Chapter 11

11

Mariah led Cyril into the carpenters’ shop, still laughing over the jokes he’d been exchanging with a couple of the school-aged boys who were freshly on holiday and hence out in the streets, chasing mischief about. The soothing scent of wood shavings greeted her, as did the familiar voices of Joe Green and Jack Smith.

“Lady Mariah! Happy Christmas.”

“Well now, to what do we owe this considerable honor?”

“And if it isn’t the young Mr. Lightbourne too!”

Mariah’s grin shifted to a quirked brow at that last part. “Have you met?”

“Unofficially,” Cyril said from behind her. “Kellie and I had the honor of helping right an overturned cart of Christmas greenery on our way to the manor. How do you do today, gents?”

“Oh, fine, fine,” Mr. Green said. “Finished the last of our commissions for Christmas yesterday, so mostly just whiling away the time before we close up the shop tomorrow.”

“Oh good. You’re available, then.” Mariah stepped past the desk where customers sat to discuss their needs and into the workshop, catching a glimpse of what she was hoping would have been stored there—the Almond Gate that they’d crafted and painted with far more care than she’d expected. And the rest of the stage sets were there too, making her clap her hands together in delight. She’d been half-afraid they would have been taken apart already. “I was hoping to put your magnificent props to use again.”

Mr. Smith and Mr. Green had both trailed her the few steps into the workshop, and Mr. Smith now patted one of the gates but kept his gaze on her. “Another play? So soon?”

“Part encore,” Cyril supplied with a grin from his place in the threshold to the shop. “Part embellishment.”

Mariah laid out her plan—how she wanted to give the children the chance to put on their play at the manor, not only for her parents but for the visiting Danish lord, and how she hoped it would brighten the holiday for everyone, especially if they lured the audience into participating. “Do you think your children will be game? I even found someone to coach them in the battle scenes that gave us such trouble before.”

Both the men chuckled. “A chance to put on the show again, better even than before?” Mr. Green gave her a what-do-you-think look. “Try and keep them away. Mine are still talking about it every moment and bemoaning that his lordship and her ladyship missed it.”

“Ours too,” Mr. Smith agreed. “They’ll clamor at the chance, I know it. Though you can ask them yourselves if you stick about for a few minutes, I daresay.”

“Oh good.” Mariah gave them each a grin. “We’ve spoken to a few of the other families on our way into the village, and the vicar was agreeable when we stopped in to see if he was available to be our narrator again, given that the performance would be Christmas Eve afternoon.”

Mr. Green nodded toward Cyril—or perhaps to the front door behind him. “There comes Suzanna now, and the children with her.”

Suzanna Smith—sister of Mr. Green and wife of Mr. Smith—entered the shop with a flurry of wind-blown snow, her three rosy-cheeked children skipping in with obvious joy at being released from their lessons for Christmas. Mariah had always thought Suzanna one of the loveliest women she’d ever seen. Tall and willowy, her face as exquisite as Louise’s—and her disposition a good deal more prone to fun. She was one of those women who was even more beautiful now, in her mid-thirties, than she had been at twenty, when Mariah first met her.

If only life treated all of them so well.

Mariah greeted Suzanna and the children heartily, listened to the younger ones chatter about their grand Christmas plans, and let them try to ply information from her on what Professor Skylark had up his sleeve this year—making a show of buttoning her lips at that one. And when they met her silence with exaggerated groans, she laughed and leaned forward.

“You know I can’t tell you that—but I do have a favor to ask, which I hope will be a special treat for you as well.” Seeing the way their eyes lit up at the thought of a conspiracy, she grinned. “Mr. Lightbourne and I have decided that we should put on our play again, but at the manor this time—and not just on a stage, but over the grounds. What say you?”

The children were an immediate cacophony of enthusiastic agreement, scarcely standing still for details before dashing out to secure the cooperation of their friends.

Suzanna chuckled as they left. “I predict your entire cast will be gathered for another rehearsal within a quarter hour.”

“Do you think they’ll be able to come for an official one this afternoon?” Cyril had tucked himself out of the way but eased forward a step now. “Lady Mariah mentioned that the sword-fighting scene could use a bit more choreography, and I’ve drafted my valet to act as instructor.”

“I daresay the mums and das will be glad to have the little ones out from underfoot for an hour or two.” Mr. Green grinned. “And I wouldn’t mind coming along to observe. Call me a chaperone. Or a helper. Whatever you need.”

Suzanna frowned, the look more one of question than un certainty. “You mentioned the performance spanning the estate. Would you like some of the parents to come along to shepherd the children and keep them in their proper places? I know you handled them backstage last week so we could enjoy the performance, but even you can’t be everywhere at once, my lady.”

She hadn’t given that any thought, but Suzanna had a point. She nodded slowly, the idea forming and bringing a new smile to her lips. “That would be helpful indeed, since you’ve seen it already. Although ... I think it’ll be more effective if you’re in costume too.”

The woman’s brows lifted. “Us? But—”

“I have a number of gowns I’ve found in the attic that should work splendidly. I found them when I was searching for items we could use for the play, but they were too big for the children. They’ll be perfect for you and Jane and Martha, though, especially if I can talk Mrs. Roy into making a few last-minute adjustments.”

Suzanna looked caught halfway between excitement and doubt. “But the gowns in your attic will be from previous countesses. It doesn’t seem quite likely that anything would suit us.”

“Nonsense. In fact, I unearthed a beautiful purple gown that should fit you perfectly. You can be a fairy guide.”

Her lips twitched into a smile. “A sugar plum fairy, from the sounds of it.”

“Exactly so.” A laugh bubbled up. This would be even better than the original play. If parents volunteered to help direct the children, then it meant most of the village would be involved. What better to remind her parents of how beloved they were? “I’ll pay a visit to Mrs. Roy straightaway and will send the gowns to you as soon as I get back to the manor. Could I put you in charge of the other mothers and their costuming?”

“Of course. We were planning to have tea together this afternoon anyway.”

“And just tell us when to haul the props up to the manor and where to set it up, and we’ll be there,” Mr. Smith added.

As Mariah and Cyril exited the shop a few minutes later, she couldn’t help but smile. She’d hoped everyone would be eager for another performance, but there had been the possibility that everyone would be too busy tomorrow, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to impose on planned family time.

The streets were now abuzz with children shouting happily over getting to don their costumes and play their parts again, excited all the more when Cyril promised them that Kellie would arrive after tea to train the soldiers on the village green—and that they ought to bring sticks or toy swords with them. The girls were pirouetting as if in their costumes again already, ignoring the talk of mock sword fights. Georgette Green and her friends rushed up to inform her that they were going to add a few decorations to their snow-fairy costumes.

“I can’t wait to see your work,” Mariah pronounced with a tap on each cold-pinked nose. “You were the loveliest snow fairies I have ever seen.”

“Mama made us each snow crowns,” Victoria Nithercott said, presumably for Cyril’s benefit. “From tin foil and white sequins and paper lace doilies.”

Cyril gave a solemn nod, eyes alight. “As every snow fairy should have, clearly. I can’t wait to see it. I was heartbroken to have missed the play, when Lady Mariah told me about it. Did you know I helped her write that original story when we were children?”

Victoria’s eyes went wide. “Did you? You know the real Christmas Wood, then?”

He laughed with delight rather than anything patronizing. “Are you kidding? It’s my very own realm.” He struck a dashing pose. “I’m the original Prince Nutcracker himself, you know.”

That was enough to send the girls into renewed giggles and shouts. “Now you’ve done it,” Mariah said softly as the children darted off to rejoin their friends. “All the little girls will be mooning over you. They decided during our rehearsals that Prince Nutcracker was the noblest, dearest hero ever to be conceived.”

His cheeks went pink.

It made her heart warm to see it. To see him here, interacting with the people who would someday be his tenants. Laughing with the children. Plotting with the parents. Being a part of the village, and loving every moment.

She had never doubted that he’d make Castleton his home—not as he had. She’d always known that when he came back, he would be coming home . She just hadn’t known how it would touch her heart to see how excited he was about their old story-turned-play, or the way everything inside her would go bright and warm as she watched him so quickly find his place.

She hadn’t dared admit to herself in recent months how much she’d wanted to see just this. Him. Here. How much she yearned to see him here for years to come. How much she wanted to stay here, too, for the rest of her days. Not go off to Denmark, or to any other place in England, for that matter.

But Cyril wasn’t a brother or even a close cousin that she could just impose on. He was Papa’s heir, yes, and her friend. But neither of those things was enough to give her a true, long-lasting place at Plumford Manor. Only one thing could do that—something she’d forced herself to write off as an impossibility.

By the time they’d made their visits—though by the end, word had spread and half the village was already gathered again—morning had turned to afternoon and teatime was approaching.

Mariah’s stomach was growling as they neared the little stone-and-brick bridge over the river Esk. Their last visit had taken them to one of the cottages on the far side of the ice-coated river, but they needed to return to the gig in town before they could drive home.

Cyril chuckled, either at the noises rumbling from her abdomen or at the heat that stung her cheeks at such an unladylike announcement of teatime’s approach. “Perhaps we should have accepted one of those offers of luncheon.”

Mariah shook her head. “We had far too many visits that needed made to take the time to eat with any one family.” But now that they’d ticked the last one off their list, contentment seeped into her veins. “A day well spent, I think.”

“Agreed. My only regret is that we didn’t drive out to this last one.” He’d been the one to suggest the longer walk, so she frowned at this pronouncement. She wasn’t so hungry that the extra five minutes to walk and then drive back over the bridge was really any inconvenience. “Seems we have a troll blocking the way.”

At that, she turned to the bridge, not knowing quite how to respond to the vision that met her eyes.

Lord Gyldenkrone stood at the crest of the small arched bridge, holding his horse’s reins with one hand and a telltale baker’s box in his other. He was watching them, waiting for them—and not minding that doing so blocked the narrow bridge.

Not that there was any traffic waiting to get by him. Even so, Mariah picked up her pace. If he’d stationed himself there so that he couldn’t miss their arrival, then he would move and clear the way after he’d said whatever he meant to say, and she didn’t want them to be an inconvenience for anyone who might need the road. Though why he didn’t just wait to find her until they were back at Plumford she couldn’t guess.

Cyril sighed and increased his stride as well. “Usually people don’t run to meet the troll, you know,” he mumbled.

She sent him a chiding, if amused, look. “Do behave yourself, Cyril.”

“Must I?”

Rather than answer, Mariah smiled and closed the distance between them and their Danish guest. “Good afternoon, my lord,” she said once they were near enough. “What brings you to Castleton today?”

“A special errand.” He smiled—actually smiled, in a way that looked not only genuine but ... apologetic? Sheepish?

“It occurs to me—” he darted a glance at Cyril, hesitated, and then looked back to Mariah—“I owe you an apology for the brusque manner in which I broached the subject of my courtship on Sunday. I pray you can forgive me. For so many years now, responsibility has been the byword for my every thought and consideration. I haven’t spared any time for matters of the heart, nor considered how to approach them. Your sister took me to task for that this morning, and she was absolutely right. You need—deserve—to be more than a choice made from logic and responsibility.”

Mariah could only blink, agape, for a long moment. In her shock, she didn’t know where to begin. On second thought, yes she did. “Louise said that?”

Lord Gyldenkrone nodded. “And I am not fool enough to ignore sound wisdom when I hear it, nor too proud to admit when I was wrong. Please, Lady Mariah, can you forgive me for my coldness the other day?”

Cyril shifted beside her, and she could feel the tension radiating from him, just as she could hear the barely whispered “What is he up to?”

Her spine straightened. She couldn’t quite imagine accepting the greve’s proposal and going with him to Denmark in two short weeks, but she wasn’t about to snub a man who was seeking to do the right thing and apologize for his past behavior.

She took a step away from Cyril, toward Gyldenkrone. “I forgive you, my lord. And thank you, besides, for demonstrating such care now for my feelings.”

He ducked his head a bit in a move so boyish that she had to blink to make sure she’d seen correctly. He indicated the box he held, tipping up its lid. “A peace offering? I had the baker make some traditional Danish treats for you—well, for everyone at the manor. But especially with you in mind. I’ve noticed how you love holiday sweets.”

Intrigued, Mariah took yet another step toward him, close enough that she could peer into the box. Her mouth watered at the beautiful golden pastries cut into diamonds, some delicious-looking fruit filling oozing out and icing glazed on top. “Oh, that looks divine. What is it?”

“Kringle. It’s baked in the shape of a wreath, but that seemed difficult to layer in the box with the amount he made, so the baker and I agreed he would go ahead and cut it into portions. Traditionally a cherry filling is used, but we decided to use plum preserves instead. From your own orchards.”

Her eyes went wide with delight, especially when the breeze brought its fragrance to her nose. “It smells amazing.”

“Try a piece. Please. I admit to already tasting one at the bakery. He did an impressive job, especially when one considers that he’d never even heard of kringle until this morning when I gave him a recipe.”

She reached into the box and pulled out a delicate piece of pastry. “You had a recipe?”

He shrugged, looking a bit sheepish again. “I am what my brother calls ‘a fiendish journaler.’ I record everything, including my favorites from a recipe book I gave to my chef last year.”

The admission made Cyril’s frown deepen, but Mariah found it rather endearing. She didn’t know any other gentlemen who bothered to write down recipes for their favorite dishes. She took the first bite of the plum kringle, and her eyes slid closed in joy. “Oh, this is beyond delicious.”

Gyldenkrone held the box out to Cyril. “Would you like one, Mr. Lightbourne?”

Cyril didn’t even glance down at them. “No. Thank you.”

An unexpected, sharp frustration surged up in her. Gyldenkrone was trying to be nice. Why couldn’t Cyril embrace the Christmas spirit enough to accept this peace offering that obviously cost the greve a bit of his pride? “Try one, Cyril,” she said. Prodded, really. And perhaps her tone had absorbed a bit of her frustration. Perhaps that was why he bristled.

“Haven’t you learned anything from fairy tales, Ri? When a crone offers you something tasty-looking, you’re wise to refuse.” His tone was light, joking, but his eyes were hard and calculating.

She flushed, her lips parting in surprise. It was one thing to joke about fairy-tale villains between the two of them, but to say it aloud to Gyldenkrone himself?

The greve frowned. “I don’t know this word. ‘Crone’? From context, it’s a villain of some sort, and I can appreciate the similarity to the ending of my own name, but if you mean your insult to land, Mr. Lightbourne, perhaps you ought to define the term for me.”

Mariah’s cheeks burned even hotter. “A crone is an old witch—and Mr. Lightbourne ought to apologize for saying such things.”

“Mr. Lightbourne would rather demand an explanation.” He took a step closer to the Dane, eyes narrowed. “What are you really about, Gyldenkrone?”

“Apologizing.” But the flash of his ice-blue eyes said he knew well Cyril wasn’t asking about this exchange in particular.

Cyril ignored him, spreading his arms wide. “Is this about the brawl with your brother? Is that why you’ve followed me here, to obtain some sort of revenge? Well then, take it. Take your best shot. Leave Mariah out of it.”

Gyldenkrone let the box’s lid fall closed again. His face smoothed out into its usual stony, impassive planes. “You think far too highly of yourself if you presume that you are my reason for asking the lovely Lady Mariah to marry me.”

The words seemed to ricochet off Cyril—but they then pummeled Mariah over the head. Was that what this was about—part of it, at least? Was he after not only her family connections, but revenge on Cyril for the brawl with his brother, the slight her old friend had placed on his family and country?

Heat surged up so fast it nearly blinded her. Of course. Of course that was it. None of this was really about her. Not Gyldenkrone’s attention. And Cyril ... Cyril was only out to best the man he deemed ignoble. Prove him even more so, even now, even with her . What was it he had said about the brawl? That it hadn’t been about Lady Pearl, it had been about Emil.

This was certainly the same. Not about her—never about her. About them .

“And this,” Cyril said, motioning to the pastry box and Gyldenkrone and his horse, “is obviously just one more step in your plan. Make her like you. Win her over with sweets and apologies.”

The greve frowned. “Certainly that was my intent. Yes, my lady, I hoped to win a bit of favor with sweets and apologies. If that is so wrong of me, then I will beg your forgiveness yet again. I wasn’t aware that saying I was sorry was a sin.”

“It isn’t.” Her words were little more than a murmur, lost under Cyril’s next accusation.

“It is when you do it for the wrong reasons. You aren’t trying to win her for the sake of winning her. You’re trying to win her to get revenge on me.”

Because she was his friend? Or had Gyldenkrone suspected there was something more to their relationship—the very thing she used to dream it would be?

She tried to tell herself that it was the sudden gust of icy wind making her eyes sting, but even she couldn’t believe that fiction. The stinging was too hot, too wet. Too blurring. Was it so inconceivable that a man of Gyldenkrone’s status would care just a bit about her opinion?

Cyril clearly thought so. And if that was what he thought, it was a wonder he didn’t go on to point out that it was a useless endeavor, because why would he care whether she married some heartless Scandinavian man and moved away forever?

She spun and prepared to run, to push past Cyril and dash the mile home.

She didn’t have the chance. The heel of her boot caught on an icy cobblestone, but she had too much momentum to slip and right herself. Her foot went out from under her, half-eaten kringle flying. She had just enough purchase remaining from her other foot to give herself a bit of direction, so she aimed for the solid stone of the sides of the bridge. It would be embarrassing, but it would catch her.

A miscalculation, which she knew the moment her hands landed. The stones, too, were icy, and her palms flew off them, her torso folding over the railing but finding no purchase either.

No. No, no, no, she wasn’t going to fall over this dratted bridge! She felt momentum carrying her over and reached for anything she could, and her fingers managed to catch one of the seams between brick and stone. It caught her, slowed her just enough to stop her from tumbling headfirst into the icy river.

But her legs had already followed her top over the side, and their weight proved too much for her precarious fingerhold. With a scream more of protest than fear, she lost her grip and tumbled down.

The drop wasn’t far. And the river wasn’t deep. This time of year, the Esk had only a foot or two of water in it as it wove around Castleton. But it was coated with a thin sheet of ice that she broke through, and that was enough to throw off her balance. Her knees buckled, and her rear broke through the ice too, inviting a sluggish surge of ice-cold water not only into her boots but into her lap.

“Mariah!”

“My lady!”

She would have called up that she was fine, but they could obviously see she wasn’t injured—other than her dignity—and her teeth were already chattering so fiercely that she feared no words would be intelligible anyway. She saved her energy instead for pushing to her feet.

The water came only to her mid-calf once she was standing, but her dress and coat had soaked in enough of it that she was dripping from waist to hem. And the ice had only broken where she’d fallen. The edges of the river were still frozen over, and how was she supposed to cross to the sides? Either direction was only three feet away, but it looked about a mile just now.

The men had raced down, both of their faces masked in horror. Both were jabbering, but she didn’t pay any attention to their words. Just to the arms stretching out from the bank toward her.

Gyldenkrone was the taller, which meant his arm reached farther. She stretched out her own, able to grip him and let him grab onto her arm, then, once halfway secure, reaching to Cyril with her other hand. Between the two of them, she was back on solid, slippery ground in another few seconds.

“We need to get you home posthaste,” Gyldenkrone said.

“I’ll get the gig.”

“The horse will be faster and is right here.” Gyldenkrone’s larynx bobbed with a hard swallow. “The two of you can take it. I’ll fetch the gig.”

Cyril shook his head. “I’m not much of a horseman. She’ll be better off riding with you.”

Gyldenkrone hesitated only a moment. Then, with a nod, he scooped her up into his arms without asking if she actually needed such assistance—which she would have felt obligated to turn down—and darted back up onto the bridge. Within a minute, he’d gotten them both onto the mare and was galloping toward the manor.

“I’m sorry,” the greve whispered only when they slowed as they came in through the gates. “I never intended you to get hurt.”

He meant more than the shivers, she suspected. And she could only pray her answer spoke of more too. “I’ll be fine.”