Chapter Four

He saw her the next morning in the park as he walked—a small figure alone except for the tall and well-built maid trailing behind her.

‘It is very early to be afoot, Mrs Dalrymple.’

‘Oh, I’ve always preferred silence and emptiness, my lord.’

Her formality this morning was difficult, for it left him in a place that was hard to fathom, with the kiss between them yesterday still causing heat inside him.

‘You come here often at this time?’

‘Most days. My aunt insists on a servant being dispatched to accompany me, and I find resistance wearying, but the girl follows at a distance so at least I can think.’

‘You like being alone?’

‘As much as you do, I should imagine.’ She pointedly gazed around. ‘But then men can do many things that a woman cannot.’

‘And you think that unfair?’

‘I do, my lord.’

Her prickliness hastened him on to another topic. ‘Were the letters we retrieved yesterday received well by your aunt?’

‘They were, indeed. She bade me thank you most sincerely for your help.’

‘And she will accompany us to Stevenage tomorrow?’

‘She will, if your invitation still stands?’

‘It does.’

‘Is your father...well?’

Her tone made him imagine the things she might have heard of his family—dark things that he knew were whispered in the quieter quarters of the ton.

‘Your aunt is somewhat correct in her assumption that my parents’ marriage was a love story. My father, at least, put his whole heart into keeping my mother happy.’

‘And was she? Happy, I mean?’

‘Sometimes she was.’

He remembered her copious tears and desperate anxieties. He remembered her anger, too, but that he willed away.

‘I hope the Duke will not mind guests at Stevenage?’

‘It is my home too, Mrs Dalrymple, and he will not mind.’

‘A home you shan’t remain in, however? You said you mean to return to the American colonies.’

‘My business is there, so I will go back after a winter here, when the shipping routes are safer.’

‘You like it there, then?’

‘I do. There is a freedom available that is rarely so in England. People take one another at face value, and the family they were born into or the school they attended has only small relevance.’

‘It was a new beginning, then? A second chance?’

He smiled at the yearning in her query. ‘Exactly.’

‘And the change that you needed after the fire at Stevenage?’

‘Are you always so inquisitive, Mrs Dalrymple?’

She shook her head and he saw her frown deepen.

‘Never, as a rule, and I ask your pardon for my rudeness.’

He looked away and swallowed, trying to formulate an answer that would not be misconstrued.

‘My mother found life difficult. I did not think she could weather any more scandal, so I left. I think my father was pleased that I had gone.’

‘Because it stopped the questions?’

‘And because he could protect her in the way he had since the day they were married.’

‘And you? What of your protection?’

This time he did laugh, the release of it filling him with warmth. ‘I did not need any.’

She nodded and moved back. And then, as she was wont to do, she changed the subject completely.

‘I like the bouquet you gave me. This morning it is even more beautiful than yesterday, and its fragrance fills my bedchamber.’

‘Reminding you of the Christmas spirit...the joy of the season?’

‘I think you are jesting, my lord. I think you know that I have never relished all the joviality of Yuletide.’

He reached into his pocket and found what he was looking for. The small glass ornament felt fragile, hidden in its velvet bag, as he handed it across.

‘Another gift?’

Ariana took the offering cautiously and, drawing the string of the bag loose, saw that it was a star of glass, its five points edged in gold and leaf-green and an unusual shade of red.

‘I bought it last week in Regent Street, after you helped me. When I saw your gown, I realised the colours were particular to you...’

Ariana had to admit that as a truth. They were her colours...unusual, muted and different.

‘What do I do with it?’ The offering caught the light of the day as it sat on her palm.

‘Hang it amongst pine needles. In America a small fir branch is cut and brought inside on Christmas Eve, to bring luck and happiness for the coming year.’

‘A large promise for such a small thing?’

‘Providence comes from unexpected sources, Aria.’

She did not miss his shortening of her name, nor the tone in which he gave it. Almost intimate.

‘I was married on Christmas Eve.’ The catch in her voice hurt, but she carried on. ‘The memory is not a pleasant one.’

‘Then make new memories.’

‘Is that what you have done?’

‘Yes.’

She could hear his certainty and was glad for it. ‘You are making your way well in “the wilderness and the wasteland”?’

‘Where is that from?’ He sounded interested.

‘The Book of Isaiah—though much rephrased. Before that scripture advises the reader to forget the former things and not to dwell on the past.’

‘Did you know that a star is perceived to be a glow in the darkness?’

‘Are you always so persuasive, Lord Norwich?’

Her fingers closed over the glass and she felt the prick of it on her skin.

‘You will keep it, then?’

‘I will—and I thank you.’

‘Was your husband a good man, Ariana?’

‘He was very old and very wealthy.’

‘That was important to you?’

‘I was young, and my parents were most adamant that my future would be more secure with such backing.’

She could not quite throw in the fact that it had been their own comfort they were more interested in.

‘Stevenage burned down on the day of my birthday, yet I still celebrate that.’

Without meaning to, she laughed. He’d surprised her with his words, for there had been an implication there of the fire not being his own doing.

‘Do you like horses, my lord?’

‘I do.’

‘I am pleased for it.’

‘You change topic in your conversation a lot. Do you realise you do that?’

‘I have heard it said that you burnt down the stables at Stevenage?’

‘Ah, I see. You want to understand motive, then?’

‘Or the lack of it, my lord.’

‘The complications of family bear no logic, Ariana, and yours sounds about as complicated as my own.’

She liked talking to Christopher Northwell more than she had ever enjoyed talking to anyone. He was quick and interesting and solid.

Solid?

A strange word to use for a person, but it was what he was. The Earl of Norwich wasn’t shallow or small-minded or petty. He was a man who could be depended on—a man who had backed her up in difficult circumstances and had not expected anything at all in return.

The kiss they had shared came to mind, and she wished he might simply lean forward and take her into his arms again, as he had yesterday. The small jolt of a thrill seared through her and she looked at him, hoping he would not recognise in her face what she felt all over her body. God, she had always been so frigid, so stand-offish, so reluctant to endure touch—and yet here she was, burning like a candle with sheer and utter want.

The star in her hand was warming...a small gift perfectly given. She would hang it above her bed tonight and watch to see how the moonlight altered each prism.

The glass star...the Christmas bouquet. Her chamber would be turning into an altar of worship for the season and she was welcoming it. Just as she was welcoming Christopher Northwell—although today he gave no impression of wanting anything more than just talk, and his stance was decidedly formal.

‘My father may not at first be...easy company, but if you would allow him the time to adjust and get used to your ways I am sure he will relax.’

‘My aunt once knew your mother, so perhaps that might help?’

‘It might.’

He gave the words back as if he felt it would be the exact opposite, and such uncertainty resulted in a rare silence between them.

He was not telling her everything—she was sure of it. He was afraid for his father. Her amazement grew. Was there something wrong with the Duke of Horsham? Some character trait that his son did not wish for the world to know?

She had heard gossip in Society which stressed that the Duke and his only offspring did not get along. She had heard it said too that Christopher Northwell was wild and undisciplined. And yet she had never seen one glimpse of that side of him. If anything he seemed always in control, and he was indisputably logical.

Nothing quite added up.

‘It has not been many months since your mother passed away, so perhaps he needs longer to come to terms with his changed circumstances. At least you are back now—and blood, for all its complexities, runs thicker than water.’

‘Was that the way in your family?’

She glanced towards the lake in the distance. ‘No. I used to wonder if perhaps I had been adopted as a baby, or found under a bush, or simply swapped with another child who might have grown up...happier. But I looked quite a lot like my mother, so such a wish was groundless from the start, but...’

‘But you still hoped?’

‘From this distance, and with hindsight, I think I should have been stronger. It is one thing to try to fit in, but another entirely to lose yourself altogether.’

‘You seem to have made up for such an early lack, Ariana. If I could pick one word from the air that would describe you best I might choose the word “strong”.’

Such a compliment both astounded and delighted her out there in the misty cold clear December morning, with the bare branches of the oaks and the elm above them, out there in the quiet hour before the city truly awoke and all the noise began.

A cocoon of calm...

She wished they were alone, and that her appointed and curious maid was not standing twenty yards away, watching them and waiting. Already she could see other silhouettes further afield, and she knew that their allotted time of privacy was over. Christopher Northwell knew it too, for he straightened and tipped his head.

‘Until tomorrow, Mrs Dalrymple.’

Then he was gone.

She did not ask a servant to bring in a tree branch that might suffice as an anchor for her ornament. Instead she found red cotton and strung it from one bedpost to the other, dangling the star in the middle between them, above her pillows, so that she could reach up and touch it if she pleased.

A place of honour and purpose.

A point of light in her darkness.

She had not told the Earl all of it. When he had asked her if Henry Dalrymple had been a good man she had fobbed him off with other facts. She had not told him of the actions which lingered here in the dark all around her. Unforgettable and shameful things.

When Henry Dalrymple had coughed his last she had simply sat in the plain oak chair beside the bed, overcome by a sense of relief.

She remembered there had been Christmas candles in the bedroom when she had first been brought to him by her father. She remembered how her new husband had lifted away her nightgown and pinched one of her breasts hard with his old, thin fingers.

‘A bonny girl and well worth the coin. You may leave her to me now, for I will look after her.’

Her father had not hesitated, even with the red whorls of her new groom’s hurt blooming on her breast. He had left her there with the promise of payment and had expected her to behave.

Her mother had not asked anything the next day either, her watchful eyes tracking her progress down the stairs when she came for breakfast, with Henry Dalrymple at her heels and close.

And when her parents had left the following day her mother had departed with a warning. ‘Do not anger him, Ariana. Do nothing to raise his ire and you will be safe.’

She had not seen them again until two years later, when they had arrived late one autumn with further pleas of financial hardship in their eyes. A week later they had all been dead. Her husband and her father and her mother. And the snows from the north had fallen down on their graves, leaving the newly dug black soil scattered with white in the Dalrymple cemetery.

The star shifted in the wind—a quiet, small movement that caught the candle flame, burning by the bedside, threading the glass with colour.

A comfort. A solace. A tiny prism of faith and belief.

Had Christopher Northwell known it would be so? Had he given it as a guiding light? She could almost believe that he might have, for the smell of the winter bouquet complemented the brittle glass somehow, creating a sensory wholeness.

Tears ran down her cheeks, warm against her skin, trickling onto the pillow, dampening the linen. She had not cried for years. Not when her parents had died. Not when her husband had hurt her. Not even when she had found her small dog Topper, frozen solid in the courtyard, having been locked outside for the night under the orders of the man she had married.

Yet here in her room, in the warmth and the quiet, she did weep—because for the first time in a long while hope had wormed its way up into her world, steadfast and unwavering.

She swallowed and held her hand over her mouth willing away any sound. She must not expect more. She could not allow herself the feelings that she felt crouched there, the possibilities that would never come to pass...