Christmas Belles Page 8

  "Decorating for Christmas, sir."

  "And in the meantime, my trunk stands unpacked. I can't even get into it because you have the key."

  "Sorry, Cap'n. I will be there in a moment, sir."

  "You'll be there now, Mr. Doughty," Trent said. Gesturing toward the holly, he added, "And get that shrubbery back outside where it belongs."

  "Begging your pardon, Captain Trent," a clear voice spoke up.

  For the first time, Trent realized someone else was present in the room. Turning, he saw Chloe descending a ladder propped near the window, her hands likewise full of greenery. He felt a prickle of irritation. She had never come down to take tea, claiming she had a headache. But she certainly looked healthy enough, a delicate flush blooming in each cheek, her eyes bright and defensive as ever.

  No sooner did her slippers touch the carpet than her chin came up, and she seemed ready to square off with him "Pray do not be angry with Mr. Doughty, Captain. It was I who commandeered him to help with the decorating. We always place holly and evergreen about the parlor on Christmas Eve and leave it up until Twelfth Night."

  "Twelfth Night!"

  " 'Tis bad luck to do otherwise, Cap'n," Doughty assured him.

  "It sounds like courting even worse luck to leave it up that long. In point of fact, downright hazardous. The evergreen in particular will become quite dry and brittle. One stray spark from the fire or a candle and this whole room could go up like kindling wood."

  "I don't think such a dire occurrence likely, Captain," Chloe said.

  Didn't she? Trent grimaced. Mr. Doughty, while he awaited the outcome of this disagreement, was already trailing one garland perilously near the flames.

  "At least keep that plaguey stuff away from the mantel. Mr. Doughty, take it down from there," Trent commanded in what he thought was a most reasonable tone.

  But instead of Doughty's prompt "Aye, aye, sir," the fellow actually had the impudence to look to Chloe for confirmation of the order.

  "Mr. Doughty!" Trent was justly incensed by this insubordination. He might endure the lady's hostility, but he'd be hanged if he would permit her to incite one of his seamen to mutiny.

  Doughty had the prudence to react with prompt obedience. He began yanking down the holly. With a cry of vexation, Chloe started forward as though she would intervene. She glowered at Trent

  "We decorate the windows, the arch of the door, and the fireplace, sir. That is the way it has always been done here for decades with the exception of last year."

  Trent felt himself to be a patient man, but he was getting tired of Miss Chloe constantly telling him the way things had always been done at Windhaven.

  "And why were you afflicted with a bout of good sense last year?" he asked harshly.

  To his surprise, the color ebbed from her cheeks. It was like watching a sudden frost blight a rose garden.

  "Because last year was our first Christmas without Papa. None of us felt much like celebrating." Her voice trailed off to a whisper as though she was unable to say any more. But she didn't have to. Trent already felt as if she had dealt him a blow. He wished she had, rather than looking so pale, those long gold-tipped lashes unable to veil the grief in her eyes.

  "I am sorry," he began, but she was already shaking her head in rejection of his apology.

  " 'Tis quite all right," she said. "Tear all the decorations down, Mr. Doughty. I daresay it is not important, and, after all, this is Captain Trent's house now."

  She dropped the evergreen that she had been holding onto the settee and stalked back to the window, where she stood hugging herself, her profile averted from Trent's gaze.

  Trent had never sworn at a woman, but Miss Chloe was bringing him dangerously close to it. Blast the girl, he thought, for making him feel like some sort of ogre, a villain who snatched sweetmeats from babes. He hadn't meant to deny her all the decorations. He had simply been expressing a natural concern regarding the safety of these arrangements. But Chloe seemed determined to construe everything he said in its worst possible context. It was high time that he and this truculent young lady came to an understanding.

  Placing his hands on his hips, he said to his steward, "You may go now, Mr. Doughty. I want a few words alone with Miss Chloe."

  "Oh, no need to do that, sir." Doughty spoke anxiously. "Actually, it was my notion 'bout hangin' the greens. 'Deed it was, Cap'n. My notion completely."

  "Mr. Doughty! I said you were dismissed."

  The big seaman shuffled toward the door, but he took his time about it, his large brown eyes fixed upon Trent with reproach.

  "Confound it, man," Trent said. "I am not planning to keelhaul the lady, only talk to her. Now be off with you."

  "Aye, sir." Doughty shambled out as Trent closed the door in his face.

  With her back to the two men, Chloe heard Doughty's departure with dread, wishing it had been the captain instead. She had already spent a wretched afternoon alone in her room, racking her brain for ways to prevent Emma's marriage, coming up with nothing. It all seemed so hopeless, beyond her control.

  Only recalling Papa's words, to believe that the impossible could be made possible, had managed to restore her flagging spirits, once more reaffirm her hope and resolve. When she had recalled it was Christmas Eve, she had brightened even more at the thought of doing the decorations both she and her father had always loved. There could be a special magic in it, drawing her somehow closer to Papa this night, no matter how distant the heaven he inhabited.

  Yet here was the odious captain finding a way to spoil that joy for her as well, with all his practical talk of dried-up evergreen and fire hazards, reminding her, whether he meant to or not, that Papa was truly gone. And Windhaven belonged to the captain now.

  She heard his footfall behind her, approaching her retreat by the window. To her dismay, she felt tears filling her eyes, and she swiped at them in desperation. She hated to cry in front of a stranger, especially one so coldhearted as the captain. He would be bound to view any display of emotion with scorn.

  "Miss Chloe," he began sternly as he drew alongside of her. Yet when he caught sight of her face, he faltered. Chloe would not have thought it possible, but this man who had surely stood unflinching before the cannon fire of the entire French navy looked positively daunted. In a tone almost approaching panic, he said, "Chloe. Here now! Belay those tears."

  Unfortunately, this gruff command only made matters worse. Her tears spilled over to trickle down her cheeks. She mopped at them with the back of her hands, but to no great effect.

  "I am s-sorry," she stammered. "I don't mean to be such a fool. It is only talking about the decorations and Papa. Christmas always meant so much to him." Her throat squeezed so tight, she could barely speak. "If you c-could just excuse me ..."

  "No, I cannot," Trent said.

  Blindly, she turned to make for the door, but his solid frame blocked her retreat. He caught her face between his hands, his slightly calloused thumbs whisking away her tears with great efficiency. His touch was surprisingly gentle all the same

  "You never gave me the chance to finish what I was saying before," he said. "I wasn't going to forbid the decorations. I'll help you hang the blasted things myself, on the mantel, the doors, wherever you want them. I'll even stick a sprig of holly in my hat, if only you will stop crying."

  Chloe sniffed, wanting to thrust him away. But she was overcome by the ludicrous image his words painted, the captain fiercely sporting holly on the brim of his imposing military cockade. She smiled in spite of herself.

  "That's better," he said. He stroked his thumbs across her face again, then cupped her chin and looked into her eyes as though defying any more tears to run his blockade. "You might have a little more forbearance for an old tar like me, Miss Chloe. I am not that familiar with these holiday customs. I have spent every Christmas since I can remember on the deck of a ship. Most times I forget what day it is unless one of my crew wishes me a happy Christmas."

  "That is the
saddest thing I have ever heard," Chloe said, aghast. "How could one ever forget Christmas?"

  "I fear the day's significance is not noted among my tide tables." Trent smiled, giving her damp cheek one final caress before allowing his hand to drop to his side.

  "But surely when you were a child, you must have celebrated," she said. "How old were you when you first put to sea?"

  "Almost nine."

  "Nine! And your mama and papa let you go?"

  "My mother died when I was born, and my father was a quiet man who left my upbringing to my grandfather, Admiral Sefton. He obtained me a commission in the navy as soon as he could. It was a great honor to become a midshipman that young."

  "Perhaps it was," Chloe said doubtfully. The last thing she wanted to do was feel sympathy for Captain Trent, especially when the man seemed so sublimely unaware that anything was missing from his life, a wealth of Christmastide memories, the warmth of parental affection.

  He appeared discomfited to have revealed this much about himself. She noticed that he had discarded his uniform. His shirt of thin white cambric outlined clearly the muscular play of his shoulders, the neck buttons undone enough to reveal a small vee of bronzed chest. Never had the captain appeared so vulnerable and at the same time so threateningly masculine.

  Her heart hammered strangely and she would have felt more comfortable retreating, but the captain showed no sign of letting her go. He regarded her gravely, his eyes softening to the hue of mist.

  "Miss Chloe, we have had a great deal of misunderstanding between us. I fear that I can be abrupt at times. If I have ever hurt your feelings, I assure you it was unintentional. I would like us to be friends, but you seem to have decided this is not possible. Can you tell me why? What is it about me that offends you?"

  Chloe drew in a deep breath. Perhaps never again would the captain be so approachable. This at last was her opening to explain about Emma, an opportunity that must be handled with much delicacy and tact.

  "I don't want you to marry my sister," she blurted out, then winced. So much for tact.

  "Why not?" Trent asked, equally as blunt. "Do you find me that repulsive?"

  "No. But you only just met Emma today. You don't even know her except through her letters."

  "That is true. I admit the circumstances surrounding our engagement are unique. But I often wonder: How much better acquainted are couples who have a more conventional courtship? They meet a few times at balls, dinner parties, walks in the park." Trent gave an expressive shrug. "I believe Emma and I have as good a chance of achieving a felicitous marriage as they do."

  "Even if Emma is already in love with someone else?"

  There now, Chloe had said it. She braced herself for Trent's reaction—shock, disappointment, perhaps even anger. She was prepared for anything but how calmly he received her announcement.

  "Oh, that!" he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  "You mean to say that you already knew? And you still mean to make Emma marry you!"

  "Let us get one thing straight, Chloe. I am not making Emma do anything. She accepted my proposal freely. She did inform me of a previous attachment to another young man, but circumstances rendered any marriage between them impossible. I honor your sister for her frankness. If she can put the past behind her, I see no reason not to do the same."

  "Love cannot be so easily discarded, Captain, like it was last year's fashion. Emma still cares deeply for this other young man and—"

  "She mentioned none of this to me," Trent interrupted. "Nor any desire to be released from our engagement."

  "Of course she wouldn't, but—"

  "Then don't you think you are taking a deal too much upon yourself to speak for her?"

  "Well, I ... I ..." Chloe floundered, not able to argue that point as strongly as she would have liked.

  "I understand that you are feeling a natural anxiety on your sister's behalf. But Emma is older, and, if you will excuse my saying so, wiser than you. I think you had best let Emma make her own decisions without trying to interfere."

  His tone was kind but very final. He accompanied this speech with a condescending pat on her shoulder that made Chloe grit her teeth.

  "Now I shall send Mr. Doughty back to help get these decorations up. I am glad we had this little talk, my dear. I am sure we understand each other far better now."

  "But Captain Trent—" Chloe protested.

  It was of no use. The man had already bowed and was moving toward the door. If he realized how Chloe seethed with frustration, he was determined to ignore it.

  "Oh yes, I understand you perfectly," she muttered, waiting until the door clicked shut behind him before adding, "Blackbeard!"

  Except for last Christmas, when her heart had yet been breaking for her father, Chloe could not remember a holiday that she had enjoyed less than this one. The infamous Captain Trent was to blame for that.

  He raised no further objections to the manner of their celebrations at Windhaven. He even joined in after his own grave fashion, helping to haul in the Yule log, bussing Emma's cheek underneath the mistletoe with all due solemnity.

  Not because he took any great joy in the customs, but because he had been told this was the proper way to celebrate on Christmas Eve. And so he did it with the same precision with which he must have charted his course at sea or carried out the Admiralty's orders.

  No one but Chloe seemed to find anything lacking in him. He was courtesy itself and very attentive to Emma, just as a prospective bridegroom should be. But Chloe detected no real warmth in his manner, no true delight in Emma's company. Oh, it was wicked that he could think to marry their Emma only out of some benighted sense of duty or propriety, when his heart held no tenderness for her. It did not surprise Chloe that her plea for him to release Emma had fallen on deaf ears. Of course the captain would account love of no importance. He didn't even know what it was.

  Chloe observed as much of this excruciatingly polite courtship as she could bear, then excused herself. She retired to bed earlier than she had any Christmas Eve since her childhood.

  The next day, she dreaded attending services, seeing poor Mr. Henry's face when he obtained his first glimpse of Captain Trent. It was a cold, frost-hardened Christmas morning, with a chill wind whistling through the crevices of St. Andrew's Church.

  Situated on their family's pew, Chloe huddled between Lucy and Agnes for warmth, Mr. Lathrop, Emma, and the captain seated at the other end. One would have thought so many bodies packed together would have generated some heat. The church was quite crowded, from the humblest villager to the squire and his lady sporting a new velvet bonnet.

  Even Mr. Henry shivered a little as he mounted the pulpit to read out his lesson. He was better at it now than when he had first arrived two years ago. He didn't stammer nearly as much. Perhaps he would never be gifted with eloquence, but Chloe thought the earnestness radiating from his face more than made up for any faltering, his eyes shining with a humble faith, a great love for the story he related, the birth of the Christ child with His message of hope and peace.

  Despite the cold, Chloe was sorry when the services ended. She shrank from that moment to come when greetings would be exchanged in the vestibule. The entire parish was already buzzing about the presence of the handsome sea captain in their midst. Although Trent had not worn his uniform to church, Mr. Henry had to be aware of who Trent was and why he had come simply from the way the captain offered Emma his arm.

  The moment Emma approached Mr. Henry seemed so poignant, Chloe wondered how her older sister could bear it. How wretched to be obliged to address the man one really loved as though he were the stranger. Yet no one could have detected any difference in Emma's cheerful smile as she complimented Mr. Henry on his sermon. One had to have heard it in her voice, which became just an octave softer, or noticed it in the quick way she excused herself to go pay her respects to Squire Daniel's lady.

  Agnes, Lucy, and Lathrop had managed to escape to the waiting carriage. That
left Chloe the awful task of introducing poor Mr. Henry to his successful rival.

  There could have been no more painful contrast than Mr. Henry, in his mended robes, his face more earnest than handsome, and the captain, with his erect military bearing and striking profile.

  A moment of complete despair flashed into Mr. Henry's eyes. But he was not the sort to slap his brow or even glower. After the barest hesitation, he offered his hand to Trent, saying, "Welcome to Saint Andrew's, Captain. We have all looked forward to meeting the new master of Windhaven."

  "I thank you, sir. I hope I will not prove too much of a disappointment after Sir Phineas Waverly."

  "He was a kindly soul, may God rest him. But I am sure you will be a worthy successor. And may I offer my felicitations on your marriage to Miss Waverly. You are a fortunate man."

  Chloe thought she had never witnessed a more quiet heroism. Anyone who did not know Mr. Henry's secret would never have guessed what such a gallant speech must have cost him. It was obvious the captain didn't. He accepted the clergyman's congratulations with the sort of casual thanks he would have accorded any well-wisher.

  On a sudden impulse, Chloe invited Mr. Henry to dine with them that day.

  "You know you have always shared Christmas with us," she insisted.

  "I don't know, Miss Chloe. Your sister, Miss Waverly, is surely not expecting another guest, and—"

  "Nonsense. Emma would be delighted." Chloe continued to press the clergyman, being politely seconded in her efforts by the unsuspecting Captain Trent. When the flustered Mr. Henry accepted at last, Chloe wondered if she was being more kind or cruel She only knew she could not permit Mr. Henry to give up on Emma so easily She would wager that if their positions were reversed, Captain Trent would not permit himself to be robbed of the woman he loved. Yet that in itself was an absurd conjecture—to think of the captain being that desperately in love.

  Having achieved her object with Mr. Henry, Chloe wriggled her numb toes inside her boots, impatient to be gone. But she had to linger a few moments more while Trent praised the vicar's sermon. She was astonished to hear him trade interpretations upon a passage of biblical text. As Trent escorted her to where the others waited at the carriage, Chloe didn't hesitate to say so.