A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 14
The boy revealed a perfect set of teeth. If only the children at Field Lane could be given the same measure of care. “’Is name is Pegasus, and it’s me pleasure, sir. I’ll be ’ere to offer assistance when ye return.”
There was no question that servitude included holidays, but Bart could not help feeling bitter about the hand life had dealt children. He nodded to Grimes before mounting the beast. “I shan’t be long.”
“O’ course not, sir.” Grimes’s happy response rattled Bart’s conscience. “It’s Christmas.”
For pity’s sake, was there nowhere he could go to escape it?
Desperation gripped his insides with unruly fire. If he didn’t distance between himself from the joyous people at Berkhamstead Place, he wasn’t sure what he might say or do.
Chapter Eleven
Music flowed from Kitty’s heart to her fingertips to the pianoforte’s ivory keys. With great enthusiasm, she poured herself into the Cornish carol, her voice bringing the lyrics to life. “The First Noel,” a centuries-old tune, was simplistic in its message, and yet compelling. She couldn’t explain the joy taking residence inside her. It was different from Christmases past. But she knew it began and ended with Bartholomew Fernsby. He was responsible for the three books she’d acquired at Hatchard’s. They’d been bought and paid for by him, not a stranger as Mr. Hatchard and Alfred had made her believe. Most likely at Bart’s urging. But why had he done it?
She gave herself to the melody, embracing each word, hoping beyond hope that his presence here would, in some way, repay him for his kindness, and that he’d be touched by the spirit of Christmas.
“Then let us all with one accord
Sing praises to our heavenly Lord;
That hath made Heaven and earth of naught,
And with his blood mankind has bought.”
She glanced up from the keys before singing the chorus, eager to thank him for his generosity. But he wasn’t there. “Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel.”
Curious, she searched the room. How long had he been gone?
“Born is the King of Israel.” She ended the carol and stood as casually as she could manage, maintaining poise when every nerve inside her screamed his name.
Applause surrounded her.
“Well done!” Papa clapped his hands zealously.
Miss Burdett-Coutts added, “You are more talented than I imagined.”
“Thank you.” Kitty curtsied, her heart beating like a caged animal raging to be set free. Where had Bart gone? Surely he hadn’t left her without saying goodbye.
“Christmas has never been this festive.” Mr. Locke strode forward. “Do me the honor of singing again, Lady Catherine. Your voice is positively divine.”
She smiled, determination fueling every thought. “Unfortunately, I must politely decline at the moment, Mr. Locke. My throat is rather parched.”
He returned her smile. “May I have the pleasure of bringing you refreshment?”
“You are very kind, sir,” she quickly said. “Please do not go to any trouble on my account.”
“No trouble at all, my lady.” He turned to leave then hesitated as she stepped forward. “Stay where you are. I shall return momentarily.”
Meg suddenly appeared and grabbed her arm, her face flushing crimson. “Kitty, where are you going?”
“Have you seen Mr. Fernsby?” she asked.
“Yes. He seemed most rattled.” Meg lifted a parcel and handed it to her. “He asked me to give you this.”
If Bart had brought her a gift, why wasn’t he here to give it to her himself?
“Open it,” Meg said, her curiosity apparent.
Kitty pried back the edge of the parchment and stared at the book in her hands. It was a copy of A Christmas Carol. She chose her words carefully. “I do not mean to offend, Meg, but are you sure Mr. Fernsby meant this book for me?”
Meg brushed away a curl. “I’m certain.”
Then Kitty remembered Bart’s earlier words. This was a gift from Mr. Dickens himself! She had gotten so wrapped up in her music she had forgotten. She nervously opened the front binding and viewed the title page. And there it was. Dickens’s own script! Neatly sprawled across the gold-foiled page were the words, Faithfully yours, Charles Dickens. The swooshing C of Charles and his underlined name were characteristic of the prolific author.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed. She closed the book with a snap and handed it to Meg. “Hold on to this for me.”
“Why?” Meg asked. “Where are you going?”
“If anyone asks for me, make up an excuse for my absence,” Kitty implored.
Meg blocked her path. “Kitty, where are you going now?” she repeated.
“To find Bart.” She darted out of the room, heart in hand, leaving Meg staring after her. Once in the hallway, she searched for any signs of where Bart might have gone. The hallway was empty. She picked up her skirts and descended the staircase as quickly as she could to the ground floor.
Hatfield approached, his face filled with worry. “Is there something amiss, Lady Catherine?”
“No.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, berating herself for being so impulsive. “I mean to say, yes. Did Mr. Fernsby come downstairs?”
“Yes, my lady,” Hatfield deadpanned. “He left.”
“Did he say where he was going?” she asked.
Hatfield shrugged. “No, my lady.”
Her heart took flight. She had to find him. “Please fetch my cloak, Hatfield.”
“As you wish.” He nodded, then went to fulfill his task in timely fashion.
When he returned, he placed her cloak over her shoulders. She thanked him, secured the clasp, and vacated the house without a backward glance. She couldn’t allow Bart to leave without thanking him for all he’d done for her. No other man had ever been so kind and thoughtful.
Not only did he gift her the books, but when she’d confessed her desire to help the poor and the hurdles she faced as a woman, he’d managed to ensure that Miss Burdett-Coutts and other notable philanthropists visited Berkhamstead Place. No one had ever encouraged her independence and ambition before. All her life she’d heard the same five words: But you are a woman.
She increased her pace as the stable drew nearer. Bart deserved her appreciation, her trust, her . . . Was it possible she had feelings for him? She recalled how intimately he had embraced her when he saved her life at the train station. Even now her body reacted to the memory. Ever since, his touch, the twinkle in his eyes, his smile managed to melt her insides.
Mercy me, she thought, clutching the edges of her cloak together. Was it possible to fall in love with someone so quickly? She shook her head, incredulous. What did that matter, anyway? Time was of the essence. She had to find him. She needed to see him once more.
That was a lie. She wanted a lifetime in his arms. Picking up her skirts, she began to run, laughing at how utterly strange she might appear to Grimes, the son of their best huntsman, as she drew near.
“’Appy Christmas, milady,” the boy said cheerfully. “May I ’elp ye?”
“Yes,” she said anxiously, trying to catch her breath. “Did a man come here?”
He nodded. “Said ’e needed to ride. I offered ’im one of the ’orses.” She bit her lip, trying hard not to alert him to her dismay, but she failed when he asked, “Did I do somethin’ wrong, milady?”
“No.” She shook her head to put him at ease. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Grimes.”
Kitty walked through the stable doors. There, five-feet-wide oak stalls with loose boxes for handling horses showed off the Egerton coat of arms. Geldings, mares, and several ponies spotted her and stretched out their heads for her welcoming touch. She obliged as she walked by, the fresh hay calming her nerves.
“I must find Mr. Fernsby.” She was an excellent horsewoman, preferring to ride astride whenever she rode out to the Frithsden Woods. “And quickly.”
“Mars is already saddled, milady, but ’e ’asn’t ’ad time to burn off energy. ’E’s dangerous. The earl ’as insisted—”
“Never mind what my father said.” She strode over to the large beast tethered at the other end of the stables. “I can handle an energetic horse.”
“’E’ll sack me, milady,” Grimes stated, his eyes wide with dread. “Me pa can’t afford the loss.”
“I shall speak on your behalf when I return. I promise.” What choice did she have? “I am in a pickle. I shall handle Papa, and you know I can handle Mars.” The horse tossed its head at the sound of its name. “I will be perfectly fine.” She had to be. “Trust me,” she implored.
“I . . .” He scratched his neck uneasily as Kitty stared him down. “Very well. Keep a tight ’old of the reins. Don’t give ’im leeway.”
She smiled and mounted Mars with his assistance, leather cracking under her weight as he adjusted her skirts. She hated the lengths to which she had to go in order to ease her conscience. “I won’t be long. Don’t tell a soul where I’ve gone.”
He nodded.
“Grimes, I need to hear it. Promise me.”
The boy grunted. Mars snorted and pawed the ground, eager to be set loose. Grimes took off his hat and wiped his brow. “They’ll ’ave me ’ide—”
“All will be well,” she assured him while her heartbeat cantered ahead.
She clicked her tongue and kicked her heels, leading Mars away from the stables, secure in the knowledge that she’d earned the beast’s trust over the course of time. Rarely had she been allowed to ride him for the reasons Grimes had stated. Her father didn’t trust the animal and feared something bad would happen to her if Mars should bolt. He’d been gelded to keep him in line because visitors frequently requested to ride him. Kitty needed his superiority and speed, however. If anyone could catch up to Pegasus, Mars could.
That added assurance filled Kitty with an extra dose of courage. “Now,” she said looking over her shoulder, “which way did he go?”
Pegasus’s hooves struck the earth, propelling him forward at breakneck speed. But no matter how fast Bart urged the horse to run, the horrific truth had never been clearer. He couldn’t outrun his past any more than he could his longing for Kitty, no matter how hard he tried. He was a heartless, hopeless, broken fool to think that he could master these newfound emotions. Without even trying, Kitty had broken through his chains, she—
He closed his eyes, attempting to purge her from his mind. That wasn’t possible. Set on his purpose—putting as much distance between himself and Kitty—he focused on the road ahead. But yet again, Kitty managed to conquer his thoughts. He saw her bent over the pianoforte, her beautiful long neck arched over her music, her graceful fingers dancing over the ivory keys. Even now, the magnificent strains of her sultry voice drifted over the meadow, luring him back to Berkhamstead Place with mystical fervor.
Dash it all, she’d invaded his blood, his very soul.
He kicked his mount into a faster gallop. Unfamiliar with the Chiltern Hills, he took in the landscape lush with bracken, gorsy heath, woodlands, water meadows, and a variety of trees—silver birch, beech, hawthorn, and lime—to divert his attention. Chasing the narrow road uphill, he charged farther afield, his emotions still in flux. But no matter how far he traveled, he couldn’t escape the thought of Lady Catherine Egerton.
Bollocks! He never should have come. Ah, but like a lamb to slaughter, he’d accepted Egerton’s invitation.
Bart rode on. The farther away from Berkhamstead Place he got, the more a violent, indescribable ache filled his chest. Kitty had claimed him without knowing it. He was thoroughly and completely enamored of her. Her lovely face and compassionate nature held him captive. She was pleasant and unsullied. She was a rare woman; he’d met none finer. He’d been drawn to her from the first moment they’d touched on that steamy platform. And the melodies she sang . . . They reminded him of the horrors of his past, his losses and regrets. They made him long for Berkhamstead Place until the very idea of leaving it nearly killed him.
Therein lay the problem. Kitty was an earl’s daughter. She made him yearn for what he could not have. There was a darkness lying dormant inside him, a haunted child who might smother her inherent goodness like his father had his mother. He couldn’t allow that to happen to another woman for his own selfish gain. Even if through some strange and unlikely circumstance, he was the man Kitty desired, Bart knew he was not the man Kitty needed.
By jingo, what was he to do? The delicious food he’d enjoyed, the excellent company, and stirring music had taken him back to a time he’d forbidden himself to think upon—the Christmases of his youth. Surely being numb was far preferable than this gutting pain. Uncle Matthias had warned him not to live in the past. He’d taught Bart that holidays were like any other day of a busy week, opportunities to labor, and improve one’s existence. Somehow, he’d learned to agree, numbed himself to life. He’d forgotten what it meant to be loved. Kitty had reminded him. She’d manipulated his senses, torn down his shields, and made him long to be loved and cherished.
Pegasus used his strong legs, shifting his weight with a combination of coordination and courage as he vaulted over a fallen tree. The undulating landscape opened to a common area suitable to foraging and grazing. Here, the ground was firmer, perfectly suited to riding, and the gelding found a steady foothold. Filled with an insatiable need to purge Kitty from his mind, Bart lowered his chest to the beast’s neck and raced along as if Beelzebub was on his heels.
Beech trees extended their branches at odd angles across the road, and yet, on he rode.
What words of wisdom would Uncle Matthias have for him now? His uncle had suggested a day might come when Bart would have to choose between the life he’d built as Matthias’s ward or Bart’s grandfather’s baronetcy. Without Bart, the baronetcy faced extinction. But which fork in the road should he choose? Neither was without consequences.
He’d done everything he could to ensure Kitty’s desires were met. He’d spoken to the Miss Burdett-Coutts, Locke, Moulton, Morrison, and Starey, and arranged for them to coordinate their visit to Berkhamstead with the Egertons. Through them, Kitty would find acceptance into the Poor Law Union.
Miss Burdett-Coutts’s example proved that Kitty didn’t need a man to achieve her dreams. And yet, he wanted to be that man, to walk hand in hand with her as she made a difference in people’s lives.
“I can’t risk it!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
He doubled over, unsure what hurt the most: remembering the last time he saw his mother or knowing that he didn’t belong with Kitty and her family. He’d buried one love already. The memory of his mother’s face, her touch, and the worry and tears that had hardened her gentle spirit swept through him. He’d sealed off the disappointment of his forefathers, locking away all the agony they’d caused. Nevertheless, this emptiness felt worse.
His hat flew off. “Bloody hell!”
He reined Pegasus to a halt, slipped effortlessly out of the saddle, and led the horse to a nearby silver birch tree. Tying the reins to a branch, he lumbered back to where his hat had landed. He picked it up and dusted off the brim, then glanced back the way he’d come. There, appearing as if out of a London fog, a rider raced toward him pell-mell. It didn’t take long to recognize who it was . . .
Kitty.
By Hades, that is a picture I’ll never be able to forget!
Her cloak flapped about her shoulders, and her blue skirts whipped about her legs. What the devil was she doing? Had she followed him? If so, she was more brazen, wilder, and more sensuous than he’d ever given her credit for, and he loved her all the more for it. But that was the problem. He couldn’t love her. His heart wasn’t big enough.
He put on his hat, then turned back toward Pegasus. Smoothing the gelding’s hindquarters, he waited none too patiently for her to join him.
“What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly as her horse barreled to a halt before him.
He stared at her in awe. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair had come loose, portions of it hanging to her elbows.
She reached out her arms. “Well . . . what are you waiting for? I came all this way to find you. Surely the least you could do is help me dismount.”
“Of course.” Where were his manners?
He reacted instantly. He strode toward her, then eased his hands under her arms and gently lowered her to the ground, molding her body to his as he did so. He suppressed a groan, enjoying the feel of his arms around her. Heat centered in his groin.
Struggling to find his voice, he whispered into her hair. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Why not?” She twisted out of his arms. “I know these woods like the back of my hand, and I had to find you.” She took off one of her riding gloves, then slowly discarded the other, her eyes never wavering from his. “I thought—”
“What?” he asked. She moved closer, her scent driving him wild. All the sense he possessed fled.
“I thought you were leaving us. That is to say—”
A steam engine shrieked. The sound came from beyond the hill, and he suddenly realized he hadn’t ridden south but north, away from the London and Birmingham Railway.
“Leaving did cross my mind,” he admitted sadly.
A look of disappointment washed over her face. “What has happened? Did someone offend you? Have I—”
“No,” he blurted out. It wasn’t her fault he was haunted by demons that prevented him from living a normal life. “That isn’t . . . What I mean to say is, you and your brother have been quite generous. The blame doesn’t lie there.”
“Then where does it lie? Why did you leave so suddenly? It’s as if the Devil was at your heels.”
“Lucifer is not after me.” That was a bald-faced lie, and he knew it. “If he were, I would not be here.”
He’d be lying in an unmarked grave with his parents. That’s how all the inhabitants of the Marshalsea were buried.
“I see,” she said. She couldn’t, though, because she didn’t know. She wrapped her cloak about her. “It is me you are running from, isn’t it?” She raised her fingers to her lips. “I sang a Christmas song again. Deep in my heart, I know I am the one to blame.”
