Chapter 9

9

Cyril pulled his cape coat on, jammed his hat onto his head, and dashed out into the wintry air. His gaze latched onto the spot of red all but skipping toward Almond Gate. He considered calling out, but it was still awfully early—the sun had scarcely stretched its fingers over the horizon, and no one else in the family had put in an appearance for breakfast yet. So instead of a shout, he opted for a lope, closing the distance between them with gratifying quickness.

When Mariah hadn’t joined the family for the meal the night before, Cyril had been more than a little concerned. He’d wanted to catch her after her walk with the greve yesterday, but she had gone off into the wood instead of coming back inside, and Castleton had intercepted him when he thought to go after her. The earl had said he merely wanted to share a game of chess to continue their growing friendship, but he suspected it was more that he hadn’t wanted Cyril inserting himself into his stepdaughter’s musings after whatever Gyldenkrone had said to her.

By the time he’d pried himself free of the game and conversation—which had been pleasant enough, aside from the obvious motivations behind it—he’d caught just a glimpse of Mariah disappearing into her room. Where she had stayed, blast her, until now. And “family” or not, he couldn’t just go knocking on her bedroom door. If he tried that one, he’d no doubt find himself dismissed to the bachelor wing in half a heartbeat. So he’d resorted to spending his hours with a book, though he could scarcely recall what he’d read.

The morning light was cool and blue, each flat surface etched with a lace of frost that made him pause for just a moment and catch his breath in awe. The Lord’s artistry always amazed him. All the more so when he considered the different brushes and strokes and color palettes He used. Reds and golds in the autumn, greens and yellows in the spring, deeper variations in the summer. And then this—a muted world of silver and blue and purple, glassed over with frost and ice and snow.

“Mariah!” Once in the little forest that would capture his shout and keep it from echoing back to the manor house, he dared to call out. “Wait up.”

She hadn’t been in sight, but she quickly appeared in it again, on the path they’d already taken several times since he’d arrived. Her face gave him pause again. She looked ... odd. A bit resigned. A bit hopeful. A bit as though she were somewhere far, far away, and no amount of running would catch him up to her.

Fear speared his chest. What if it was Denmark that had her dreaming? Gyldenkrone? What if she’d already made up her mind to bind her life to that of the coldhearted wolf of a greve?

No . She was right there, moving closer every second, and even with a smile on her lips. He hadn’t lost her yet. “You’re out and about early this morning, Cyril.”

He made certain his grin was as warm as it ought to be. “I might say the same to you. Though I, at least, had the wherewithal to visit the kitchen first.” He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out the napkins that held two squares of gingerbread, still warm. He held one out to her. “With Mrs. Trutchen’s ‘good morning.’”

Her smile went warmer as she reached for the cake. “Ah, heavenly. My thanks to both of you.”

He waited a moment, but she didn’t invite him to join her, just took a long, appreciative sniff of the spiced, fluffy treat and then broke off a piece and popped it into her mouth. Well. He wasn’t going to let a little thing like that deter him. “Mind if I walk with you? I could use the exercise.”

“Oh.” He tried not to take it as an insult when uncertainty and anxiety flashed across her face. “I ... I wasn’t really walking. I was going to sit and do some writing.”

He hadn’t at first noticed the little satchel she had slung over her shoulder, but it must contain a notebook and pen. “Oh.” He felt his shoulders slump a bit. “I don’t want to interrupt. Though if you wouldn’t mind a bit of company at least while you eat?”

A smile claimed her lips, small but genuine. “I wouldn’t mind at all. I thought to settle at Giant’s Table anyway.”

He grinned back. “Perfect.” The path wasn’t wide enough for them to walk two abreast in this part of the wood, but it opened up just before the ancient slabs of rock that had, to his ten-year-old mind, once been the feasting table and benches for a family of giants.

Mariah scrambled up with ease that proved she did it often, slinging her bag onto the table-rock and setting her gingerbread beside it. “I don’t suppose Mrs. Trutchen sent out any tea along with the cake? Or milk?”

He chuckled and sat on the bench-stone beside her. “I’m afraid not. Sorry.” He took a bite of his own warm treat, savoring the rich explosion of spices on his tongue. Molasses, ginger, cinnamon—Christmas in a single bite. He stole a glance at her. “Are you feeling well? We missed you last night.”

I missed you last night —that was what he meant to say. But couching it in a plural seemed safer.

She kept her face turned toward her breakfast. “Quite well.” No excuse followed, not even the trite claim of a headache.

Obviously a more straightforward tactic was required. He angled himself to face her. “All right then, out with it. What did he say to you? On that walk yesterday?”

She shrugged. Which didn’t match the words she followed it with. “Just that he wanted to marry me.”

Cyril nearly choked on the bite of gingerbread he’d been chewing and had to cough a few times to clear his airway before he dared to look at her again. “What? He proposed?”

Another of those lying shrugs. “Not exactly. He more ... informed me of his intentions and requested my decision by the ball.”

Cyril slapped a gloved hand to the cold rock. “Well why didn’t you give it to him then and there? It’s absurd. You can’t marry him.”

“Can’t?” Now she lifted her delicate brows, a hint of life sparking in her eyes.

He probably had no right, as the far-removed cousin of her stepfather, to forbid it. But oh, how he wanted to. “You barely know him!”

“I know him as well as Louise knew Lord Swann.”

“He’s wrong for you.”

She studied her food again, picking it apart rather than eating it. “How can I know that? Mama and Papa like him well enough—they approve of the match.”

And why was she arguing for this? “He’s an utter cad.”

“What?” That got her attention, and she sent a hard frown his way. “I’ve heard no such rumors about his character, and he was quite direct about the importance of uprightness.”

“He just stood by and let his brother brag about luring Lady Pearl into a heated embrace!” He had the sinking feeling, as he watched a veritable parade of emotions flit across her face too rapidly for him to keep up with, that it was the wrong thing to say.

She swallowed a small, careful bite. “I take it you did not stand by?”

He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. “I may have got in a bit of a scrum with his brother over it. A week ago, in London. And I ... I may have cast a few aspersions on the whole Gyldenkrone family and ... well, their whole society.”

“Cyril!” She sounded horrified, yes—but interested too. She leaned closer. “What did you say?”

“The details hardly matter. The point is that the greve was there while his brother was running off at the mouth, and he let him. When I told Emil he oughtn’t to say such things, the greve melted into the background, not only making no attempt to tame his brother’s wretched tongue, but not even trying to restrain him when he surged drunkenly to his feet and asked if I was fool enough to defend her with actions and not just words.” He shook his head, still recalling the disgust on Emil Gyldenkrone’s face.

As if Cyril was the one saying things no gentleman should say. As if he was the cad. As if defending a lady’s honor wasn’t what one was supposed to do.

Mariah’s face went so still, so careful that he knew he’d yet again said the wrong thing, somehow. “What did you say , Cyril?”

He frowned. “You’re ignoring the point.”

“Indulge me.”

A sigh leaked out. “Something, perhaps, about how no true nobleman would behave so. And, perhaps, something about how if their society allowed for such things, they...”

She winced. “You actually did insult the entire Danish society?”

This conversation wasn’t going as he’d planned. “I ... it was a rhetorical device. Obviously I don’t really think...”

She shook her head, her gaze dropping to her half-eaten gingerbread. “I suppose one says thoughtless things in the name of love. You must feel quite strongly about Lady Pearl.”

“That’s not it at all.” Even then, before Pearl had sliced him to ribbons, it’d had nothing to do with what he did or didn’t feel for her. He shook his head and glanced back to where he knew the manor house hid behind the trees. “I have always been keenly aware that I wasn’t born to this. I am no nobleman, certainly not a peer. I’m just a stranger your stepfather had to dig out of the woodwork.”

She frowned. “You are not.”

“I am. But that’s the point, don’t you see?” He leaned closer, willing her to understand. “I’ve had to study. To learn. To discover what this is supposed to mean—what my life is supposed to mean, once I realized that so much would be dictated to me. And the only thing I could come to that made any sense—that made the trappings and expectations worthwhile—was the thought that it’s supposed to matter . That even when so much is handed to us with high expectations, we still have to choose, every day, what sort of person we’ll be. We’re supposed to seek what’s truly noble, truly good. We’re supposed to strive to be the best we can be. I know this world is a long way off from the ideals it was founded on, but that doesn’t mean the ideals aren’t worth trying to attain, does it? That we shouldn’t stand up and defend others’ honor?”

“Even if they don’t deserve it?”

Something about her tone—part challenging, part apologetic—snagged his attention. He frowned. “Are we speaking in general or of Lady Pearl in particular?”

Her mouth twisted to the side. “I know this will sound like jealousy, but we went to school together. I know her well.”

A frown tugged at his lips. “She never mentioned you.” Which, yes, spoke volumes about Pearl’s personality, that she hadn’t even mentioned she was acquainted with the daughter of his benefactor—not even when she was hurling her at him like a curse.

Was it amusement in Mariah’s eyes? Self-deprecation? Something else altogether? “Of course she didn’t. I was never either ally or threat enough for her to notice me.”

He breathed a laugh. That sounded like Pearl indeed. “You are now, having stolen her chosen groom.”

Mariah looked baffled. “I’ve done what?”

He motioned toward the house again. “Gyldenkrone. She shouted in my face after I dared to show up with a blackened eye that she was going to marry the greve and go to Denmark and escape us English brutes.”

Mariah shook her head, her look of confusion not easing. “But ... she’s chosen you . That’s why the greve gave up. Isn’t it?”

The laugh that slipped out sounded every bit as scornful to his ears as it felt in his chest. “Me? I was never anything but a diversion. A story she could tell. I daresay ... I daresay the greve gave up because of what his brother so deftly proved. Lady Pearl is no more constant than the fashions she so loves.”

If anything, her confused look compounded. “If you believe that, then why did you defend her?”

He spread his hands. “I didn’t want to believe it. But more ... Emil shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have done it. No gentleman should behave so.”

She pursed her lips, studying him so long that he barely kept from squirming. He was just about to ask whether he’d measured up or been found absolutely lacking when she said, so quietly that her voice was scarcely audible over the cold breeze, “You say you were just a distraction for her. That she dismissed you. You say you defended her more because of Lord Emil than her. And yet ... you were courting her. And from what I know of you, you’re not a man to do so lightly.”

Perhaps her words weren’t a question exactly, but her expression was. He sighed and toyed with his gingerbread, looking at it rather than her. “I wanted it to mean something—the way Lady Pearl and I met. I thought that perhaps, even if your father didn’t really want me as heir . . . even if I couldn’t claim you as a friend anymore . . . even if I would feel like a pretender here, that the Lord had sent another means for me to find my place. That perhaps it was His plan for my life. That I could learn the depths she kept from others, that I had something she needed.” His eyes slid closed. “I think that’s all I’ve ever really wanted. To belong somewhere, to have a true place, to contribute. To be what someone needed.”

When he dared a glance up, he found her expression soft. “You’re what we need—all of us here. The one who will let Papa be a father to him. The one who will keep giving hope to the neighbors. The one who will keep this manor thriving. The one,” she added, lips curling up and nostrils flaring just a bit, “who isn’t afraid to take a promenade through Christmas Wood in search of the magic of yesteryear, lest it make him look silly.”

Perhaps she was right. But none of that had felt real to him until he was back here. Castleton had just been a specter of disapproval that haunted him, this place had been unknown shackles, and Mariah ... Mariah had been a friend who hadn’t needed him anymore, who had outgrown the closeness they’d once had. Who had stopped confiding in him or inviting his confidence in her. Pearl had seemed like a story he could write for himself. A future beyond what was expected and forced upon him.

What a fool he’d been. She’d been to him exactly what he’d just claimed he was to her—a distraction. That was all. One more excuse to keep from coming back here and facing his fears.

One more thing to keep him from coming home.

Silence fell as they both finished their now-cold gingerbread, but once the last crumbs were gone, Mariah drew in a long breath and offered a bright smile. “Well. Whatever the situation with Lord Emil and Lady Pearl and the trail of broken hearts she has amassed as she promised she would, it’s Christmastide, and I have a plan I could use your help with.”

He was about to correct her on the broken hearts bit—it was more bruised pride than any heartbreak on his part, and probably far less than that for the coldhearted Dane or his hotheaded brother. But the mention of a plan stole his attention. “Is that a light of scheming I detect in your eyes, Lady Mariah? Ought I go in search of some asparagus swords?”

She laughed and reached into her bag, pulling out a notebook and pen. “Wooden ones will suffice. Here.” She fished a few sheets of paper out and handed them to him.

A three-second glance told him what it was. “The play version of our story?”

She nodded, a grin lighting her eyes as much as it curved her lips. “The one the children performed last week. Only, everyone at the manor missed it. Mama and Papa were in Hope, waiting for Fred’s train, which was late. Louise begged off, claiming she couldn’t stomach it. You hadn’t arrived yet. But yesterday, I could tell that the families in the village were disappointed that Papa hadn’t been there. The children had been working so hard for weeks, wanting to impress him. A way of thanking him, they said, for all he does for them at Christmas.”

He lowered the papers. “Well, the answer is simple, isn’t it? An encore performance.”

“Exactly.” But the twinkle in her eyes said it wasn’t quite as simple as that. “Only ... I thought that rather than staging it upon, well, a stage , we could use the original backdrop.” She waved at the wood.

At Christmas Wood. With its Almond Gate and its Marzipan trees, its Orange Brook leading to Orgeat Lake. He grinned back. “I like it.”

“It will take some reworking.” She tapped the notebook. “And I was thinking that perhaps we could make it more interactive for our dedicated audience. Lure them into exploring our kingdom like we did as children. Add in a treasure hunt of some sort.”

He leaned onto the cold rock of Giant’s Table, studying her as she’d just done to him. “Is this really for the village children?”

Her breath eased out in a puff of white. “Partly yes. Partly to bring everyone together once more. But also because...” She trailed off, let her gaze sweep the forest. “No one has ever seen things as we used to, Cyril. No one has ever wanted to. And more, they keep insisting that I need to put it aside, forget the world of imagination—as if I can’t be both a responsible adult and someone who still believes in the impossible.”

She straightened, eyes flashing. “But that’s what Christmas is about, isn’t it? The impossible becoming real. An infinite God becoming a fragile human babe. That perfect God making a path for us to come back to Him, and doing it in a way both spectacular and yet so mysterious, so hidden that people could and still do deny it. Perhaps if I can help them to laugh and consider, just for a moment, that this world is more than it may seem at first glance, then they’ll be willing to trust that the world beyond is more too. That the God of hope wants them to believe in the miraculous. Wants them to rejoice with the heavenly choirs. Wants them to truly live , not just plod along doing what’s expected.”

He couldn’t help but smile at her. “A reminder I need as much as anyone else. Count me in and assign me my role. I, and anything I have, are at your disposal.”

“Well, if you mean that...” She flipped the page in her notebook and tapped a heading that was utterly blank beneath it. “I could use some assistance with the battle scenes. We did a fair enough job on a little stage, but with actual space to spread out, I don’t think our four paltry jabs will be very convincing.”

Cyril grinned. “I know just the chap. Boxing is Kellie’s favorite sport, but he’s rather a master at other forms of combat too. He trounces me regularly at fencing.”

“Your valet?”

“And friend. Yes. He’ll be happy to help, I know.”

She grinned. “Perfect. And we can sort out how to integrate the treasure hunt and use the props already built here in the wood. But first I need to speak with the families and see if they’re willing to stage this encore.”

He nodded. “We haven’t time to waste then. We’ll have to start paying visits to everyone on your list, and inviting anyone not participating directly to be part of the audience.”

She gathered her papers and notebook together again. “We should start with the professor. He’s always a bit anxious and bored in the days between when he’s finished his gifts and installation and the ball. I daresay he’ll be happy for something to occupy him.”

“To the workshop, then. Unless there’s more to plan out here in the cold?”

She shoved her supplies back into her bag. “Now that you mention it, the workshop sounds like just the thing. And I imagine the professor will even offer us some tea.”

“Better and better.” He hopped off the rock bench and held up his arms to help Mariah do the same.

She didn’t need his help. But she accepted it anyway, and then tucked her arm through his in what was swiftly becoming a habit he adored. His heart had never thrilled like this when he walked beside Lady Pearl through London, and the very thought of her here at a country manor, walking through the woods, was nearly laughable.

It made him realize that he’d never actually tried to form an image of the future with her. He’d known, based on everything she said, that she had no interest in a quiet country life, only in the bustle of a city like London—or Copenhagen, perhaps.

And yet he’d known that his primary duties would be to Castleton. To these neighbors Mariah loved so dearly. To representing their needs in Lords someday and doing everything he could to be their friend in the meantime. Even before he’d come back—come home—he’d known that. He’d known this was his future. And known that Pearl would want no part of it.

But with Mariah, he could see the years stretching out before them, imagine season after season with her, discovering each fresh joy.

He cleared his throat, his earlier words marching through his mind, sounding different now than they had then. “Just to be clear—about Lady Pearl.”

She stiffened beside him. “Yes?”

“There was never any heartbreak. No love lost. It was the story I was enamored with, nothing more. The chance to be someone’s hero. The romance of it all.”

“Really.” She sounded amused. “Dangerous thing, you know—romance. I’ve been informed by a very authoritarian Danish fellow that it’s a flimsy foundation for something as serious as marriage.”

He turned wide eyes on her. “Please tell me that wasn’t part of his proposal.”

She tilted her head in affirmation, a smile teasing her lips.

“Pitiful.” He shook his head as they passed through the gate of their fairyland and exited into the real world again. Real—but still pretty. Still full of joy and promise. “That man needs a few lessons in how to court a woman.”

“You ought to offer. See what he says.”

He laughed at the very thought. And kept on smiling all the way to the professor’s workshop. He might be no expert on courtship himself, but he understood Mariah as he’d never understood Pearl.

Winning her heart would be the only gift he’d ever ask for.