An Uncommon Christmas Read online

  Faringil relaxed on such reassurances. “Very good, then. If you will be so kind as to wait for an hour or so while the maids make up the room and light a fire. And I will have to reassure the rest of the staff that the woman isn’t infectious.”

  Justinian glared at him, and Faringil quailed. “If none of the many footmen I’ve seen wandering about this place is brave enough to rescue an ill woman, I will carry Miss Brigid to the family wing myself.”

  Faringil gasped. “My lord, no!”

  “Mr. Faringil, yes,” Justinian assured him. “And unless you’d like to see me fetch coal and fluff bed linens as well, you will have a footman and chamber maid meet me in the room. I expect it to be ready by the time I arrive, which will be in precisely five minutes if I am not mistaken. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, my lord. Completely clear.” Faringil hurried down the corridor to comply.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Dr. Praxton said. “I couldn’t seem to get through to him. I know the Darby household has always been large on protocol, but if you really wouldn’t mind…”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Justinian told him. He took a deep breath of the fresh air in the corridor and plunged into the room. Keeping away from the puddles and piles that edged the wall of the little room, he made his way to Miss Eleanor’s bed and bent near her. She was huddled under the covers, with only the top of her hair showing. Gingerly, he pulled back the bed clothes. Her face was red and blotchy; her breath came in sharp wheezing gasps. Alarmed, he bent closer. Once again he felt as if time had slipped backward, to a day when love had seemed possible. It couldn’t be!

  *

  Eleanor had woken on the narrow bed in the small room, eyes closed against a pounding headache. The last thing she remembered was feeding Jingles the remains of the dinner she had had little interest in eating, changing hurriedly into her pink flannel nightgown in the chilly room, and burrowing beneath the counterpane with the kitten beside her. Just before falling asleep, she had thought of Justinian again, remembering his appreciative smiles years ago when she had answered a question he could not. Their minds had seemed so attuned then. That was obviously no longer the case. He hadn’t even recognized her.

  She had started to regret that she’d agreed to stay then promptly scolded herself for her lack of humility. She was considerably warmer and more comfortable than if she’d had to sleep in a barn, and the little room was no smaller than the one she’d lived in all her life at Barnsley. She had fallen asleep telling herself to remember her place.

  Waking up, however, was proving far more difficult. Instead of getting better, she felt much worse. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut, and her tongue was thick in her dry mouth. Twice now she had felt as if someone was watching her, but both times she had found herself alone when she had managed to raise her head. Now she felt the same sensation and tried once more to look. Her body seemed willing enough, but her chest felt as if there were an anvil on it.

  Glancing down, she met Jingle’s gaze. The kitten yawned, showing sharp white teeth, and stretched, kneading the counterpane over her chest with its tiny claws. He minced toward her, and she began to sneeze. After the eighth time, she managed to bring herself under control. The kitten was nowhere to be found. But her chest still felt constricted.

  “You see the problem, Lord Wenworth,” someone said in the distance. “It’s small wonder the woman is ill.”

  Lord Wenworth? Her heart plummeted at the very thought of Justinian seeing her like this. She had some pride, after all. She turned on her side and drew the bed covers over her head, hoping they would all go away and leave her alone.

  But her hopes were doomed. Someone tugged at the counterpane, and she forced open her eyes. Justinian’s face swam into focus before her. “Oh, no,” she moaned. Her voice came out more like the croak of a frog. She struggled to rise again, anything to escape his concerned gaze, and he slid one arm under her shoulders and another under her thighs.

  “Good morning, Miss Brigid,” he said. “You seem to have grown worse because of our hospitality. I’m trying to rectify that. Dr. Praxton is here. He’s a physician.”

  She should have been alarmed to find that they all thought her so ill that she needed a physician. But Justinian’s voice was as warm and as comforting as rose hip tea with honey. “I know Dr. Praxton,” she replied. “He’s visited the school.” The words sounded a little clearer now that she was partially upright. His reassuring smile told her he had understood her.

  “Excellent. I’m just going to move you to another room where you’ll be more comfortable. You won’t mind if I pick you up?”

  Mind? Her head spun at the very thought, and she was certain it wasn’t her mysterious illness. She felt his muscles tense under her, and then she was rising. A moment more and she was up against his chest. Her face flushed with heat, but she didn’t think she had a fever. How many nights had she dreamed of what it would be like to be held in his arms? Between them lay nothing but the sleeve of his coat and the worn flannel of her nightgown. If she wasn’t already too ill to walk, she would have gone weak at the knees.

  *

  Justinian wondered that he didn’t flush under her steady regard. Two bright spots of pink stood out on her high cheekbones, and the color was rapidly spreading down her long, elegant neck below the collar of her nightgown. Why did he persist in seeing his Norrie? He kept a reassuring smile on his face as he maneuvered his way out of the room. When they reached the narrow stairs, however, and he had to hitch her closer to start down, her chest brushed his and he was suddenly aware of how tightly he held her. Only one woman had ever made him feel so self-conscious. He stumbled and caught himself immediately.

  “Narrow stairway,” he mumbled in excuse. He shot a quick glance at her face again. It had to be her. Ten years and the illness could not completely erase the girl he had known. As red-rimmed as her eyes were, he would know that blue anywhere, so deep it was nearly violet. He still dreamed of those eyes, and the smile that lit them when he had the courage to flirt with her. But if it was really Norrie Pritchett he held, why was she pretending to be someone else? The possibilities troubled him. He was quite glad when they reached the main corridor on the second floor and a maid guided him to a room not far from his mother’s.

  The fire was just starting to glow in the grate as he lay Norrie on the clean flannel sheets. She trembled as he pulled away, as if suddenly chilled. A maid hurried forward to tuck her under the bed covers. Justinian drew back.

  “Thank you,” she said, voice growing stronger with each use.

  Dr. Praxton clapped Justinian on the shoulder. “And I thank you too, my lord. I’ll let you know my diagnosis before I go.”

  Dismissed, Justinian nodded and wandered from the room. He should confront her, demand an explanation. He’d certainly wanted one ten years ago.

  “She can’t have just returned to the school,” Justinian remembered protesting. “We had an understanding.”

  His father had put a hand on his shoulder. “My dear boy, one cannot form an understanding with someone like Miss Pritchett. She most likely won’t remember you beyond tomorrow.”

  Justinian had shrugged off the touch. “I don’t believe you.” Even in his memory the words sounded like those of a petulant four-year-old denied his favorite candy. “She has more character than that.”

  “Justinian,” his father had said with a sigh, “you have been among your books too long. A young lady bills and coos with every young man who comes along. I daresay she ran off when she realized you were taking her far too seriously. You’ve worn your heart on your sleeve; even your mother has remarked on it. The poor girl was likely frightened out of her wits by your obsessive devotions.”

  He had recoiled, stung. He had never had the courage to do more than press her hand fervently and recite the most passionate of love poems. Surely this would not have been enough to scare his brave Norrie. Yet at times her blue-violet eyes had been troubled when she’d looked at him, an
d his words had fired her cheek in a blush.

  “If what you say is true,” he had mused aloud, “then I have done her a disservice. I should at least apologize.”

  “You will only embarrass the girl further,” his father had assured him. “You are young, Justinian. Your heart will mend. Return to university. That is far more important than this momentary infatuation with Miss Pritchett.”

  Remembering now, he closed his eyes and shook his head. He’d been young all right, far too young to realize what a mistake he was making. He had graduated, then gone on to additional studies, then teaching. One month had piled onto the next and before he knew it, ten years had passed. Looking back, he knew them for the empty years they had been.

  But had anything changed? Would she be any more receptive to his suit today? Ill as she was, now was obviously not the time to ask. He should return to his papers, but the idea was even more depressing than it had been. Even his precious novel didn’t suit him. Instead, he found himself at his mother’s door.

  The countess looked up as he entered. Small and fine-boned, she made him feel like a gawking giant of late. She lay down the book she had been reading and smiled at him, patting the satin covers beside her. “Justinian, how delightful. Have a seat and tell me how you go on.”

  He bent and kissed her cheek but found himself too restless to sit. “Good morning, Mother. I’m doing well. How are you?”

  She frowned at him. “My liver is peevish, and I have indigestion. It isn’t like you to discuss banalities. What’s wrong?”

  He smiled at her. “You read me too well.” Yet he could hardly confide his suspicions about their guest. It would only trouble his mother. He resorted instead to something that might be of more interest to her. “Dottie has adopted a kitten, which the school sent home to us. Unfortunately, the messenger who brought it appears to have come down ill.”

  “Poor man,” his mother murmured. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “I hope so as well. But it isn’t a gentleman. It’s one of the teachers.” He could not bring himself to name her.

  “Not Dottie’s Miss Eleanor?” his mother asked hopefully. “I have so wanted to meet her after your stories of your visits with Dottie.”

  Justinian paused beside his mother. “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly, “the very same. But meeting her is out of the question until we know that she is well. All I need is for you to come down ill too.”

  His mother cocked her head. “You’re taking on too much again, Justinian. No one has asked you to single-handedly save England, you know.”

  “No, just an estate that covers a considerable portion as well as the livelihood of everyone who dwells on it. And now a small black kitten too.”

  “A kitten is hardly a chore, my love,” her mother said with a smile, gaze thoughtful. “All a kitten needs to be happy is a place by the fire. And perhaps a nice ball of string. Ask my Mary for one if you’d like. And bring her to meet me when you can.”

  He didn’t have to ask to know she wasn’t referring to her abigail. Perhaps introducing Miss Eleanor might be a solution after all. His mother studied people as he studied literature. If she confirmed that the woman really was Norrie Pritchett, then he might have the courage to question their guest. If not, it was one less thing he would have to trouble himself about.

  He offered her a smile. “Very well, Mother. When the redoubtable Miss Eleanor is better, you will get a chance to meet her.” And the sooner the better for all concerned.

  Chapter Four

  Justinian waited until the following morning to inquire after his guest. The day was the longest of his life. Dr. Praxton has assured him that Miss Eleanor had inflamed mucous membranes that were making breathing difficult; however, he felt it was neither croup nor pleurisy. He prescribed cold compresses on the face and chest and laudanum to help her sleep. Mary, his mother’s abigail, had been pressed into service. Faringil had reported before retiring that Miss Eleanor appeared to be sleeping easier. And Justinian made sure that the kitten was properly cared for before it went to sleep in a basket in the corner of their guest’s room.

  Very likely a better host would take a greater part in all these matters, but he couldn’t bring himself to interfere again unless absolutely necessary. He told himself it was because of the papers piling higher every day on the great mahogany desk, but he suspected there was another reason. Holding her in his arms, even sick as she was, had made him painfully aware that he was celibate. He hadn’t looked for female companionship at Oxford. But then, he had never forgotten Norrie.

  Now that he was the title holder, it was his duty to marry and continue the line. He would have to choose a woman of impeccable breeding and understanding, such as Dottie’s mother had been. She would have to know how to manage a great house, how to deal with a strong-willed dowager like his mother, and how to host parties for everyone from the tenants to the family to members of Parliament. She would also need to know how to raise children, Dottie and their own. She would surely be one of England’s finest. Nothing less would do for a Darby. However, no matter how hard he tried, whenever he thought of the woman he’d marry, she looked exactly like Norrie Pritchett.

  She had come from the school to help him study when he had been sent home mid-term his second year at Oxford with a bad case of pleurisy. Fearful of losing his position as one of the top scholars, he had been only too glad for someone to quiz him on various subjects. Unfortunately, the first woman who had been sent from the Barnsley School had found his course of study incomprehensible. The second was so awed to be in the Great House that she barely spoke above a whisper and jumped every time he questioned her.

  “For all the donations we supply that school,” his father had grumbled, “the least they could do is send someone with brains and backbone.”

  “You haven’t given them sufficient motivation in this case, my dear,” his mother had countered. “You must give them incentive to send their best, not just those who would improve their social standing. Give all the older students a test, with the most difficult questions Justinian can contrive. Whoever scores the highest shall spend each summer day at Wenworth Place.”

  “Excellent idea!” his father had proclaimed. Justinian had dashed off one hundred or so fairly challenging questions covering literature, history, science, and the arts, and his father had presided over the test himself.

  The winner, an apprentice teacher named Norrie, had arrived on their doorstep of Wenworth Place two days later. Her gaze at the ivy-hung walls of the Great House was no less awed than her predecessor’s, but she soon proved herself an able scholar. In fact, he found himself impressed that she had learned so much with no more training beyond the Barnsley School for Young Ladies.

  “And what do you think young ladies learn?” she had replied when he voiced this thought aloud. “We may not be privileged to attend Eton or Harrow, but we are perfectly capable of learning any subject a boy can learn. Besides, what else have I to do but read and learn? Sometimes I think it is a blessing that the nights are so long, and I have nothing better to do than read.”

  “It is a blessing,” he remembered agreeing with envy, for then the only thing in life that seemed to matter was his studies. “You aren’t expected to entertain hunting guests or dash off to London to attend someone’s debut.”

  “We all have our crosses to bear, Mr. Darby,” she had replied with a twinkle in her expressive eyes. “I expect yours was to have been born wealthy. Only think how lucky you were to have been born the second son. If you had been born the eldest you’d have to spend all your time having fun.”

  He had laughed with her then, though the words haunted him now. The duty pressed upon him was anything but enjoyable.

  By mid-day, he knew he had to learn the truth about the woman upstairs or go mad. Mary answered his cautious tap. He entered to find the school teacher sitting up against the elaborately carved headboard, quilt drawn up to her chest, teasing the kitten with a piece of red ribbon. Throat sudd
enly dry, he ventured closer.

  “Good day, Miss Brigid,” he said.

  “Good day, Lord Wenworth,” she replied, head bowed as if she studied the kitten.

  Now that the illness had passed, her voice was gentle and rather melodious, he noted, deeper than he remembered Norrie’s being. He peered closer. Even with her head bowed, he could see that the swelling and redness were gone from around her eyes and nose as well. In fact, her skin glowed with health restored. He seated himself on the chair Mary had recently vacated beside the bed and cocked his head, trying to meet her gaze.

  “You look much better this morning,” he remarked, hoping to encourage her to raise her eyes. He realized as soon as he said it that it was rather tactless. His mother would have rapped his knuckles for such a statement, and Helena would have stared at him through the lens of her quizzing glass until he dropped his gaze. Why was it he never could be the man he wanted in front of Norrie?

  *

  Eleanor sank lower until the covers were under her armpits and her head nearly rested on her chest. If only enough of the illness remained that he wouldn’t recognize her. If only she could have avoided another meeting. He had, after all, repeatedly claimed to be needed on urgent matters. An ill school teacher hardly ranked high enough to distract a Darby. Another day might give her the strength to walk to Wenwood, where she hoped to find someone who might be going on to Wells. If only he would leave her alone until then!

  Jingles must have caught Justinian’s movement, for he leapt to his feet and stalked across the coverlet to investigate. Eleanor quickly dangled the ribbon in front of him to keep him from jumping onto the earl’s lap. She cast a look of appeal at the silver-haired abigail, but little round Mary had busied herself at the wash basin and didn’t seem to notice her.