Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
J ames watched the sleigh carrying Eleanor away from him until it disappeared around the bend. Although the conversation they’d shared had been far from perfect, he knew it was the beginning of mending everything that had gone wrong.
Walking along the winding country road, the wind whipping against his face with a sharpness that was both invigorating and refreshing, James pulled the collar of his greatcoat high up under his neck as he cheerily made his way home. It had been years since there’d been such a lightness in his step. Yet, in that moment, his burdens seemed to lift ever so slightly, allowing for a bit of joy.
High in the sky, the moon was bright, casting a silvery glow over the snowy landscape. The wind continued to howl through the trees, but he was buoyed up by thoughts of Eleanor. What had her wish been? What was it she wanted, more than anything in the world, enough to throw part of her pin money into a well?
His wish, the only thing he wanted, was to make Eleanor Dove his wife. Of course, that was a wish no one could bestow, outside of God granting him a miracle. The wind whipped through the crisp air, swirling snowflakes around him like a thousand stars in a grand celestial dance .
James looked up at the heavens, his heart so full it was bound to break once more unless he took matters into his own hands. “How is it possible to love someone so deeply, yearn for her with my every breath, and yet somehow still go on, filled with the agony that she cannot be mine?”
To make her his wife, he would have to convince her to end her engagement with Montefeltro. It would injure her reputation. He would be considered a cad. But they could sneak over the boarder to Scotland and make everything right over the anvil by the morning, if he were to steal her away that night.
Eleanor deserved better than an anvil wedding. She was respected, a proper lady, which meant he had the duty of offering for her hand. This time it wasn’t only her father he had to speak with. He would need to speak with Lord Montefeltro as well.
Quickening his pace, his breath formed a mist that quickly dissipated as he walked toward home. He would do the honorable thing, and if he were lucky, his wish in the well just might be granted.
Overnight, the light fall of snow had turned into a blizzard, ruining all plans for a gathering with his neighbors. This was the problem of the Twelve Days of Christmastide: winter. James sat in his office, musing over the beauty of the harsh storm outside his windows and the warmth of the crackling fire as he drank a hot cup of tea.
The festivities of the season were certainly part of his regrets for the day, but his thoughts focused on one aspect he would sorely miss due to the weather—he wouldn’t have the distinct pleasure of spending the afternoon with Eleanor. The joy of time he’d shared with Eleanor by the wishing well had not yet worn off. He didn’t feel like himself, at least not the man who had been filled with unresolved anger for so long. Instead, there was a bit of hope, her lingering smile in his memory acting as a talisman of sorts, shining through the cloud of darkness he carried around with him .
The activity for the day had been scheduled for his closest neighbor’s home. But anyone who had made it to the Reynolds’s home before the storm had turned into a blizzard would now become a house guest for the night. If Eleanor was there, would she regret his absence? Would they have continued the conversation of the previous day? Could he have resolved everything with Montefeltro, Mr. Dove, and Eleanor in one setting?
He had delayed departure, practicing in his mind how he would approach Montefeltro with his confession. This alone had made him and his mother likely the only guests who weren’t snowed in at the neighbors. Part of him was relieved. He preferred to sleep in his own bed. But another part of him would spend the day imagining the curls framing Eleanor’s face and the way her eyes sparkled as she danced and laughed.
“If Christmastide were in July, it would be much more amenable to visiting,” James said to the empty room.
“Pardon me, Sir?”
Startled, he sat forward and turned to find his man of business, Mr. Crane, standing in the doorway, ledgers in hands. “Would you like to petition Parliament to move Christmastide celebrations to July?”
James laughed. “Not at all. I was simply musing.”
Mr. Crane held out the ledgers. James crossed the room and accepted the books. A diversion was exactly what he needed. Discussing estate finances wasn’t his favorite topic of conversation, but like clockwork, at the end of each month, he and his man of business would review the numbers for the purpose of keeping the accounts current.
James walked around his desk as he offered a chair to Crane. “I suppose the storm delayed your arrival this day.”
“I am afraid so, sir.”
James knew it wasn’t likely. The storm had been tamed until an hour ago. Their usual appointment for reviewing the ledgers was early morning, directly after breaking their fasts. He opened the book and ran his finger down the page. Each entry was followed by an accounting of what was owed and an entry line showing the debt had been paid. James silently calculated each number, placing a check mark by each entry as he reconciled the line item to the receipts gathered in the ledger.
“I expect it is all in order,” Crane said. His leg bounced, shaking the desk.
James tried to reassure his secretary with a calming nod, but his attempt went unnoticed. He quickly finished verifying the numbers and then closed the ledger. “Job well done, Crane. Although, I did not see the confirmation from the bank manager that the final number matches the balance. Please have that done early on the morrow.” He opened the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a folder of new receipts.
“I will visit the bank bright and early, sir.” Crane took the ledger and the folder. The nervous twitch of moments before was gone, the tension easing rather quickly.
James thought it was curious. Crane had been his secretary for five years, and these nervous twitches had only begun over the last few months. In truth, it was rather concerning. “Crane, are you ill?”
“Perfectly well, sir.” Crane held up the ledger. He mumbled something about new entries before he made his escape.
Something was amiss. James stepped around the large ebony desk, ready to inquire further, when Bishop entered the den.
“Sir, we have guests.”
Instantly distracted, James turned to the butler. “In this weather? They must be icicles.”
“Mrs. Bailey ushered them into the parlor. They were caught in the storm on their way to the gathering at the Reynolds residence.”
“Very well. Have Mrs. Bishop see to their rooms for the evening and alert Cook of the added guests for supper.”
James turned back to the desk, his thoughts jumbled as he tried to remember what he had been doing. Crane. He had two choices: follow his man of business and question him about the odd behavior, or see to his guests. Since there wasn’t a safe way for Crane to leave the house, he would approach the situation later.
Curious as to who their guests would be—and a bit hopeful—James left for the parlor. As he entered the room, a pleasant warmth settled in his stomach as his eyes fell upon Eleanor huddled under a blanket near the fire. He wasn’t surprised to see she was accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Dove, Lord Montefeltro, and David Dove. All of whom, were also shivering with hot cups of tea and blankets of their own .
“How fortunate we are that your driver was able to bring you to Granville House.” James stepped forward and shook Mr. Dove’s hand. “You are most welcome.”
“We cannot thank you enough for your hospitality.” Mr. Dove quickly tucked his ice-cold hand back into the blanket. “We should have stayed at our own hearth this day, but tradition beckoned.”
James nodded. “You are right, sir. If I had not delayed our departure, you would have found a house full of servants ready to take you in. But as it is, we may make merry on our own."
Mrs. Dove instantly argued. “We cannot expect it of you. Entertaining us is hardly necessary. We should keep to a parlor out of sight if we are a bother.”
“Nonsense.” His mother stepped forward and put her arm around Mrs. Dove. “We could not be more thankful to have a house full of cheer. At least, we expect it will be so once you have regained your composure.”
While his mother spoke to their guests, James took the opportunity to turn his attention toward Eleanor. A noticeable shiver shook her delicate frame, which prompted James to refill her teacup. He imagined Montefeltro would want to rub her hands, bringing warmth back into them. It was what he would have done, if she were his intended. But to his surprise, Montefeltro was crouched down by the hearth, holding his hands close to the flames, his attention to Eleanor lacking in every way that would have been appropriate for a man intent on marrying the woman.
James busied himself, pouring tea for David and Montefeltro, when the door to the parlor opened once more. Bishop stepped inside, a frown creasing his face. “The Duke of Rothes and Miss Hartwell.”
Of all the guests who could have become stranded in the snow, the duke was one James would have preferred to have made it to the Reynolds’s home. As it was, he welcomed his two new guests and requested another kettle of tea and additional blankets. With the arrival of the duke, the parlor filled with a familiar unspoken tension that seemed to follow Rothes much like the smell of rotting fruit.
Rothes hit his cane against the bottom of his Bath chair as he shouted orders to his valet. “Take me to the fire, now.”
Mr. and Mrs. Dove instantly shifted to the opposite side of the hearth, standing closer to David and Montefeltro. The Bath chair took up valuable space, partially blocking Eleanor from the warmth.
“Why do I not have tea?” Rothes complained. He shifted in his seat to move closer to the fire.
James shook the kettle in his hand and frowned. “I fear we have drunk every last dreg.”
“Of course you have.” Rothes glared at James, then turned his full displeasure to his valet. The valet took up the charge, running down to the kitchens to appease his master. Just when everyone let out a sigh of relief, Rothes pointed to Eleanor. “She does not need two blankets. I will catch my death far quicker than any of you.”
Eleanor instantly removed one side of the blanket, but James would not allow it. This was his home. Rothes wasn’t exactly a wanted guest. He wouldn’t be turned away, but he would have to show some reserve in his demands.
“More blankets will be provided. As it is now, you are near the fire. If you would prefer it, you may turn in for the evening. Heating pans will be provided and may offer more comfort than this drafty old parlor.”
“I do not wish for bed at this hour.” Rothes narrowed his eyes at Eleanor, his irises blackening in an attempt to persuade her to give up a blanket.
James had been in situations like this with Rothes many times over the years. He knew it was best to stand his ground, never giving in to the duke’s whims, but he couldn’t expect his guests to ignore the pressure of the most powerful man in Emerald Falls. Mr. Dove removed the blanket from his shoulders and passed it to the duke.
As expected, Rothes called for his valet, but the poor overburdened man had not yet returned from the kitchen. James took up the mantle of caregiver, determined not to put the burden upon his mother or the Dove family. Taking the blanket in hand, he wrapped it around the duke, tucking it tightly between the chair and his back so as to trap the duke’s arms within the confines of the wool.
“What the deuce?” Rothes said as he wiggled his arms free. “Are you attempting to finish the job?”
James chuckled as he stepped away. Good humor was the only way to respond to Rothes, otherwise he might be tempted to throw the man out of his house into the blizzard. Of course, everyone in the room, other than Montefeltro knew of the duke’s accusation against James. But rehashing the same old argument would do little good. His immediate concerns were to see to the comfort of those in his care.
“I apologize, Your Grace. I was attempting to bring you warmth. Unfortunately, I do not possess the talent of caring for others. Your valet is a man of greatest patience.”
Rothes grumbled. “Ring for him. I would like my tea.”
James purposefully ignored the duke. He turned to Miss Hartwell, who still stood by the door. “Please, join us.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bailey. I was certain our driver would never find shelter in the storm. We are most thankful to be here.” Miss Hartwell steered clear of her cousin as she knelt beside Montefeltro. Her shivers, far more intense than those of her cousin, were met with a gallant gesture from Montefeltro as he gave up his blanket, wrapped it around her gently, and led her to the other chair near the fire.
Before Rothes could lodge more complaints, Mr. and Mrs. Bishop entered the parlor with additional blankets, tea, and all manner of warmth to offer their guests. It took nearly an hour for everyone to find a level of comfort in the parlor, at least enough that they were no longer shivering. But now that their physical needs had been seen to, James and his mother had one very big problem—they would have to entertain their guests for the duration of the storm.
“Would anyone be interested in a game of whist?” His mother stood, pointing to a table in the corner.
“No.” Rothes flicked his hand in the air, much like a king brushing off a pesky peasant.
Eleanor stood and pulled Miss Hartwell to her feet. “Miss Hartwell and I will join you.”
David Dove stood as well. “It would be my pleasure to have you as my partner in the game, Mrs. Bailey.”
James offered the use of his library to the rest of his guests, which seemed to appease everyone except Rothes. In the end, he stopped suggesting activities to the duke, for there was nothing anyone could suggest to occupy his time that would appease the man. Instead, James shrugged off the desire to push the Bath chair out into the snow—with its occupant—and instead he selected his own book to read.