Christmas Forevermore, page 3
He stood there, rocking back on his heels with uncertainty, wishing he had gone around the two of them with no more than a nod of acknowledgment. He had no experience with helping a boy who was upset over kittens.
When he offered no further ideas, Miss Allen’s lips turned upward. Then she gave her full attention to the child again.
“Does Cupid make you sneeze?” Miss Allen asked, and the boy’s eyes turned round. “Perhaps you could pay him a visit so he doesn’t grow jealous of the attention the kittens receive.”
“He doesn’t make me sneeze. Cupid likes me too.” Edgar stood. “I’ll wash up and then play with Cupid. Thank you, Jane. You have the best ideas.”
And Cyril had an uncomfortable feeling he ought to know who or what Cupid was. He’d heard the name before, but surely it didn’t belong to a relative. He watched the boy charge off, then looked down at where Jane Allen still sat on the steps. She offered him an amused smile that tilted up higher on one side.
“Edgar is a dear boy. Sometimes he’s a bit sensitive, but I’ve never found it difficult to perk him up after a disappointment.” She remained where she was, not quite at eye level with him, hands folded in her lap and posture as correct as it would be in a parlor. Somehow, she made sitting on the stairs look quite natural.
“Does it often fall to you, Miss Allen, to cheer up the children in the house?” It seemed a strange way for a companion to spend her time.
That question made her smile grow into a grin. “It isn’t one of my particular duties, though I try to help where I am able.” Then she held her hand out to him, and Cyril took it without a thought. Once her slim hand with its delicate fingers was in his grip, he froze. What was happening? Why were they touching? Neither of them wore gloves. And her hand was so soft. Why had she entrusted it to him?
Then she made to stand, and he realized his mind had completely turned over without reason. He added some leverage to help her rise to her feet, and that put her several steps above him, making her taller than he was, looking down at him with her Caribbean-blue eyes.
“What about you, Mr. Grant?”
He blinked up at her. “I beg your pardon? What about me?”
Her lips pressed together as though to hide the widening of her smile. Did she find him amusing or merely think him a lackwit? She certainly hadn’t been impressed with him that morning before she took the children out into the snow. “Do you help where you are able?”
Cyril gave a tight nod. “I try. I think it is only right that a gentleman, that any good soul, offer of themselves when they see another in need.”
The teasing tilt of her mouth returned. “That is lovely to know. I wonder if you might help me with something, then?”
“I am at your service.” He probably should have hesitated or asked what she needed of him before offering such ready agreement. But somehow, the sparkle in her eyes, accompanied by her merriment, made him speak without thinking. Just who was this woman who charmed children, grandmothers, and gentlemen alike with no more than a few words?
“First, I will need you to return my hand.”
Heat raced up the back of his neck and into his ears. He released her fingers at once, shocked at himself. How long had they stood there holding hands, where anyone might see? Where anyone might notice and form inappropriate ideas? Miss Allen, under his grandmother’s protection, was still in a vulnerable position as a paid companion. He gulped and stepped back. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t realize—”
“Please, you needn’t apologize.” She tucked her now free hand behind her. “As for that service you promised, it’s quite simple. Your grandmother asked me to find a box for her, full of little things she intends to give the children. I found the box, but I cannot reach it. I was about to go in search of one of your cousins, but as we are both here, I thought you might not mind helping.”
The simplicity of her request left him oddly disappointed. She needed someone taller than her, and nearly anyone in his family would have done. Why had he hoped her request was specific to him? He cleared his throat and bowed. “As I said, I am at your service. Lead the way.”
She turned on the steps and went upward, and he followed. She spoke as she led him through the house. “She collects trinkets all year, you know. Anything that is small and fanciful or odd she tucks away for Christmas. Did you ever win one of her prizes?”
“I cannot recall doing so.” Most of his childhood memories had little to do with Christmas. He’d visited his grandparents in the summer, usually. His stepfather had liked to be in London before the start of the Season to ensure his storehouses were full and shipping everything to the merchants of the largest city in England. Cyril had spent only his earliest Christmases at Mardale House, which made things for him all the more difficult. Everyone in the house at present had spent years and years performing the same games and traditions, while he felt like he had entered a foreign land. “What do the children do to win these trinkets?”
“All sorts of little things. They play games, like hunt the slipper, hide-and-seek, or have races in the corridors. Last year, everyone took off their shoes and attempted to slide in their stockings across the ballroom floor for the longest distance. They brought all the cards in the house together and made towers with them. Any silly thing we can think of to make everyone laugh will do.”
He couldn’t imagine what that would be like, spending hours of time on amusements. He’d worked with his stepfather for as long as he could remember, when he wasn’t at school. Then the years in the Caribbean had been too full of toil and long days in the sun for there to leave energy for socializing. “Is it always like this?” he muttered.
Miss Allen heard him. “Oh no, of course not. Everyone will go their separate ways after Twelfth Night. To school, university, London, or their homes in other parts of the country. I think your grandmother makes up for the quiet times and empty house with Christmas and summer parties.”
His stepfather had often scoffed at “soft toffs” and their frivolity. What would he say if he knew Cyril and Elizabeth were now among them? He hadn’t been an especially affectionate man, but he had raised them as though they were his own. And Cyril had done what he could to prove he wasn’t soft or above work, the way he imagined lords to be.
Miss Allen stopped before a wall, took hold of a small dip in a bit of wood trim, and tugged. The wall opened to reveal a closet. “There it is.” She pointed upward, as though it were perfectly normal to turn a bit of normal-looking wall into a door. For her, it must be. “That box with all the flowers pasted on it.”
The box sat on a shelf at the top of the tall closet. One even Cyril couldn’t reach without aid. He looked down and spotted a stool slid beneath the lowermost shelf. “If she adds to this box year round,” he said as he tugged the stool out, “why is it so inaccessible?”
“We hide it before the children come.” She folded her arms and leaned against the edge of the door. “A few of them have been here for days, you know, poking about and looking for hidden treasures.”
That made sense. He stepped onto the stool and reached upward, the fitted sleeves of his coat making the movement somewhat difficult. Gentlemen weren’t expected to reach overhead often, he supposed. The cloth protested, but he caught hold of the wooden box’s edges and tugged it forward with a grunt. “It’s heavier than it looks.” He slid it out inch by inch and then had it directly overhead. The position of the shelves and narrowness of the closet meant he couldn’t lower the box before stepping down, so he tried to step backward off the stool instead—and the stool tipped.
For one awful moment, he knew he would land on his tailbone and scatter the box with its contents all over the floor.
“Look out!” Miss Allen shouted, and he felt her hands connect with his back, pushing him upright. He wobbled, the perilous feeling still in his gut, but steadied. And then both of them stood there, not breathing, until she whispered, “That was unexpected.”
He looked at her through the crook of his elbow. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, quite well.” Then she grinned at him. “It seems I’ve paid my debt to you, when you kept me from falling this morning.”
He shifted, and she released him. Then he half turned on the stool and handed the box down to her, as he should have done before attempting his awkward dismount. She took the box, her arms dropping beneath its weight, and moved away. When his feet were finally upon the floor and the closet door shut, he tugged at the sleeves of his coat to ensure they fit properly once more.
“I would wager you didn’t think fetching a box would lead to such an adventure,” Miss Allen said, the sparkle in her eyes causing a strange tug at his heart.
He made a quip without thinking. “I can only imagine the danger associated with your other chores, Miss Allen. It seems a companionship to my grandmother isn’t without its risks.” The way her eyes lit up when she giggled at that made the ridiculous comment worth it. He held his hands out. “I will take the box, if you will lead the way to the countess.”
“A perfect arrangement.” She released it to his care and led him through the house again, and Cyril followed as dutifully as any porter.
The extent of her knowledge about the family impressed him. Perhaps, if he was clever, he could make an ally of her. With her cheery disposition and friendliness, she wouldn’t mind helping him navigate his family. It rankled to need an outsider’s help for anything, but how else would he ensure the family’s help in securing a suitable match for his sister? He didn’t know anything about presenting a young lady into Society. His sister’s happiness was the most important reason he’d left behind the life he knew best. If his grandmother, an aunt, even a married cousin, took an interest in Elizabeth, Cyril would have a far easier time of things.
Chapter 3
Though Cyril expected to deliver the box and then make another escape, his grandmother quickly disabused him of that notion. Instead she invited him to sit with her, Elizabeth, and Miss Allen to go through the full box of trinkets, knickknacks, and curiosities she had accumulated.
“We must decide which prizes are best for which children,” she said, “or which games.”
Cyril couldn’t imagine being of much use, given how little he knew of anyone in the household. Yet there he sat, next to his sister, while Miss Allen took out item after item for them to discuss. Elizabeth was tasked with making notes so they would not forget what they’d decided.
“A wood carving of a dog,” Miss Allen said as she showed them the latest in the long list of trinkets.
“That one looks like Cupid in miniature,” Elizabeth cooed, holding her hand out to accept the little wooden French dog.
That explained who Cupid was. His grandmother’s French dog with the mop of curly fur. The dog reminded him of a water spaniel. Cupid must be off playing with Edgar still, as the large creature wasn’t anywhere to be seen at that moment. Even that limited knowledge gave him leave to suggest, “If Edgar wins a prize, perhaps he would appreciate the carving.”
“An excellent idea, Cyril.” The countess beamed at him as though he’d said something brilliant. “What do we have next, Jane?”
Her companion drew out something wrapped in cloth. She carefully unwound it and revealed a magnifying glass, crafted with a metal handle that resembled a feather. She turned it over in her hands, and Cyril stared at the piece in some confusion.
He’d seen it, or something like it, before. Handled it with awe, in fact. He nearly asked to hold it, breaking his silence for the second time since Miss Allen had opened the box. But he pressed his lips together. It couldn’t be the same magnifying glass he’d once played with as a child. Could it?
His mind stretched backward into memory, recalling a time when he’d crouched beneath his grandfather’s desk. The earl had known he was there. It was mere months after Cyril’s father’s passing, which meant Cyril couldn’t have been more than five years old. He’d simply sat there, in the quiet beneath the desk, while his grandfather worked above him, until the earl’s hand had appeared, holding a magnifying glass out to Cyril. He hadn’t said a word, but Cyril had accepted the glass and used it to study the lines in his hands and the whorls of his finger pads, and finally he’d left the confines of the desk to see what else appeared different through the magical lens.
“It’s a lovely piece.” Miss Allen’s voice brought him back to the present as she studied it. “I cannot think of anyone who might especially enjoy it. Have you a thought for this one, Miss Grant?”
“Please, call me Elizabeth.” His sister didn’t take the tool, though she tapped her pencil against the paper in her hand thoughtfully. “There are too many Miss Grants in this house, and I would very much like to call you Jane, if you’ll allow it.”
His sister had never acted so casually about her name before, but Cyril supposed it couldn’t be helped. There were a large number of Grants in the home since it was the family’s legal surname.
“What do you think, Cyril?” his grandmother asked, and he turned to see her studying him.
“I think it acceptable for Miss Allen to use Elizabeth’s name, given the circumstances.” Only after he gave the answer and his grandmother stared back at him with a raised eyebrow did he realize he’d answered the wrong question. “Oh, you mean the glass.” His neck warmed beneath his collar and cravat, and he hoped his ears hadn’t turned red.
Why did being near his family make him act like such a fool? He swallowed, pushing away his uncalled-for embarrassment. “Perhaps there is a game it would be an appropriate prize for.” Then he stood. “My apologies, ladies, but I must excuse myself. There is something I need to see to.” And he left as quickly as he could.
At every turn, he made a fool of himself in this house, with these people. He didn’t belong here. He belonged in an office somewhere, or on a dock, overseeing the unloading of ships and the restocking of supplies. He hadn’t the first idea how to sit about and dream up games for the amusement of children. And he still had weeks left of pretending he was part of this noble family.
He stepped into the corridor that led to the family wing, where he’d been given a room, when he heard the harried call of Miss Allen from behind him.
“Mr. Grant? Do stop a moment.”
He slowed and turned around to see her hurrying after him, her stride as long as she could make it in her gown. Had his grandmother sent the companion after him? How long had she been following him? His heart dropped with shame.
When Miss Allen caught up to him, she took a moment to catch her breath before speaking. He maintained his silence until she managed her question. “Are you all right?”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You seemed distressed when you left.”
“Did Lady Mardale send you after me?”
“No.”
“Did my sister?”
“No. Neither of them said a word about your departure. They are still cataloging the boxed items.” She placed a hand to her chest. “I came of my own accord because you looked—I suppose I should say unsettled, though that isn’t the word for it. I hope we did nothing to offend you or cause hurt. Your grandmother would never forgive herself if—”
“No one did anything wrong.” He studied her, confused. His sister hadn’t come after him. His grandmother hadn’t sent her companion. Perhaps he’d done a better job of masking his discomfort than he’d thought. But not good enough for Miss Allen. “You are an interesting woman, Miss Allen.”
“Please, call me Jane. Everyone does.” Her smile flitted briefly across her face. “Are you certain you are well?”
“Well enough. Thank you for your concern.” He gave her a small bow. “You may return to my grandmother. I intend to rest until dinner.” It wasn’t a complete lie. He needed time alone, away from the noise and half-remembered feelings of belonging and loss.
She nodded. “If you are certain. I will see you later this evening.” She curtsied, then walked away.
Before she’d gone more than a few steps, Cyril found he didn’t wish her to leave, even though he’d been the one to dismiss her when all she’d done was show kindness in following after him. “Miss—Jane?”
She stopped and turned around again. “Yes, Mr. Grant?”
“You may as well call me Cyril.” He tried to smile. “There are too many Mr. Grants. And everyone else in this house does.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled. “Very well. I will see you this evening, Cyril.” Then she continued on her way, leaving him to stare after her. The woman had to be a fairy, placing the whole of the house under her spell. He’d certainly started to fall under it. That could be the only explanation for the feeling he’d had when she’d spoken his name—a name he’d nearly always hated. Somehow, it sounded different when it came from her lips.
He needed to take himself straight to bed, if those were the sorts of foolish thoughts that came when he didn’t get enough sleep.
***
Later that evening, after dinner, all the adults in the family gathered in the large blue parlor. Jane took her customary place in a chair slightly behind the countess and earl’s favored couch. She sat with a book in hand, though she was quite ready to join conversations or serve the countess as needed. Good cheer and merriment filled the room to its brim. The earl’s two sons played a game of chess in the corner, and several of the women clustered around the pianoforte to plunk out favorite tunes.
Jane watched it all with fondness, her eyes taking in each corner of the room. Elizabeth Grant seemed content to laugh with her cousins, fitting into their company quite naturally. But where had her elder brother run off to?
A chorus of laughter burst from a corner of the room where several men in the family attempted to create a house of cards. They had decided to practice their skills on the chance that their hosts repeated the competition from the year before, their forms bent close to the table where they took turns balancing cards on their edges. Cyril Grant’s dark head of hair wasn’t among them though.
