An Uncommon Christmas Read online

  His niece Dorothea seemed unsettled in the Barnsley School, although he understood from his mother that the girl had been happy there before her parents died. The seven times he had visited over the last three months, he had noted only minor improvements, all of which could be attributed to the child’s fondness for her literature teacher. The headmistress had been adamant that it was inappropriate for him to thank Dottie’s “Miss Eleanor,” as the woman was only doing her job. However, even with her thoughtful efforts, Dottie still appeared tired and depressed to him. She had never spent much time with her parents, yet she seemed to be missing them more than he did.

  Upstairs, his mother was nearly an invalid and relied on him for all companionship. He had attempted to convince her to hire someone, but she told him in no uncertain terms that she vastly preferred the company of family to that of strangers, however kind or well trained. Dr. Praxton, the local physician, assured him she was healthy enough to rise from the bed if she chose, yet she declined, and nothing Justinian had said or done since becoming earl had persuaded her otherwise.

  From the few reports he had uncovered in the little-used library, the estate was also in dire straits. The levees on the River Wen, which flowed along the southern boundary, were crumbling. Unless he devised a plan to shore them up, his crops would be ruined and all his tenants would be flooded from their homes next spring. Of course, that might be a blessing, as these latest reports showed that the houses were in ill repair and barely habitable. His logic told him there was simply too many tasks for one man. A smaller part of him urged him to flee for the halls of Oxford and never look back.

  Someone moved silently into his peripheral vision. He did not have to look up to guess it was Faringil, his butler. He stifled another sigh, trying once again to find an ounce of patience for the man. Faringil had the dignity and bearing of the butler to a great earldom. His thick hair, now a snowy white, was always pomaded in place. His posture was erect, his gaze serene. When he looked down his bent nose and set his thin lips together, the other servants scurried to do his bidding.

  However, Justinian had only recently noticed how utterly deferential the man could be. Faringil entered a room as if he tiptoed toward a death bed, gliding to a spot just to one corner of his master and waiting patiently to be noticed. He paused respectfully before speaking and waited to be granted permission to continue. Both habits only served to further Justinian’s frustrations.

  “Yes?” Justinian dutifully asked.

  “Sorry to disturb you, my lord.”

  Justinian waited. The butler waited as well. Justinian grit his teeth and took a deep breath. “What is it, Faringil?”

  “There is a woman at the door,” the butler replied calmly. “She claims to be from the Barnsley School.”

  A sense of foreboding struck Justinian, and he rose, dreading his butler’s next words. “Has something happened to Dottie?”

  “I do not believe so, my lord,” Faringil replied with measured calm, and Justinian felt himself relax. The butler’s next statement only served to make him tense again. “However, the woman appears to be ill and isn’t very coherent.”

  If it were merely another request for donations, he would have had Faringil refer the woman to his steward. However, if Faringil wasn’t certain the woman wasn’t here about Dottie, he should probably handle the matter himself. “I’ll see her, then. Is she in the sitting room?”

  Faringil wrinkled his nose, making him look a bit like a rabbit. “Certainly not, my lord. I would not bring an ill person into the house, not with her ladyship’s delicate constitution.”

  “My mother is safely in her room, a story above us,” Justinian replied. “Somehow I doubt any infection could pass through the floor to reach her.”

  “Yes, my lord, of course,” Faringil said, but Justinian knew the butler was placating him. Annoyed more than he should be, he allowed the man to lead him back through the corridors to the kitchen, where the woman waited.

  *

  Eleanor huddled miserably on the oak bench that stood in the many-windowed breezeway between the back coaching yard and the kitchen. For the fourth time since setting out from the Barnsley School she wondered what had possessed her to agree to take the kitten this far. True, it was only five miles across the fields from the school to the house’s rear door, but she somehow hadn’t reckoned on the rain. She also hadn’t reckoned on the sodden state of the fields or the fact that she had to walk the whole way with all her possessions in a carpet bag Miss Lurkin had been persuaded to part with and carrying a black kitten who only wanted to escape. He had slipped through her grip twice, forcing her to drop the bag and prevent him from conquering the muddy grain. As a result, she was soaked, filthy, and thoroughly tired.

  Mr. Faringil had not recognized her, which she supposed was something for which to be grateful. Unfortunately, the man had also been unable to comprehend what she was asking and had gone off to seek assistance. To make matters worse, she seemed to have developed a sudden case of the sniffles.

  Jingles poked his head out of her cloak, where she had put him for safe-keeping, and rubbed his wet head against her chin. She sneezed six times in rapid succession. For once, she succeeded in startling the little tyrant, sending the kitten cowering back under her cloak. Unfortunately, the sneezes did her no more good, leaving her feeling bleary eyed and exhausted.

  Something moved in her peripheral vision, and she grabbed her bosom to make sure Jingles hadn’t gotten farther than her waist. She was certain kitten claws could do no damage to the flagstone floor at her feet, but she wasn’t going to take any chances that Lord Wenworth might take the kitten in dislike. She felt the comforting wiggle in her lap and patted him through her sodden cloak.

  Someone cleared a throat. Looking up, she saw that Mr. Faringil had returned with a tall gentleman. Even though her eyes refused to focus, her heart told her who it was. Clutching the kitten to her, she rose and dropped an unsteady curtsey. Her only hope was that he might not recognize her any more than the butler had.

  Still, she could not resist a quick glance up at him, blinking her eyes to focus them. She had always thought Justinian Darby handsome. Ten years had hardened the youthful face into clean lines of maturity. But the heroic aspects that had attracted her in the first place were still there. He had shared her love of literature, and she remembered thinking that he embodied so many of the traits common to the heroes of old. His hair was as tawny and thick as Lancelot’s must have been. His brow was as wide and as thoughtful as King Arthur’s, and his eyes were a grey as deep and sharp as those she would imagine belonged to Merlin. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and his legs long enough to resemble any god in the Greek pantheon. At the moment, all of him was clothed in the immaculate black of mourning.

  “Lord Wenworth,” she said breathlessly and had the misfortune to start sneezing again, seven times in a row.

  When she sniffed her way to silence once again, she found the butler staring at her in alarm and Justinian frowning. Whether it was concern or annoyance, she couldn’t tell. She had a sinking feeling she would not survive this encounter.

  *

  Justinian stared at the apparition before him. From the light brown hair escaping her limp straw bonnet to the hem of her serviceable brown cloak, she was dripping wet. Her half boots and the bottom quarter of the cloak were caked with mud and leaves, and dead grass flecked her slender figure to her waist. Although she kept her head bowed as she rose from her curtsey, he could hear her sniffing and had no doubt that her eyes would be as red as the pert nose he had glimpsed.

  Yet, despite her dishevel, he was certain he recognized her. It did not seem possible, for the young lady he had known ten years ago would surely have married and left the school by now. In fact, he had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he would never see her again. He tried once more to get a better look at her, but she proved adept at avoiding his gaze.

  “Faringil,” he said, “will you introduce the youn
g lady?”

  Faringil shook himself and collected his bearing. “Of course, my lord. Justinian, ninth Earl of Wenworth, may I present Miss Aledor Brigid.”

  Not the most congenial name. Perhaps that was why Miss Brigid winced. Yet he thought perhaps her sniffles had masked her true name. He offered her a bow that only made her tense.

  “Miss Brigid,” he said, “an honor to make your acquaintance. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Miss Eleanor, isn’t it? You are my niece’s literature teacher.”

  She nodded, yet something moved across her face. Disappointment? Why? He should be the one disappointed that she wasn’t his Norrie after all. The last thing he needed right now was a romantic entanglement.

  “I’ve heard a great deal about you from my niece.” He smiled politely. “What can I do for the school today?”

  In answer, she pulled a squirming bundle of black fur from her cloak. Faringil recoiled as if she had waved a bludgeon. She opened her mouth as if to offer an explanation, and sneezes exploded out of her. The rapid succession doubled her, and the kitten began to slip from her grip. Justinian reached out to catch the creature. The black ball of matted fur crouched in his open hands, hissing in annoyance.

  “It’s a kitten,” she offered.

  The kitten returned Justinian’s stare with unblinking yellow eyes. He stopped hissing and cocked his head. Justinian had the strange sensation that his soul was being examined and felt an absurd surge of relief when the kitten nodded approval.

  He thought he heard her sigh. “He likes you,” she noted. “I’m so glad. Dottie was hoping you might be willing to keep him for her. There is a policy against pets at the school.”

  The kitten rose with the obvious intention of exploring the palms of Justinian’s hands, and he turned to offer the little animal to Faringil. The butler took a step back, blinking, then seemed to recall his duty. With a sigh, he accepted the kitten, holding it at arm’s length so that its muddy back feet dangled. Th kitten’s ears went back.

  Justinian frowned at his butler before turning to Eleanor. “Of course we’ll keep the kitten for Dottie,” he replied. “Please assure my niece that…” he paused with upraised brow.

  “Jingles,” she offered helpfully.

  “Jingles will be well taken care of and waiting for her when she comes home at the end of the month for Christmas.”

  Her smile froze. “Thank you. But perhaps you could tell her yourself? I know she would love to see you.”

  Justinian grit his teeth to keep from offering a sharp rejoinder. It wasn’t as if he was neglecting his niece. This woman clearly had no idea of the work he was forced to do. It wasn’t as if he had time to visit even once a week. The kitten hissing in Faringil’s grip suddenly seemed like one more burden.

  “Christmas will be here soon enough, Miss Brigid,” he replied. “Now, if you’re quite finished, I must see to other matters.”

  She hurriedly dropped another curtsey as he turned away. But Justinian paused, catching sight of a bedraggled carpet bag sitting in a puddle of water near the door. Had the woman walked all this way with the kitten in the bag? “Faringil?”

  “My lord?” This time the butler’s step forward was quick enough even though he had to juggle the kitten in his grip.

  “Have the carriage brought around to return Miss Brigid to the school.”

  She started. “That won’t be necessary,” she said hurriedly. “I’m not going back to the school. I’m…I’m returning home…to York…on holiday. Yes, for Christmas.”

  He glanced out the multipane windows, noting how the day was rapidly darkening. “It is late. You’ll never make Wenwood before nightfall. Faringil?”

  “My lord?” The answer was not quite so swift. The butler had made the mistake of pulling the kitten closer and was now engaged in a battle over the possession of the top button of his waistcoat. The kitten’s claws were firmly imbedded in the patterned satin on either side of the gleaming metal button, and his tiny teeth nipped at the Darby crest. What a determined little creature.

  Justinian frowned at the display, although he was terribly tempted to laugh. “Have a room made up for Miss Brigid.”

  “My lord, I wouldn’t dream of imposing,” she protested.

  “Nor would I dream of turning a lady out into a winter’s night,” Justinian countered. By the way she shuffled her feet and shot a gaze out the window, she had no desire to stay, and he thought he suspected the reason. “Have no fear for your reputation. My mother lives here as well. Besides, I will not be able to entertain you. I have pressing matters I must attend to. If I do not see you again, have a pleasant journey tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Justinian bowed and turned from her curtsey. However, grateful Miss Brigid might be, the fact of the matter was that she had handed him another problem, at least for the night. And he felt another premonition that she would be far more difficult to deal with than an aristocratic young kitten named Jingles.

  Chapter Three

  Morning would prove Justinian correct. He hadn’t even started on the ridiculous pile of papers when Faringil slipped into the room to stand rigidly behind him. It seemed that Miss Brigid was more ill than anyone had suspected, and Faringil was clearly concerned that she had brought some dire disease upon them that would decimate the entire area. Justinian had dispatched a footman for Dr. Praxton, who arrived in due course.

  Justinian considered going up to see the woman himself, but thought she somehow wouldn’t appreciate a visit by the lord of the manor if she wasn’t feeling well. It was a rather cowardly excuse, but he kept thinking that if he could just get through a third of the papers that morning, he might be able to sneak away that afternoon and write. Jareth had sent him one of the recently published novels from London, which made him itch to try his hand at something as fine. Not that he’d ever go so far as to admit to anyone but his scapegrace youngest brother that he was writing a novel in the manner of Walter Scott. A Darby didn’t parade anything so common as artistic abilities in public. No, he crafted his stories in the library’s quiet, assuring himself that the work had literary merit. Hoping to finish soon enough to write, he plunged into the report on the state of the levees.

  Unfortunately, after only three pages, the hairs on the back of his neck rose, warning him that he was not alone.

  “Yes?” Justinian clipped, hoping the tone of his voice would let Faringil know that the interruption was unwanted.

  “Pardon me, my lord.”

  “What is it?” Justinian demanded.

  “Dr. Praxton would like to speak with you.”

  “Then send him in,” Justinian replied. He lowered his eyes, scanning the page to find where he left off. Faringil did not move. “Well?” Justinian snapped.

  “He’s with Miss Brigid, my lord. He would like you to come there.”

  Justinian rolled his eyes but rose to follow the man from the room.

  He was not a little chagrined to find that Faringil had placed the kindly school teacher in the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. Dr. Praxton stood waiting for him before the door. The doctor was a small, slender man, with an unruly shock of thick grey hair he never seemed troubled to comb. His eyes were close set and nearly black. Justinian had heard that some of the local women thought him shifty-eyed, considered him to resemble a rat. He had always found the man professional in his dealings and intelligent in his conversation. Now Dr. Praxton nodded in greeting.

  “Sorry to disturb you, my lord,” he said in explanation, reaching for the door handle. “I thought you would want to see this.”

  Justinian felt another premonition of dread. He shook his head. He had to get over these feelings that everything was going to turn out badly. Miss Brigid hardly seemed the type to have brought a gallon of port with her in her carpet bag, although her lying inebriated certainly would have been enough for the servants to suspect she was deathly ill and for Dr. Praxton to want his attention.

  “What is th
e difficulty?” he asked, hoping to be prepared for whatever lay beyond the door.

  “Hold your nose, please,” the man replied, “and I’ll show you.”

  Justinian frowned at him. “Hold my nose?”

  Faringil obligingly shook out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and handed it to Justinian. “Your nose, my lord.”

  Justinian accepted the white lawn square and held it against his nostrils. Doing the same, Dr. Praxton opened the narrow door, and they all peered in.

  Justinian could have sworn the very air in the room swam with the noxious odor that reached him even through the handkerchief. Ammonia, the scholarly part of his brain asserted. Cat piddle, the more practical part of him corrected. What had possessed Faringil to shut the poor woman up with the kitten? It had been more than twenty hours since he had seen Miss Eleanor. If she had been ill and too weak to rise, she could hardly have cared for a cat. Now, thanks to Faringil’s sensitivity, or lack thereof, the woman must be nearly dead.

  Justinian fought down his frustration. Did none of the estate staff have a brain? Must he do everything? However much he had adored school, he had always wondered why his father had sent him away so often. Now he knew—with such a staff, the poor man could hardly have slept, let alone spent time with a child!

  “Faringil,” he snapped, and didn’t wait for the man to answer. “Fetch a footman and have him carry Miss Brigid to the family wing.”

  Faringil turned as white as his hair. “But, my lord, the disease! The countess!”

  “There isn’t a thing wrong with the woman that a clean room and good food won’t fix,” Dr. Praxton put in.