Chapter 14

14

The sentimentality took S?ren off guard—and kept him in his room all morning. He’d awoken with a strange, tense feeling in his chest. Strange enough and tense enough that he’d been alarmed. Was he unwell? Something wrong with his heart?

He’d lain there for several minutes, sounding out his muscles and limbs. He’d risen carefully, done his usual morning calisthenics, and had realized that it wasn’t his physical self that ached. It was, inexplicably, his inner self. Emotional? Mental? Spiritual? He hadn’t been certain.

So he’d sat down at the small desk in his well-appointed guest room and he’d pulled out a few leather-bound books. First, the Bible that he always carried with him on his travels but rarely opened—he had many key passages memorized already, so it seemed superfluous on many occasions. Secondly, the journals he’d packed.

It was Christmas Eve. It was Christmas Eve, and for the first time in his life, he wasn’t in Denmark for the holiday. How strange that this should cause such a pang when he thought of it. How strange that he sat there for no fewer than ten minutes, blinking through three decades of memories and wishing he were home. Wishing Emil were at his side, poking and prodding and cajoling him into having fun. Wishing, even, for memories yet to be made ... memories that would bring life to the dream that still lingered even after he awoke from it.

A dream of a family gathered around the hearth in his own home, his own Christmas tree towering above them. A dream of the laughter of children and the smiling face of their dark-haired mother. A wife he didn’t have. Not yet.

He’d stared at the Bible, another strange feeling overtaking him as he flipped open its thin, crisp pages. Familiar Danish words sprang out at him as he flipped toward the Gospels, soothing a few of the ragged edges even as that new feeling burned hotter.

He knew the words in this Book. He’d read it through five times, front to back. Because it was a good thing to do, even an expected thing to do. Because a favorite cousin of the very devout Lutheran king must know his Scriptures backward and forward. Because they were as true as any textbook or history. Because it was what one did.

Yet here, now, on Christmas Eve in a foreign country, at a house he’d come to with vengeance in mind as much as any noble motives, those reasons felt flimsy and dull. Tarnished.

He felt tarnished, when all his life he’d worked so hard to be sterling. Golden. Worthy of his family name.

He hadn’t just come here seeking a bride. He’d come seeking revenge for an insult to his brother that had been deserving, if not kind. He’d come determined to make Cyril Lightbourne pay.

His father would have been appalled. His king and cousin too. He should be appalled that he’d considered even for a moment using Lady Mariah as a means of revenge against Cyril Lightbourne.

The conviction had sliced him through as he watched Lady Mariah tumble over that icy bridge yesterday. He hadn’t really paused to think about how short the fall was, or how low the water. And even after he’d realized it, it hadn’t made his regretful heart thud any less violently. If she hadn’t slowed her tumble and flipped herself, that low water could have spelled her doom. She would have gone down headfirst into that shallow, icy trickle. She could have broken her neck. Been paralyzed. Been killed.

And for what? His anger over someone calling Emil exactly what he was? His desire to win Mariah as much for spite as because she’d been a reasonable choice? Even though he didn’t want her to be his wife?

That realization hadn’t come yesterday, though. No, it was the one he woke up to, disorienting as it was. Hers hadn’t been the face in his dream. Nor had Ingrid’s, though there would have been logic to that.

It had been Louise there in his unconscious imaginings.

He didn’t know why his mind had gone that direction as he slept, but when he considered that today was the day Lady Mariah ought to be giving him an answer on his proposal, dread curled in his stomach. Not that she might refuse—but that she might accept.

He didn’t want to marry Lady Mariah Lyons. Even more so because he’d realized yesterday that she was, in fact, a sweet and charming young lady with a heart of gold. She didn’t deserve to have that heart broken, despite his thoughts yesterday morning. She didn’t deserve to be his means of revenge.

And revenge rang rather hollow after Lightbourne’s sincere apology last night.

It was one thing to hold a grudge against an arrogant, insufferable blighter. Quite another to hold one against a good-hearted, humble man whose main flaw was being young.

He wouldn’t always be young. But he could always be good-hearted, if the world didn’t pummel it out of him.

S?ren had decided, at some point in the night, that he didn’t mean to be part of the pummeling. Not anymore. He wasn’t so petty. Or at least, he didn’t want to be. Something about Lightbourne’s admission that S?ren had proven himself the bigger man that day did him in.

He hadn’t been, not really. He’d only wanted to look like he was. But Lightbourne had met his counterfeit humility with the real thing, and he’d recognized the difference in himself. He’d seen that the younger man had achieved in truth what S?ren had only pretended to.

That wasn’t who he wanted to be. It wasn’t honorable. Wasn’t noble. Wasn’t worthy of his name or his family or his king.

Certainly wasn’t worthy of the King they were celebrating today.

He read the familiar Nativity narrative in Luke, even though he knew many of the words by heart and would no doubt hear them at church tonight as well, albeit in English. He read it again just to cement it in his mind, and then he spent the next several hours with his journals, ignoring the grumbling of his stomach.

He would feast later, with the family. First, a bit of fasting to punctuate his repentance. It seemed fitting.

By the time he was satisfied with his self-reflection, it was one o’clock in the afternoon—he’d missed luncheon too, but that was all right. He felt, for the first time in years, light. Clean. Like the fluffy mounds of snow pillowing the world outside his window.

His lips turned up. A white Christmas, at least, as Christmases ought to be. He hadn’t dared to hope for such a thing in England, where it was just as likely to be a drizzly and foggy one, but the snowflakes dancing down felt a bit like a kiss from heaven. A promise that no matter how frozen and hard the ground of his heart had been before, it could be made pure and sweet again.

A knock made him spin for his bedroom door. No doubt it would be a servant, inquiring after him on behalf of the earl, perhaps seeing if he needed a tray of food. Perhaps even Castleton himself, making certain he was well.

He grimaced a bit at that one. He’d have to talk to the earl sometime today. Confess that he didn’t think he was a wise choice of husband for Lady Mariah after all—and encourage him to encourage Lightbourne to pursue her instead. That would be the right thing. The kind thing. The good thing.

Neither a servant nor their employer stood at his door, though. It was Lord Lyons, a winter coat draped over his arm and hands shoved into his pockets. He looked caught halfway between glum and curious. “Afternoon, Gyldenkrone,” he said.

S?ren nodded. “Good afternoon. And Happy Christmas.”

“Right.” The ladies’ brother half turned away. “I’ve been sent to fetch you. We’ve been summoned downstairs and instructed to dress warmly.”

S?ren gripped the door rather than move through it. “Summoned by whom? To what purpose?” New leaf turned over or not, a man couldn’t just be expected to trot merrily off without a few details.

Lyons shrugged. “I received my instructions via Cass, but I got the impression Mariah was behind it. So brace yourself for something ridiculous.”

Was that how he had sounded, even yesterday? S?ren smiled. “I believe the word you’re looking for is delightful . A bit of Christmas whimsy sounds like just the thing.”

The young lord rolled his eyes. “Not you too. You seemed perfectly reasonable last evening.”

Chuckling, S?ren fetched the outerwear he’d taken up here with him yesterday rather than handing it off to a servant below. “Let’s just say I’ve realized that I can appreciate her perspective.”

“We’ll see about that, I think. She’s also invited any of the servants who could slip away from their duties for a few minutes.”

Unusual ... but it was Christmastime. To recognize one’s staff and even grant them extra time off from their duties wasn’t so uncommon. And considering that tonight’s ball was for the entire region, rich and poor alike, how could he be surprised by this news?

He shrugged and followed Lyons down the corridor and toward the main part of the house. His guide asked him a few polite questions about what he’d usually be doing on Christmas Eve in Denmark, and S?ren answered with fuller answers than he would have done any other day.

Talking about home made him miss it more. And yet also made him look forward to the festivities here. He would be forming new memories, which he would be able to regale his friends and relatives with back home. Perhaps he could even exaggerate here and there to make it sound as though he’d had a sort of Dickensian Christmas experience, his heart made soft by an epiphany. A Christmas miracle.

Or maybe it wouldn’t require much by way of exaggeration. As they gathered with the others outside the ballroom’s closed doors and he spotted Lightbourne guarding the entrance with a grin, he had to admit that the animosity was gone. Just ... gone. That had to be a miracle, didn’t it? How could he really have purged his heart on his own, so quickly?

He gazed over the crowd of family and servants, searching for Lady Mariah. There were more people here than there had been yesterday, and he suddenly remembered a mention of some more distant relatives arriving today. He had a feeling she would consider it an early gift for him to rescind his proposal and remove from her shoulders the burden of sorting out how best to let him down. But if she was here among the throng—there had to be seventy people gathered outside these doors!—he didn’t spot her.

He spotted Louise, though, standing off to the side with her hands clutching her elbows, arms folded across her middle. She looked a bit lost, and though he’d only known her a few days, that struck him as out of character.

“Excuse me,” he muttered to Lyons, who didn’t seem to mind that he abandoned him, and slid his way through the crowd until he’d come up beside Louise.

Odd. Never in his thoughts had he called her Lady Swann, though he ought to have. That was interesting, wasn’t it?

“Happy Christmas, my lord,” she said in greeting, perking up a bit as he neared. Her smile, however, looked strained. “We missed you this morning. Though I suspected you were planning your next step in wooing my sister. She’s to answer you by the ball, correct?”

Was there a note of something in her voice? Dread? False cheer? Or was that only wishful thinking on his part?

He shook his head. “On the contrary. I was repenting of ever asking her, when it’s so very clear that we’re not well suited. The scare yesterday convinced me that she’s too sweet a girl to be forced into a match like I could offer. She will be better off with Lightbourne. And I ... I think I will be better off with a wife who possesses a steadier head on her shoulders and a bit more maturity. Your sister is charming, but charming alone isn’t what I seek.”

Louise blinked at him, her lips parting, but she had no chance to put voice to whatever thoughts swirled through her lovely blue eyes. At that moment, piano music boomed enthusiastically from within the ballroom, and the matching French doors swung wide under Lightbourne’s hand.

“Enter,” said a voice from within, resounding over the piano with authority and drama—wasn’t it the vicar’s voice? He hadn’t sounded so theatrical behind the pulpit on Sunday, though. “Enter to a world of terror and delight. Of dastardly villains and heroes so bright. Enter to a world of magical things ... of miracles and mayhem and the hope to which we cling....”

S?ren moved inside with the others, careful to stay close to Louise’s side. He heard some of the staff murmuring that those were the opening lines of the children’s Christmas play that they’d performed in the village the week before, someone else adding that they must have decided to stage it again so that the Castletons could see it. He didn’t know why that would require a winter coat, though. And, to be honest, the prospect of sitting through a children’s play sounded boring.

But he had to blink in wonder as they entered the ballroom. When he’d seen it last, it had been already bedecked for Christmas, yes, but not like this. Now, dozens of paper snowflakes seemed to drift in midair from whatever strings on which they dangled. Candlelight turned to gold the snow-softened light that poured in through the windows, and the scent of cinnamon and cloves spiced the air. There were no chairs set up for the audience, nor an invitation to make themselves comfortable.

The piano went softer, turning from thunderous announcement to a playful tinkling of keys. That must have been some sort of cue. Figures he hadn’t noticed emerged from where they’d been curled under chairs or beside tables, twirling out onto the floor in a dance whose enthusiasm outshone its choreography. The village children, he realized. Mostly girls, though there were two or three lads among them.

They acted out a scene of Christmas gift-giving, the little ones belting out their lines with confidence. They were telling a rather typical tale of a holiday party, boys and girls at odds, eventually fighting over a large nutcracker doll that Professor Skylark presented to them. It broke during the argument, and the professor mended it.

S?ren shifted from one foot to the other. Why had they not brought chairs in for them? Was there not space enough in the ballroom for this audience, perhaps? He felt a bit of familiar irritation creeping in but shoved it back down. The village families had gone out of their way to create this encore production of the play the lord and lady of the manor had missed. It spoke of these neighbors’ dedication to one another. Which said volumes too about the kind of landlord Castleton was. The kind of family this was.

He glanced down at Louise. From what he’d gathered in the last several days, she had declined attending the original performance for reasons he’d not heard. But the look on her face now was of longing as she watched the little ones. Longing and a gentle sort of joy. He found himself smiling simply because of how it softened her lovely features.

Just as the rest of the audience began shifting impatiently, as the drama wound down and the children pretended to be sent off to bed in the play, a sudden bugle call had them all jumping. Children again swarmed forward, some dressed as mice, others as toy soldiers. The lead soldier, dressed like the nutcracker doll, called out a challenge to the “vile mouse king,” and a battle clashed.

S?ren grinned at the very dramatic—but rather well choreographed, he noted—battle that ensued. Both mice and soldiers jumped about, thrust, parried. He caught sight of an adult at the side of the room giving muted directions that probably weren’t meant to be heard over the music and narration, but the concentration on the fellow’s face made S?ren smile still more. Lightbourne’s valet, wasn’t he? He mocked a few thrusts and parries, nodding to the children.

At last, the largest of the mice, who wore a tinfoil crown upon his head, was facing off with the nutcracker boy. Their antics were even more exaggerated than the others’, earning more laughs and gasps from the audience. He was certain they were about to thrust each other through when the piano went thunderous again, and the doors out onto the porch sprang open.

He hadn’t even noticed the adults who had crept up outside to open them, but he was fairly certain as he watched them jump away again that Mariah was one of them. Not surprising, he supposed, if this was her doing.

Both mice and soldier hordes had been circling the audience and, once behind them, must have begun delivering a few prods to those in the back, given the squeaks of protest, giggles, and shouts of “Onward, onward! You must help in the battle! Into Christmas Wood!”

Ah, the portion of the play that required their outerwear. S?ren slipped his overcoat on and then assisted Louise with hers, offering her a smile—and then his arm.

Their guides got more insistent once everyone had bundled up, urging them outside. The vicar’s parting words carried after them. “Go, go into Christmas Wood! Through the Almond Gate as Prince Nutcracker would. Find, find the magic he seeks, that will make him a man and defeat the vile Squeaks! For somewhere in his kingdom a present is hid—will you find it first? Oh, you’ll wish that you did! Look for a box wrapped in gold bright as sun, and at Orgeat Lake show your prize to the ones who have written this tale for your Christmas delight. The gift will unlock further joys this fine night.”

“Oh, a treasure hunt! Jolly good!” Castleton tugged his wife out through the doors and into a trot that had the lady squealing and laughing. “Come, love. Let’s find it, whatever it is!”

S?ren led Louise out into the swirling snow behind her parents, though rather than take off for the wood as the others were doing, he instead steered her toward where her sister stood grinning against the side of the house, no doubt poised to close the doors again after her guests had exited.

Lady Mariah’s smile only grew when they drew near. “Oh, good! I was hoping you both would join the fun. Though I wouldn’t dawdle—Papa seems pretty bent on finding that golden package.”

“I only wanted to take a moment first, to save you some trouble.” He cleared his throat, making a point of looking at no face but her own—he owed her that. “You needn’t sort out how to turn me down this evening, my lady. Don’t let it cast a shadow over your day. You were right. I’ve come to understand that. Consider my offer rescinded and...” Now he glanced over toward where Lightbourne stood sentinel at the next door. “And I wish you a bright and happy future.”

He expected a bit of surprise at least. A widening of her eyes, or visible relief. What he didn’t expect was the hand she held out, businesslike. “You’re a sensible man, my lord. I knew you’d see reason. I wish you every happiness as well.” She had no compunction, it seemed, about darting her own gaze to her sister. “And I wish you success in your mission.”

He couldn’t recall ever shaking a lady’s hand before—a clasp and a kiss was the standard, after all—but he shook hers, the corners of his mouth lifting in a grin. He had a feeling she knew exactly what his new mission was. And he would take all the well-wishes and prayers he could get. “I thank you for that. Happy Christmas, Lady Mariah.”

She grinned again. “Enjoy the adventure, my lord. Louise—you too. Please.”

He led Louise away then, into the fluff of fresh-fallen snow, away from the tracks others had already put down. Yes, he saw the strange “gates” shaped like almonds positioned directly ahead, but if they were to end up at the small lake—he had to assume that was the one they’d renamed so whimsically—then why not take a bit of a shortcut?

Louise was silent for several minutes, and he let her digest everything that had just transpired. Before she finally spoke, she delicately cleared her throat. “Well. I’m surprised, my lord. And, I confess, disappointed. I did so hope to have an excuse to visit you in Denmark.”

He was beginning to understand Mariah’s perpetual smiles. His own lips refused to return to a neutral position. “I was rather hoping you still would.”

Her laugh was dry. Sad. “I daresay Lady Pearl won’t appreciate that.”

“I daresay Lady Pearl has no right to an opinion, given that I never intend to speak to her again unless our paths cross by happenstance.”

Finally, she looked up at him, confusion on her face. “But if you’ve decided against my sister and Lady Pearl...”

“If you recall, my dear Louise”—A risk, yes, that liberty of calling her by her first name, but he prayed she’d forgive him—“I said before this delightful adventure began that I needed a woman with more maturity, and with a steady head on her shoulders. I was rather thinking ... hoping ... praying that I may convince you to entertain the notion of a courtship.”

She came to a halt, her eyes not only wide but—tearful?

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Forgive me. I meant to cause you no distress. If it’s still too soon after the loss of your late husband—”

“No!” She rested a hand briefly on his chest, flushed, reclaimed it again to wipe at her eyes. “No, it isn’t that. I do miss Swann, but ... but it’s been several years. It’s only that ... I didn’t dare to dream. Not of something—someone—so perfect.”

Perfect? Hardly—as Lightbourne and Mariah had helped him to see. But they’d taught him something else too.

He claimed her hand, raised it to his lips, and let a kiss linger on her gloved knuckles. “I rather hope you do dare to dream. For the first time, I want to. It would be all the sweeter if you’d share the dreams with me.”

It took one more pulse, one more breath, but then her lips rose in a beautiful smile. She squeezed his fingers. “Let’s dream, then. Together.”

“Together.” He pulled her toward the wood, out of the range of the mouselings rushing them, snowballs in hand, clearly trying to redirect them. Laughter filled his throat.

Oh yes, they would have quite the story to tell someday. He could only imagine how Emil would laugh.