Chapter 7

7

Cyril gripped his fork too tightly, especially considering that he had no intention of lifting another bite to his lips. How could he, when to admit its entrance he’d have to unclench his jaw? That had proven more and more difficult as the meal wore on.

He’d thought, when Mariah told him about her previous encounters with Gyldenkrone on their slow walk back from the professor’s workshop, that she must be exaggerating his cool response to her. She obviously thought of herself in terms not nearly glowing enough—even in the scant time they’d been together again, he’d picked up on that. She had claimed no fewer than a half-dozen times to have been an utter failure during the Season, and he just couldn’t fathom it.

How could the London gents not be knocking down Castleton’s door in search of her attention? She was lovely and clever and altogether charming—one never knew what bit of whimsy might next fall from her lips, and awaiting the discovery had become his new favorite pastime.

Gyldenkrone, however, didn’t seem to share his amusement. He met her every sentence with a frown of his fair brows and with even, careful words that didn’t exactly put her down but certainly didn’t lift her up. If this man truly wanted to marry her, shouldn’t he be smiling over her wit? Laughing in delight at her imagination? Looking at her with appreciation, not just calculation?

It proved what Cyril already knew about him—he was more statue than man. Made of ice rather than flesh. A man willing to let his brother insult the woman he’d been about to propose to couldn’t be trusted to properly care for any other woman either.

Mariah was currently studying her plate, scooting her spears of asparagus back and forth without tasting them. He could all but hear her mentally chanting to herself, Be what they expect, just be what they expect.

It wasn’t right.

Gyldenkrone had noted her subdued behavior as well. He put on a smile, yes. But his tone was lacking genuine curiosity as he asked, “Do you not care for asparagus, my lady?”

She paused. Set down her fork. Looked up toward, but not at, the greve. And seemed to ruminate for a long moment on what she could say. “I do. But I find myself not very hungry.”

Lady Castleton had positioned them around the table, and while last night Cyril had been beside Mariah, tonight he’d been put across from her, Gyldenkrone at her side. Louise was to Cyril’s left, directly across from the greve. She frowned at her sister. “It is sinful to waste food when so many are hungry.”

Gyldenkrone nodded once. “Very true. Having plenty is no excuse to waste the gifts God has given us.”

Mariah’s larynx bobbed. “I assure you, I do not make a habit of waste—and I do make a habit of giving to those in need.”

Cyril’s smile felt more forced than the seating arrangement. “Do you still walk through the neighborhood on Boxing Day to make certain the village children have sweets enough?”

Louise huffed an unamused laugh. “A rather silly interpretation of St. Stephen’s Day, though it was endearing when she was a child. We eventually had to convince her that real food and alms would do them more good than leftover gingerbread and sugar plums.”

Gyldenkrone’s smile soured Cyril’s mood even more. “It speaks to a worthy spirit in a child, though. Just as it speaks to a worthy family to hone the instinct into practicality.”

Mariah winced a bit at the word practicality. Of course she knew what was practical—that a family that hadn’t enough bread didn’t need confections as much as staples.

But at the same time, when else would they get the sugar plums and gingerbread?

His fingers tightened around his fork again. His family had never been destitute—but when his father was alive, the man had been so stingy with Cyril and Mother that there was never anything but the practical things for them. No money given for sweet treats or toys. He saw that their needs were met—and nothing more.

He could still remember standing outside the window of a bakery, wondering what those confections tasted like. Father didn’t like sweets—so none were permitted in the house. Father didn’t like music—so none sang its way through their rooms. Father didn’t like the sound of Cyril’s laughter or the sight of him curled up with a book instead of being outside “like a proper lad,” so anytime the man was home, Cyril was banished from the house during daylight hours.

He knew all too well that needs could technically be met and yet a child could be so much in want. In want of affection. In want of joy. In want of peace and security. In want of the freedom to be who God had made them. He hadn’t known any of those things until his father died. Mariah did—and he wasn’t going to sit here and let anyone take them from her.

Cyril forked a vegetable and grinned. “Ri, do you remember the time we had asparagus when we were children? We were eating in the nursery, and your governess had gone to fetch something. I believe I started it by observing that this would make a most becoming sword for a small warrior.”

There. The corners of Mariah’s mouth turned up. “I thought Miss Featherstone would never let us eat together again when she found us sword-fighting with them.”

Cyril laughed, as did Castleton from the head of the table, though the others scowled. “I say,” the earl began, “I don’t believe I heard about this. Though I can’t imagine Miss Featherstone being that angry if you were simply dueling at your seats.” His eyes gleamed as he waited for the rest of the story.

Mariah’s blush made her cheeks glow. “One can’t properly fence when seated, Papa. We had no choice but to take the battle all over the nursery.”

The memory played out in Cyril’s mind like a play on a stage. “I would have won, had Mariah not gained the higher ground. She stabbed me through just as the governess reentered.”

Castleton lifted his brows. “And that higher ground was...?”

Mariah tried and failed to stifle her laughter. “The table, naturally.”

“Oh, Mariah.” Lady Castleton pressed a hand to her head, as if the long-past indiscretion physically pained her.

Her husband waved it off. “Lighten up, darling. She was only a child. It was ages ago—and obviously Miss Featherstone took her in hand if she didn’t even feel the need to come to us about it.” He winked at his youngest stepchild. “Isn’t that right, sweetling?”

“We were well and thoroughly punished,” Mariah agreed with a decisive nod. And a quick, amused glance at Cyril.

He grinned back. The governess had indeed tried to punish them by making them clean the nursery from top to bottom the next day rather than go outside. But they’d turned that into a game too and had so much fun that Featherstone had declared it hopeless and had collapsed onto her favorite sofa, laughing. She’d called them both over to her side and had made them tell her the story they’d been acting out—and had then encouraged them to write it down.

It was how they’d ended up with that document Mariah had brought out and shown him. They’d taken turns, paragraph by paragraph, telling the tale they’d devised. They’d decided the adventure should begin inside, rather than out—in the formal parlor, where the enormous Christmas tree resided. The nutcracker doll had been cast as the hero, a little girl rather like Mariah as the heroine, and a ghastly mouse, enemy to the toys, as the villain. Because it kept sneaking in and stealing Mariah’s favorite candies, threatening to chew her favorite dolls to bits if she didn’t hand them over.

Naturally, the valiant nutcracker had fought him off, but the story didn’t end there. Though the mouse king retreated, he didn’t declare a truce. He merely bided his time until he’d gathered more of his troops and lured them out into the wood. The nutcracker and Mariah rallied the dolls and toys and led them to a glorious victory, which they celebrated by touring the nutcracker’s fairy kingdom—through the Almond Gate, into Christmas Wood, over Orange Creek, and down to Orgeat Lake.

How Cyril wished he’d been here last week to see how the village children brought the tale to life in their little play. Had he known it was happening, he would have made it a point to arrive earlier.

Even without hearing the rest of the tale, the earl continued to chuckle. “Ah, I’d forgot how well the two of you got along. Lord Gyldenkrone, you’ll find that our dear Mariah can brighten any room with her imagination, even now—and she brings delight to those in her care. She is absolutely adored by our neighbors, especially the children.”

“Very true.” Lady Castleton brightened, leaning forward after the servants cleared the plates from before her. “She will make the most beloved mistress of whatever home she ends up calling her own. Her compassionate heart is beyond compare.”

Beside him, Louise sighed and leaned back to allow her own plate to be removed as well. “It’s very true. She is still plying the poor with candies and fairy tales when we’re not on hand to advise bread instead. She delivers the hats and scarves Mother and I knit too.”

Gyldenkrone inclined his head, either impressed or wanting to look it. “And does Lady Mariah knit for the less fortunate as well?”

Louise’s small smile looked apologetic. “We did try to teach her, but Mariah never much cared for yarn arts. Did you, dearest?”

Cyril didn’t like Louise much better now than he had at age ten.

Mariah, however, smiled. “I was an utter dunce at both knitting and crochet. But I like to think that I still contribute. It is important to tend their bodies, yes. But just as important to tend their souls.”

Gyldenkrone’s surprise was clearly false. “Have you no vicar nearby to do that?”

Mariah’s chin lifted a notch. “Of course we have. And he is a wonderful man. But Jesus never said that the rest of us were released from the duty just because there is a clergyman nearby. We are all called to minister to those in need—”

“With food and clothing and medicine,” Louise put in calmly.

“And is laughter not the best medicine? Can joy and hope not accomplish what science fails to achieve?”

Castleton was poised to intervene, but a loud gong sounded at that moment, bringing instant silence to the table. The family knew what the noise was about—Lord and Lady Castleton and Mariah’s eyes lit with happy expectation, and Louise and Fred exchanged a resigned glance, Louise muttering something about the pudding having to wait, as it always did on this day.

Cyril found his own gaze wandering to the only other stranger, and Gyldenkrone looked at him too. No doubt Cyril’s confusion showed on his face just as the Dane’s did.

The gong sounded again, and the Castletons pushed back from the table, both smiling and motioning with their hands. “Come, come,” the lady all but sang.

“The professor is ready,” his lordship added, presumably for Cyril’s and Gyldenkrone’s benefit.

Mariah was on her feet in a flash, Cyril matching her, the others moving more slowly. Since everyone seemed to be darting or trudging from the table at their own pace, he ignored his assigned dinner companion in favor of catching Mariah up at the door.

“What’s going on?” he asked in a whisper. “Is this what he mentioned unveiling this evening?”

Mariah nodded so enthusiastically that a lock of hair escaped its pins and fluttered down to frame her face. “He always creates a masterpiece—part sculpture, part clockworks, part toy—to display for the Christmas Eve Ball. Something new every year, and then he takes it apart again in the new year and reuses the bits and gears for the next one. The children love it!”

She did too, clearly. Cyril made no attempt to restrain his grin. “But it was obviously in pieces in his workshop—could he have put it together already?”

Mariah shook her head and followed her parents toward the ballroom. “There will be details yet unfinished, but he always lets us see it as soon as he has the shell assembled, so that we can help with some of the positioning of figures on their tracks.” Her laugh rang like music through the corridor. “Because I think he knows I would sneak in and reposition them otherwise.”

He could well imagine it. “How long has the professor been in residence?”

“This will be his tenth year with us,” the earl answered from ahead of them, turning to smile at Cyril. “He was my tutor as a child, then went on to teach at Cambridge. When he retired, I begged him to make Plumford Manor his home, and after a visit in which I promised to convert that old outbuilding into a workshop for him, he agreed. I knew his goal was to spend his later years tinkering on toys. But even I underestimated the delight he would bring to the neighborhood.” He paused, considering. “He has a pension from the university, but I’ve granted him his own living space and the workshop here, and a small stipend besides, for the service he gave me in my youth. It is our joint wish that he’ll be able to live out his days here.”

Those days would likely expire long before the earl’s did—the professor had to be in his mid-eighties—but nonetheless, Cyril knew well what Castleton was getting at. He wanted assurances that if by some ill-fate he left this earth before the professor, the old man wouldn’t be kicked to the curb.

Cyril could grant that most happily with a nod every bit as enthusiastic as Mariah’s had been. “Of course! I’ve only spent an hour in his company, but it was sheer wonder. I’m greatly looking forward to becoming better acquainted with him. I have no doubt we would have endless things to talk about—literature and science and his new work besides.”

They came to a halt at the closed French doors of the ballroom, their windowed panes covered from within by some dark fabric that hadn’t been there earlier when he’d walked by. Castleton watched behind them, nodding his approval once the shuffling steps of the dawdlers said they’d finally caught up. Cyril resisted the urge to peek back at their faces. Their slow steps had told him everything he needed to know about their opinions of the professor’s creations. Better to focus on the happiness of his other three companions.

Once assembled, Castleton knocked on the door and called out, “We’re here, Professor!”

“Enter!”

The earl swung the doors wide and led the way into the dark room. Even with some light creeping in from the corridor, it was difficult to make out anything other than the large, open expanse and a few hulking shapes that were probably chairs, sideboards, and perhaps a grand piano there in the corner.

Mariah must have shifted closer to him as they moved cautiously inside. Her arm pressed against his, not retreating again as quickly as he might have expected, which suited him fine. He caught the scent of whatever she used on her hair—something fruity rather than floral—mixed with the unmistakable fragrance of cinnamon and spice.

Someone must have sneaked off to the kitchen again before dinner to help with the holiday baking. He grinned into the dark. Perhaps if he asked nicely, she’d take him with her next time.

Without warning, the lights blazed to life, electricity setting the chandeliers to twinkling, a million shattered rainbows dancing through the crystal drops and onto the parquet dance floor. Cyril blinked his eyes back into focus, his gaze traveling the room.

A Christmas tree loomed in the center of the back wall, framed by the ballroom’s massive floor-to-ceiling windows. It was yet undecorated, but its towering height and wide arms promised dazzling beauty in a few days. Greenery draped every window, as well as the massive fireplace at the end opposite the tree.

The professor, however, was scurrying away from the light switch and toward one of the far corners, where something large was swathed in concealing fabric. It was shorter than the tree by half but taller than the man by at least a foot, wide and deep and with many protrusions poking at the cloth.

Mariah gripped his arm, no doubt more from anticipation than affection. He’d take it, though, and hope that Gyldenkrone saw it too. A check to the man’s confidence would do him good.

All right, so Gyldenkrone’s good wasn’t really Cyril’s motivation. He mostly hoped the man would squirm. He didn’t honestly know him that well, and until last week he would have called him distant and cool but upright and of sound character. Now, though? A man of sound character didn’t let his brother defame a lady.

Cyril straightened his spine, new determination settling on him. He’d defended Pearl’s reputation from Emil Gyldenkrone’s claims—and she’d thanked him for it by cutting him to ribbons and declaring she intended to marry the greve.

Yet here was the greve, inexplicably pursuing Mariah instead of Pearl.

A better choice, yes. He could see that quite clearly after merely a day and a half in Mariah’s company. She was all things sweet and lovely and charming.

And she deserved far better than a cold, unfeeling nobleman interested only in her connections and put off by her personality. If he wouldn’t defend Pearl against his brother’s claims, he wouldn’t defend Mariah against Louise’s sour behavior or the world’s insistence that she give up her whimsy in favor of practicality. And in the Danish court? Would he defend his bride if his king or prince or princess said a word against her?

Hardly.

If the greve convinced the Lightbournes and Lyons, convinced Mariah herself, to make a match, Cyril had a sinking feeling that his old friend would end up miserable. Stifled by the Dane’s ice, by the court’s expectations. That precious, flickering light of joy he saw inside her snuffed out by worries and concerns and the sure knowledge that she could never please the ones who ought to love her best.

No. No, he couldn’t let that future befall her. He knew too well what it was to want desperately to be loved and instead be dismissed or relegated to the sidelines. To be expected to fit a mold and, if you failed, to be sneered and slapped at.

Mariah would not find in marriage what his mother had. Her children would not be treated as mere possessions, as he had been.

He was none too certain, honestly, that Emil hadn’t been speaking truth about his conquest of Pearl, however ungenteel it had been to brag about it. Cyril had defended her simply because it had been the gentlemanly thing to do.

But Mariah—Mariah was deserving of all happiness, all good things. She deserved to be championed. She deserved a true hero. She deserved a story that was more than political arrangements and distance.

The professor cleared his throat, calling attention back to himself, and then without any further ado, whipped the cloth cover from his creation. A castle emerged that made them gasp—even stoic Gyldenkrone and sour Louise and grumpy Fred.

Cyril wasn’t even aware of moving, only of needing a closer look. The rest of the company agreed, because in the next moment they were fanned out about it, examining each working door and window, following with eyes and fingers the small metal tracks that went hither and yon, promising mechanical life once the professor had positioned the occupants. Its spires and turrets stretched upward with unbelievable grace, shaded in blues and whites and purples.

Gyldenkrone stood back a step, but appreciation colored his face. “It is Neuschwanstein Castle, is it not?”

“More or less, yes.” The professor smiled, pleased by the reactions. “I took a few liberties here and there, but it was my inspiration, without question.”

“I have spent quite a bit of time exploring that castle,” the greve said. “It is a remarkable likeness. You are very talented, Professor.”

“It’s breathtaking.” Mariah indeed sounded as though she couldn’t drag enough air into her lungs, her eyes wide with awe. “I can’t imagine the real thing being any better.”

Smooth as silk, Gyldenkrone moved to her side—but his gaze moved to Cyril. “Perhaps I’ll take you there someday, Lady Mariah. And you can judge the two, though you will only be more impressed by the professor’s attention to detail, not less.”

Cyril folded his arms across his chest. He saw it for what it was—a gauntlet tossed down. He just wasn’t certain exactly how to pick it up but to prove himself the older friend, the chosen companion, the one who would call home this place she loved so much. “Where are the figures, Professor? You already had Mariah choose the roles of a few, didn’t you?”

And the glint in the greve’s eyes said he too recognized a challenge when he heard it.

A new game, it seemed, was on. A race to win Lady Mariah. But Cyril couldn’t help but think he had the edge. Gyldenkrone might be seeking her hand—but he wasn’t seeking her heart. And that, Cyril knew, was the true prize.

If only he knew how to convince her that he could be more than the friend adventuring at her side. He could be the hero seeking only to bring her joy. What would it take to make her see that, though?