When the housekeeper finally signaled to the servants that it was time to return to their posts, Christina would have left the room with them. She did not wish to be alone with the earl. She had been considerably embarrassed the night before by Rachel’s words. The worst of it was that she had been weaving fantasies of her own, even if only half consciously. Walking home from church, they had seemed so much like a family—a close and loving family. The sight of him walking beside her, first with Tess in his arms and then with Rachel right inside his greatcoat, had turned her quite weak at the knees. And then his presence with her in the girls’ bedchamber . ..
And then Rachel’s words!
“Please stay a moment,” he said now, and she was forced after all to be alone with him in the drawing room. She turned to look at him as calmly as she could.
“Thank you for the children’s gifts,” she said. “They will thank you themselves, of course, but it was very kind of you.”
He inclined his head to her. Had he too been embarrassed last night? she wondered. Or horrified?
“Do you have a spare moment in which to practice magic?” He grinned suddenly and her heart somersaulted— he looked so very like that exuberant boy of her memories.
“Not this morning,” she said. “There are all the baskets to deliver.” She might have given directions that some of the servants take them, but it was a duty she did not choose to delegate.
“The baskets?” He raised his eyebrows.
She explained.
“I really do not know much about life on a great estate, do I?” he said ruefully afterward. “It is a lovely idea. May I help?”
“That will not be necessary, my lord,” she said. “Aunt Hannah and Meg have promised to accompany me.”
But three is an awkward number,” he said. “If you all go together, the task will take just as long as if one went alone. If you form two groups, one person is doomed to be alone. Two groups of two would be better.”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“And the deliveries could be made in half the time.”
“Yes.”
“We will send Margaret and Aunt Hannah out together, then,” he said. “And you and I will go together. We will need two carriages, will we not? I had better go and see if it is possible to take them out this morning. Will you speak with the other two ladies, Christina, and organize who is to go where?”
He opened the door for her, followed her out of the room, and then strode off about his own business.
Less than half an hour later they were on their way, the earl and the countess in one carriage, Margaret and Lady Hannah in the other. But although they had only half the cottages to visit, this particular duty did not take any less time than usual. For one thing the coachman drove at cautious speed through the snow. For another they descended from the carriage at each cottage, stepped inside, and stayed to talk. Wherever there were children, his lordship gave them sixpence each—he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply in the deep pocket of his greatcoat. They left laughter and genuine smiles behind them as they moved on.
“It has been a pleasant morning,” he said after they had made their last call and were seated inside the carriage again. “One misses a great deal of the warmth of family life in a large home like this when one is—alone.”
“Yes.” She turned her head away to look out of the window.
“I often wonder what my life would have been like if my parents had not died when I was so young.” His voice sounded nostalgic, as if he were thinking aloud rather than addressing her. “I was younger than Rachel is now, you know. And then brought up by an uncle of uncertain temper and with two male cousins who resented me for companions—my aunt did not die until I was eleven, when Margaret was born, but she was a shadowy figure. I was almost unaware of her presence. I believe my mother must have been constantly present in my life before she died. There is a feeling of warmth and safety associated with her memory. I believe I spent the rest of my childhood missing her.”
She could not look away from the window, could not say anything. The urge to reach for him, to try somehow to soothe him for the loss of a mother years and years ago was almost irresistible. He would think she had windmills in her head. She did not want to think of him as a man who was perhaps essentially lonely.
“You had the love and stability of family life that I missed,” he said. She could tell that he had turned his head toward her now. His voice showed that he was aware of her. “You were older when your mother died. Sixteen, was it not?”
“Yes.” She nodded.
“I remember,” he said, “that you still grieved for her when—when we met.”
“It had been only two years,” she said.
There was a short silence. “Is your father still living?” he asked her then. “Pardon me for not knowing the answer. And for not asking you about him before now.”
“He is still living,” she said and tried to think of some other topic with which to change the subject. Nothing presented itself to her mind.
“I am most dreadfully sorry for not asking until now,” he said. “It was very remiss of me. Perhaps you would have liked to invite him to join the house party. Would you have had him here for Christmas if I had not suddenly announced my intention of coming to Thornwood? Or would you have gone to spend the holiday with him? He must enjoy seeing his granddaughters.”
“No,” she said, “there were no plans. I believe he had made other arrangements.”
