And after he was gone, there would be memories to live on. But she would not think of that yet.
A few of the older people had remained indoors as well as Laura Cannadine, who was in a delicate way and was afraid of sustaining a heavy fall. Everyone else, including the six children, were outside soon after breakfast. There were no decorations to gather today and no errands to be run. The park had already been quite thoroughly explored. There was only one thing to do outdoors, then, and they did it with unabashed enthusiasm.
They frolicked.
Inevitably it all began with a snowball fight, disorganized at first, everyone pelting whoever else happened to be within range, somewhat better organized later after the earl had bellowed for a ceasefire and had announced that he and the countess would choose teams, picking alternately, and then be given five minutes during which to discuss strategy with their respective regiments.
Christina took the first round without any argument, he was forced to admit when the five minutes were up and he emerged from a huddle with his warriors. She, it was clear, had not spent the time discussing strategy with some semblance of democracy, but had played tyrant and issued swift orders to her company. Some had been set to rolling and stockpiling as many snowballs as it was possible to make in five minutes while others had been directed to push the snow into a waist-high bulwark, behind which they were all crouched, fully armed, by the time the signal for war was given.
It all looked more impressive than it was, of course. Most of the prepared snowballs felled the enemy on the first glorious barrage, but since the weapons were not lethal, the enemy rebounded with a shriek and a roar and came on undaunted. And since the victors had stood up to cheer their victory instead of preparing for the next assault, the momentum quickly shifted. And since the bulwark had been built in a long, moderately straight line, a single small breach meant the collapse of the whole structure.
Once the breach had been accomplished, the battle degenerated into chaos and shouts and screeches and giggles. Most of the contestants resumed the old method of forming and hurling snowballs indiscriminately at friend and foe— indeed, very few could remember which was which. Viscount Luttrell threw himself in front of the countess and defended her with great show and gallantry in an imaginary sword fight with Samuel Radway; Geordie Stewart collapsed full-length on the snow under the impact of one tiny shower of snow and groaned pitifully as he tried unsuccessfully to defend himself against a hail of balls from Tess, the Langan boys, and Alice Cannadine; Jeremy Milchip and Frederick Cannadine had captured a shrieking Margaret between them and were ungallantly trying to stuff snow down the back of her neck; Lizzie Gaynor was hovering close to the earl, occasionally clinging to his arm, with a nice show of timidity and unsteadiness of foot, though she showed a glowing, laughing face whenever it was turned up to him; Rachel was pelting him with remarkably accurate aim—and laughing gleefully at every hit and looking anything but her usual plain, rather sad self.
He was busy, being the focus of much of the attack and for very pride’s sake making quite sure that he gave as good as he got. But he was not too busy to notice the transformation in Christina. It had not been apparent at breakfast. She had been quiet and dressed in gray—not part of her new wardrobe, he had guessed—with her hair combed back severely from her face and brow and dressed in coiled plaits at her neck. She was still dressed in gray now. But there was nothing dull about her demeanor. She fought with energy, laughing and yelling, her cheeks and nose bright with the winter chill, her eyes dancing with merriment.
What a contrast, he thought, with the mental picture he had of the woman who had greeted him in the drawing room on the evening of his arrival at Thornwood less than two weeks before—dark, severe, and joyless. It might have been better for him if she had remained that way. He could not keep his mind, either, away from an image of her as she had been early last evening in the cozy warmth of Pinky’s hut, naked beneath him on the bed, her eyes heavy with passion, her lips swollen from his kisses.
“Arrghh!” he exclaimed in disgust as a large, soft snowball collided with his nose and splattered over his whole face. That was what he got for lowering his guard and going off into a dream for a moment. He scraped away snow with his gloves and looked around quickly to see if he could identify his assailant. She was laughing in gloating triumph— Christina.
He roared and dived for her. She went down beneath his weight and landed on her back in the deep, soft snow. She laughed at him when he lifted his head and looked down at her.
“Unfair!” she said. “Snowballs are allowed. Wrestling is not.”
“But who makes the rules here?” he asked, grinning at her. “Do I have to remind you constantly?”
But both her laughter and his grin quickly died. He could smell lavender, he thought foolishly. Her lips had parted and her gaze had lowered to his mouth. They were also surrounded by family and friends. He adjusted his weight, flipped her over before she realized his intent, pressed her facedown into the snow for a moment, and then grasped her flailing arms and pinioned them by the wrists behind her back.
“Ho!” he bellowed. “I demand the surrender of the countess’s forces. Else I shall have her eating snow for the rest of the morning.”
She was laughing again.
“Egad,” Viscount Luttrell said, executing a piece of elegant swordplay over the two of them. “I have just finished carving up one man who dared threaten her ladyship’s person. You want to be next, Wanstead? On guard!”
“I will wager,” John Cannadine said, “that my children and I can build a better snowman than any other three people here present can do—within the next hour, shall we say?”
“A wager?” The viscount spun about. “With what as the prize, pray?”
“The first to be served with chocolate and mince pies when we go back inside?” the earl suggested, getting to his feet and reaching down a hand to help Christina to hers.
“Ah, a wager not to be resisted,” Viscount Luttrell said. “My lady?” He bowed elegantly to Christina, who was trying to slap the snow off her cloak with equally snowy gloves. “You look like someone who knows a thing or two about the construction of snowmen. Will you join me? And Miss Campbell? You have not a hope in a million, John, my lad.”
The earl had Lizzie and Rachel on his team; Geordie Stewart had Tess and the younger Langan boy; the older boy was with his parents; Jeremy and Frederick and Margaret took up the challenge. Ralph Milchip pronounced himself judge and jury. Everyone else wandered about, giving advice and encouragement. Clara Radway and Susan Gaynor waded off to the kitchen to beg coals and carrots.
Milchip made a grand moment out of the judging after he had pronounced the hour at an end. He moved from one snowman to another, his hands clasped at his back, a frown of concentration wrinkling his brow, his lips pursed. The children, the earl noticed in some amusement, watched his face, tense with suspense. Now how was Ralph going to avoid disappointing several of them? he wondered. Rachel had stepped closer so that the brim of her bonnet was almost brushing his arm. He cupped her shoulder with one hand and smiled down at her. She had thrown herself into the task with energy and solemn concentration. She wanted very badly to win.
“Well,” the judge began, speaking at last, “a difficult decision. Difficult indeed.” He shook his head. “But one must make a decision. Very well, then. I award a prize to the Cannadines for the squattest, fattest snowman I have ever seen.”
John laughed, Alice jumped up and down in glee, and young Jonathan sucked the thumb of his mitten. The other children looked disconsolate. Some of the adults applauded; some jeered. Ralph held up both arms.
“And I must award a prize to the Countess of Wanstead’s trio for the tallest snowman,” he said; “and to Lady Margaret’s for the snowman whose head has fallen off more often than anyone else’s; and to Mr. Stewart’s for the snowman with the broadest smile; and to Lord Langan’s for the only snowman with arms, though one has just this moment dropped off, it is true; and to the Earl of Wanstead’s for working the hardest and producing the overall largest snowman.”
Rachel looked up at his lordship with bright eyes, and he winked at her. Had Ralph thought of how the prize was to be claimed? he wondered.
The judge imposed silence by raising both arms again, and proved himself worthy of his position of authority. “As for the prize,” he said and paused for effect. He looked about at the group of builders. “The first cup of chocolate and the first mince pie go to—the first one back at the house.” And he turned and raced off in the direction of the main doors, laughing like an imbecile and leaving a cloud of snow in his wake.
“We had the biggest snowman and worked the hardest,” Rachel said in all earnestness.
“We certainly did.” The earl took her hand in his. “No one worked harder. I chose my team well. Shall we go back inside?”
