Christina wanted to bawl. She wanted to scream. She wanted to make a noisy, undignified scene. She was—she was jealous! ShehatedLizzie Gaynor. And she hated him— perhaps the more so because there was no reason for her hatred. Quite the contrary. She was the one who had wronged him. He had told her that her desertion had hurt him and driven him to Canada. His own dislike of her was a result of what she had done to him. And she knew now that the way she had justified her behavior all those years ago had been all wrong. There had been no justification.
She had lost all that was most precious in her life.
She turned blindly and hurried from the room, colliding with Mr. Radway as she did so and then dislodging a ribbon-bedecked bough from the door as she jerked it open. She fled up the stairs to her room. But her room did not provide sanctuary enough. She needed to be quite alone. She needed to be somewhere where she could recollect herself and find some peace.
There was only one place. She had not been there since ... That had been three years ago. It was three years since she had last been there, but the yearning to go now, to be away from the house where his presence was suffocating her to death, was overpowering.
She crossed to the window and gazed out. The snow was falling thickly and already settling in a white blanket on the lawns. It looked beautiful in the early twilight. They had all been watching it throughout the afternoon and hoping that tomorrow they would be able to go outside and enjoy it. They had all expressed the hope that it would remain for Christmas.
It should hinder her from going out. She set her forehead against the glass of the window. But she could not go back downstairs. Not yet. She just could not. The calm that she had imposed upon herself like a heavy armor for years past, the calm that had helped her cope with her life, had deserted her to be replaced with a wild, unpredictable swing of emotions over which she seemed to have no control whatsoever.
It was the third day of the house party. Her presence at tea was no longer essential. Rachel and Tess were downstairs, but there were other children for them to play with and plenty of adults to make much of them. When the time came, they would go back to the nursery with the other children. She need not worry about them. But if she stayed in her room, someone was going to come knocking at the door sooner or later. She could not face anyone at present.
A short while later Christina was hurrying down the servants’ staircase and letting herself out of a side door. She approached the trees from the back of the house, lest someone should spot her through the drawing room windows. The snow was powdery underfoot and not very slippery. Neither was it very deep yet. She found her way through the trees to the river and turned north along its bank. It did not matter that the paths were no longer visible. She knew the way well enough.
She had found the gamekeeper’s hut first when Mr. Pinkerton still lived there. She had used to go there sometimes to sit and talk with him, even to take tea with him. After he had moved to the village, though he came back sometimes and always kept the hut clean and ready for use, she used to go there alone. Not often. She had duties at home. Every minute of her day had been regulated. She was answerable to her husband for every one of those minutes. But sometimes she had found time to be alone, to seek peace, to seek the remnants of herself. They had been among the most precious interludes of her married life— until Gilbert had discovered her there one day and had put an end to them.
The door was unlocked. She went inside and shut it. She might have lit a candle with the tinderbox that was in its accustomed place on a shelf. She might have lit the fire that was built ready in the small hearth. But instead she took off her boots and curled her feet under her on the bed in the corner by the window, wrapping about herself her cloak and the sheepskin blanket that had been rolled there. She chose to sit in the semidarkness and in the cold. She twined her arms about her knees, rested her cheek on them, and closed her eyes.
She tried not to think. She tried to allow the quietness and the dusk to soothe her and heal her.
The Earl of Wanstead timed the kiss carefully. He did not want it to be so short that it might seem insulting. But he did not want it to be so long that it would raise expectations. And yet even as he tried to make it just the right kiss for the occasion, it struck him as odd that his mental processes should be so sharp when he was kissing the young lady to whom he was considering paying his addresses. He was concentrating so hard on kissing her in just the right way and for just the right length of time that he was scarcely aware of what it felt like to kiss her.
The drawing room door banged shut and one of the pine boughs pinned to it thudded to the floor just as he lifted his head and smiled. He was planning to turn to Rachel and little Alice Cannadine, who had helped make the kissing bough, and draw each of them beneath it for a kiss too.
“Is Lady Wanstead unwell?” John Cannadine asked, frowning in the direction of the door. “She seemed in a prodigious hurry.”
“She has been unusually busy during the past few days,” Lady Hannah said—she was holding the other kissing bough, which was destined for the hall below. “Perhaps she has gone to her room for a rest.”
Nothing else was said about the countess’s hasty exit. It was time for tea, and everyone was quick to tidy the room and summon those who were still busy in other rooms. The kissing bough was being made much of.
Why had she left? the earl asked himself. She had gone in a hurry while he was kissing Lizzie Gaynor beneath the mistletoe. The answer to his question was obvious, of course, and it irritated him no end. Kissing boughs were doubtless heathen creations, and kissing in public—perhaps even in private!—was the work of the devil. It was a good thing he had not got around to pecking Rachel on the cheek, he thought grimly. He might have found himself accused of all manner of atrocities.
He was glad she did not come back down for tea. He did not want to see her thin-lipped, disapproving face again any time soon. It was a discourtesy not to put in an appearance, of course, but that was her problem, not his. She was not his wife, for which blessing he would be eternally thankful. Tess, who had been playing with Alice and the younger Langan boy all through tea, came and stood before him when Laura Cannadine was about to herd all the children back to the nursery, and wanted to know where her mama was. He went down on his haunches before her.
“I believe Mama is being a sleepyhead,” he told her. “You exhausted her this morning, Tess, by making her climb trees and getting her stuck.”
She giggled.
“You go on up with the others,” he told her, patting her plump cheek. “Mama will come and see you later. And, Tess? Thank you for helping with the kissing bough. It is really lovely.”
She smiled sunnily and skipped off to join the other children.
WherewasChristina? She had not told anyone she was unwell. It was unlike her to abandon her duties or to lie down in the middle of the day.
“Ask her ladyship’s maid if she is in her room, Billings,” he instructed the butler after stepping out of the drawing room. “And if she is well.”
But the message came back that her ladyship was not in her room at all. One of the scullery maids, who had been shaking a cloth outside the kitchen door an hour earlier, had seen her walking up behind the house, going in the direction of the woods.
At twilight? When it was snowing rather heavily? If she had been going for a stroll in order to get some fresh air— but was that likely after all the air and exercise she had got during the morning?—would she not have mentioned the fact to someone? Would she not have asked if anyone wished to accompany her? At the very least her children?
What the devil?
Everyone had dispersed after tea to amuse themselves at various informal activities or to rest after the exertions of the day. There were a few hours to spare before it would be necessary to dress for dinner.
She had been gone for longer than an hour. Without a word to anyone. And she was still not back. It was heavy dusk outside now. Not that the night was going to be a dark one with all the light snow clouds that were still disgorging their load. But even so it was a strange time to go out for a prolonged stroll—alone.
Damn the woman, he thought. He had been going to suggest a game of billiards with Harry and Ralph and anyone else who cared to join them. There was a cozy fire in the billiard room. He had had enough of the outdoors and of physical exertion for one day. If she had gone off alone, it was because she wanted to be alone. There was no danger to her. Despite the snow, there was no blizzard, and she must know her way about the park. He would certainly be the last person she would want to see.
