“Do you even know your sister?”
The question caught Alan off guard. Of course he knew his sister. She may be seven years his junior, but they’d been rather close… until he ran off to war.
Apollo snorted at the empty bottom of the bucket. Lifting his head, he knocked the wooden edge with disgust.
Hamdon narrowed his eyes. “Have you forgotten that the first time Emma saw me, my head was covered in blood and the bone of my leg was protruding out of my shin? Or that she watched you bury a knife hilt deep in Sancerre’s leg, used her body as a shield to save you from Ratford’s bullet, then stared at Ratford’s lifeless form when your French counterpart saved you both. She is no wilting miss, Gladsby. And that does not even count witnessing the blood and gore of childbirth. I know we liketo think of women as delicate creatures, but they are made of sterner stuff.”
Alan clenched his jaw. Emma’s age often seemed suspended in time for him. She was no longer the fifteen-year-old girl who lived in his mind. He slowly relaxed his jaw, and his shoulders slumped.
“I know she has grown up.”
“Not just grown up, but lived a life you and I as males, cannot comprehend. Women recognize things that we often do not. I think it’s why God intended for us to be together. They have insights we are too stubborn to see.”
Alan set the bucket next to the grain bin, thinking about how insightful Emma had been when he’d been concerned about her risking her life again in childbirth. Like any war-hardened soldier, she’d lifted her head and smiled in the face of death. But she had one thing he did not. A clear conscience.
She could go to their Maker without the guilt of knowing she’d been the cause of so much death and suffering.
Hamdon cleared his throat. “If you’d rather not speak to us, I am certain Miss Lenning would be a willing listener.”
Alan whirled around, his brow wrinkled and his eyes pinched. His heart thudded in his chest at the mere suggestion of subjecting Grace to such a tale. “Why would I ever share any of this with her?”
His brother-in-law shrugged. “You seem comfortable with her. Telling your troubles to a friend might be easier than to a sister or nosy brother-in-law. And as a woman, she might have similar insights that you and I may not.”
“You have a rather high estimation of women’s intellect,” he scoffed.
Hamdon’s face darkened and a sliver of shame slithered through Alan’s gut. While Society as a whole held caustic views on female intelligence, he’d never allowed such drivel to passthrough his lips. It must be the dreams. They were addling his brain more than he realized.
“You would do well to adhere to the guidance a well-respected woman can give. It might save your life one day.” Hamdon didn’t wait for a response as he hobbled past Alan, his brow creased with clear displeasure.
The stable fell silent and the little snake of guilt wrapped itself around Alan’s heart and squeezed. Hamdon was right. Cutting everyone out would only lead to more hurt, but how could he let others see the ugliness he held within?
He couldn’t. They would be disgusted.
Then he’d truly be alone, and that was something he could not risk.
Chapter 12
Grace twisted one of her red curls as she tried not to look across the drawing room at Lord Gladsby. He’d been late for dinner, but at least he’d come. Now, seated with them around the large hearth that burned the yule log, they all listened to Bradley tell a story of a young girl and a clumsy ghost. As Prudence predicted, it was far more comedic than ghastly as the specter knocked the mistletoe into the plum pudding while hiding from the family dog.
Everyone else in the room smiled, and some even chuckled, but Lord Gladsby’s face remained impassive, his eyes not even focused on the storyteller. What must he be thinking?
When his eyes flicked in her direction, she dropped her gaze to her lap and berated herself for thinking he’d not see her staring. Bradley’s voice faded into the background as her embarrassment fueled her thoughts.
She’d already made Lord Gladsby uncomfortable in his own home and now she was making his Christmas Eve awkward.Poor man couldn’t even listen to a story without her ogling him like the delicious plum pudding from Bradley’s story.
Using two fingers, she picked at an embroidery thread that had come loose on her cream gown. She’d not taken as much care with her appearance this evening, not wanting to appear desperate for attention as she was certain she must have earlier that morning.
Applause caused her to jerk her head up as Bradley took a ridiculously dramatic bow. Lord Gladsby clapped politely, but his unimpressed expression did not change.
Prudence popped up from her seat ready to take her brother’s place, gently pushing him out of the central storytelling spot before he’d finished receiving his accolades. Diana cast Grace an amused glance and Grace smiled back. Her parents really had missed the mark when they’d named her sister Prudence.
Then again, she was not really all that graceful either. More than once she’d toppled both her and Lord Gladsby into the snow. Again, her eyes strayed to him, but this time he was examining the tips of his shoes, a very clear frown evident on his face as Prudence began her tale.
“Once upon a Christmas Eve, in the dark of northern France, a haunting moan filled the trees where the spirits like to dance.” Crouched like a cat slinking through the woods, Prudence paced with her hands outstretched like claws. “December’s bite rested on the wind, ready to claim another wandering soul. Boy or girl, it mattered not, nor if they were young or old.”
A chill ran over Grace’s skin, causing goose pimples to emerge. Prudence’s sing-song words rose and fell as she spoke of a lonely traveler lost and searching for a safe place to lay his head. She always had been a marvelous storyteller, but tonight she was outdoing herself as she spoke of a child’s haunting wail and the man’s frantic search to find the poor soul.
Only Grace had heard this one before.
