as everyone waited for Roland to make his move. Gwendolyn held her breath. She had half-expected the fastidious baron to refuse to play such a childish game, but he entered into the spirit of the day, not wanting to disappoint the children.
Her baby stretched and kicked her. She placed her hand on her stomach, thinking once again that Roland would be a wonderful father, not allowing his children to get away with nonsense but always allowing them space to explore and enjoy themselves.
She shifted half a pace backwards, as if by doing so she could distance herself from the feelings that being near him evoked.
Roland lifted the slicer and placed it where the flour was still holding its shape. The slicer slid into the soft flour. The bullet wobbled. He paused. He pushed the slicer a little deeper. The flour collapsed and the bullet thudded to the bottom of the plate, sending up a spray of white dust.
Peggy clapped her hands gleefully. “It’s time to eat the pudding, Lord Monty!” The other children were laughing, and even the adult Ewbanks were struggling to hold back their laughter.
Gwendolyn was puzzled but Roland seemed to know what was expected. He pushed the cuffs of his coat up and brought the plate closer to him. The bullet was now buried under a heap flour and it was difficult to determine exactly where on the plate it was.
The children were all chanting for him to eat his pudding.
He decided the best place to start was the middle.
He lowered his face and plunged it into the flour, cheered on by the children.
Gwendolyn and Mariana joined in the laughter as he shuffled his face in the flour and after a few moments sat up, the bullet between his teeth and his face covered in white powder.
He dropped the bullet into his hand and blew out lightly, but spluttered as some of the flour rose into his nose.
Mrs. Ewbanks handed him a large linen serviette and he wiped it over his face, brushing away as much flour as he could.
He dusted his coat sleeves, but the flour had settled into the velvet and would not budge.
It would take a hard brushing with a good clothes brush to get rid of it all.
“Thank you for being such a sport, my lord. There’s not many nobs who would let the children do that to them,” Farmer Ewbanks said.
The children began a game of hunt the slipper and Roland pulled up a chair next to the sofa where Gwendolyn was sitting, her feet resting on a low footstool. She hid her mouth behind her hand as a giggle rose to her lips.
He raised an eyebrow but his mouth twitched. “Is there something amusing in my appearance, Miss Burroughs?”
Gwendolyn’s giggles gurgled behind her hand. Unable to speak, she nodded and waved at his face.
“You object to my face, do you?”
Gwendolyn managed to control her laughter. “There are streaks of flour on your forehead and cheek.”
He grinned. “I didn’t do a good job of cleaning myself.” He whipped out a handkerchief and unfolded it. Without thinking, Gwendolyn took it from him and leaned forward, rubbing it over his face until all the flour had been removed.
Roland sat still as she worked, his eyes fixed on her face as he tried not to let her firm but gentle touch heat his blood to fever pitch.
The sounds of the children laughing and calling out hot and cold faded into the distance and all Gwendolyn was aware of was the rapid beat of her heart, the steady breathing of Roland and the feeling of her hand on his face.
She pulled her hand away and fumbled as she tried to fold the handkerchief. He placed his hand over hers and she stilled. “There’s no need for that, little one.” But he didn’t take the handkerchief from her. Having his hand over hers felt too good, too satisfying.
Only when Will yelled, “Here it is!” and held up the old slipper that no longer fitted Maisie’s growing foot, did Roland let go of Gwendolyn’s hand and take his handkerchief from her. She swallowed and dropped her head, reluctant to let him see the adoration in her eyes.
The large grandfather clock on the landing ponderously chimed ten times. Roland lifted his fob watch and listened to its peel. “It is later than I thought. I should be getting home.”
“Not before you’ve had a hot cup of soup and some mulled wine, my lord,” Mrs. Ewbanks protested. “And while you warm yourself with a hot brew, we will sing a song or two.”
Jim opened the spinnet and Gracie sat down, running her fingers over the keys. Farmer Ewbanks, surprisingly, took a fiddle out of its case and ran the bow delicately over the strings, drawing sweet music from it.
Mrs. Ewbanks brought in a tray of hot drinks and they gathered around the spinnet to sing the old carol, God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen.
When they began the refrain of tidings of comfort and joy, Gwendolyn raised her voice in a sweet soprano and Roland’s strong tenor harmonized perfectly with her.
Later, when the house was silent and the children all asleep, Gwendolyn lay awake, trying to find a comfortable position. Her thoughts played over the events of the day, jumbling them into confusion.
Roland Montgomery was so very different from what she had first thought, and at times she was persuaded that he liked her, that he could even love her.
But as she finally began to drop off to sleep, her last memory was of how he had ignored her after that very intimate moment when he had fed her some of his trifle.