The fiddlers struck up a rigadoon, a lively dance done in couples rather than sets. Christa had taught it to the Kingsleys, and Alex had mastered it well. Spinning and jumping, they both put aside the events of the autumn and returned to the simple pleasure of the summer.
Christa wore a swirling crimson dress that contrasted vividly with her dark hair and fair skin, and her vital charm and grace drew the admiring eyes of every man in the room. By the end of the dance, Alex was ruefully wishing that he could exercise thedroit du seigneurand carry her off as his ancestors might have done several centuries earlier. It was impossible to imagine the impeccable Sybil Debenham enjoying herself with such abandon or looking so delectably disheveled.
When the music ended, Christa grinned up at her master. “Your dancing has improved out of all imagining, my lord.”
Alex still held her hand from the last dance turn. Looking down, he said softly, “Your teaching is one of many things I will always remember you for.”
Their gazes caught and held, and the closeness that had grown between them over the summer flared into life once more. Her hand unconsciously tightened on his and she was no longer aware of the roomful of merrymakers.
Jonathan’s arrival shattered the moment. “It’s my turn to dance with the teacher, big brother.” He whirled her away as the next dance started. She cast one look over her shoulder and saw Alex watching her still.How can he look like that when he is engaged to another woman?But every woman knew that men could desire even when their hearts were given elsewhere. Resolutely, she turned to Jonathan.
“And will you be a credit to my teaching, Master Jonathan?” she teased.
“Try me,” he replied with a mischievous grin. She shook her head admiringly as he swept her into a country dance—the young devil was well on his way to being devastating. All three Kingsleys were so lovable—she would miss them dreadfully. But that loss was for the future. Tonight, Christa danced.
* * *
By tradition, after church on Christmas Day the Kingsleys held open house for all of their tenants and neighbors. Streams of people poured through, and the servants were kept bustling. Monsieur Sabine produced some French food, including a much-admiredbûche de Noël, a huge rolled cake shaped like a Yule log and decorated with chocolate bark, meringue mushrooms, and spun-sugar moss. It was thought too pretty to eat; Alex himself had to cut it and start distributing pieces. Most of the food, however, was firmly and traditionally English, dishes such as roast goose, meat pies, and mince tarts, and a splendid wassail bowl. Monsieur Sabine handled the insult to French food with surprising equanimity—everyone agreed that Mrs. Ives, his assistant cook and companion, had had a mellowing effect on his choleric disposition. An announcement was expected from that quarter any day.
The convivial spirit of the holiday vanished three days after Christmas when Sybil Debenham and her mother arrived for a visit. It was not unexpected, but no one could have predicted the pall Sybil’s presence would cast over the household. When Alex met her, she greeted him effusively. “Darling! So wonderful to see you again! It seems so long.” Looking around the hall, she added, “The house is darling, but surely . . . a little informal for the seat of a viscount?”
Alex blinked. “Perhaps. I never really thought about it. The Orchard has been home to Kingsleys for over four hundred years, and we tend to accept its deficiencies.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it was deficient,” she cooed, stripping off her cloak and gloves and studying her surroundings. “A little small, perhaps.” Sybil was being quite circumspect; actually she thought the Orchard was horrendously poky and unfashionable, not at all the sort of thing one would expect of a wealthy nobleman. But she knew Lord Kingsley owned another estate near London, more convenient and away from the beastly sea winds. Surely something more suitable could be built there—perhaps something on the lines of Blenheim Palace. With a brave smile on her face, she went upstairs to face the rigors of her bedchamber.
Within twenty-four hours the whole household was on edge. It didn’t help when the weather changed and cold, drenching rain confined people indoors. Jonathan, who had never met his future sister-in-law, reacted like a cat that had been thrown into a tub of water, walking around with hackles visibly raised. Only his fondness for his brother kept a civil tongue in his head. Three days after Sybil’s advent, Jonathan remembered that a school friend had invited him for a stay in Essex and made his escape.
Thrown into constant contact with Sybil, Annabelle progressed from vaguely dreaming of a cottage to seriously evaluating locations and deciding what genteel, impoverished cousin would be the best choice for a chaperon. Since her brother had given her an independent income, there was no way she was going to share a roof with her sister-in-law.
Alex himself behaved with impeccable politeness, but was little in evidence as the tenants and the home farm seemed to require unusual amounts of attention. In the servants’ hall, there were caustic comments about how the future viscountess was evaluating the silver and deciding what to change.
It was universally agreed that Christa had the worst time of it. Sybil’s French maid, Merrier, had promptly come down with a streaming head cold, and her mistress refused to have her near for fear of infection. Since Claudia Debenham’s haughty dresser flatly refused to work for a second lady, Christa inherited the job of turning Sybil out properly. After three days, she was ready for a change of career.
As she flopped by the hearth in the servants’ hall after dinner, she received the commiserations of the rest of the staff.
Mrs. Morrison offered her a cup of tea and said, “Here, dear, you look like you could use a bit of reviving.” As Christa received it gratefully, the housekeeper continued, “I don’t see why you don’t act like Mrs. Debenham’s hoity-toity dresser and refuse to work for anyone but your own lady.”
Christa wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tempt me! I only do it because if she is not properly served, she will make Miss Annabelle’s life miserable with complaints. Typical of the men to run off and leave their sister to cope with the Peacock.”
The latter was the belowstairs nickname Miss Debenham had acquired. Christa sipped her tea and sighed. “In a way, there is something admirable about her refusal to let standards slide. She has not forgone a single jewel, hair ornament, or cosmetic the whole of her visit. If your King George stopped in for a visit, only she would be properly attired to greet him.”
“You may think it admirable, but I think it’s absurd!” Mrs. Morrison snorted. “We’re plain people here in Suffolk. We don’t need the likes of an overdressed wench like her.”
Christa smiled sadly. “But you have no choice.”
The observation cast a pall over the group until Monsieur Sabine, who had taken to sitting with the others of an evening, said, “There is always a choice! If the guillotine was good enough for Queen Marie Antoinette, it is good enough for the nouveau riche!”
His comment produced startled looks, then a quick change of conversation. The other servants were never quite sure whether he was joking or serious. At least no one had been threatened with his cleaver lately.
A week after Sybil’s arrival, Alex was called away to a family property in Norfolk. The agent had quit while the estate was in the middle of a serious boundary dispute, and Lord Kingsley’s personal attention was solicited. He made his apologies to his sister and the Debenhams and felt guilty at the way his spirits rose as he headed north with his groom and valet. The weather was cold, wet, and blustering, the ground sodden and travel conditions poor, and he knew that within an hour his side would be giving him fits from too much riding. Nonetheless, it felt wonderful to be away from the house. He almost succumbed to a touch of nostalgia for winter patrol duty in the Channel before common sense overtook him.
* * *
The day after Alex left, Annabelle came down with a touch of influenza and Christa was relieved of her work with Sybil to concentrate on nursing her mistress. Miss Debenham released her from service less from consideration of Annabelle’s needs than from her own fears of infection.
The doctor assured them that Annabelle’s life was in no way threatened, but for three days she tossed and turned feverishly, aching and restless. Christa sent to Ipswich for a bag of expensive lemons, and served the resulting lemonade both hot and cold, depending on how Annabelle felt. She also gave her willow-bark tea to reduce the aching.
By the evening of the third day, Annabelle’s fever had broken, and she was fit for conversation, though still very weak. “Poor Christa!” she said with a faint smile. “You have had to go from decorating the Peacock to taking care of me.”
