Christmas Goose

 

Despair blew across the cliff with the December wind, pummeling Simon Lemaster with the same gale force that tore open his coat and whipped at his cravat. He heard the resounding trumpet call to arms in the high whine through the rocks, heard the clash of artillery in the crash of the waves, and the sound of men dying in the mournful cry of the gulls. The smoke of too many battlefields cluttered the sky in boiling gray clouds.

He blamed the wind for the moisture tearing in his eyes, but he knew his own soul responsible for all else. He glanced down at the rocks below his feet, imagined the height of the waves at high tide, and wondered if he had the courage. Deciding he had no more of that honorable asset now than he had when he led his men into battle, he gathered his weight on his walking stick, and limping, turned his back on the sea.

He supposed a bottle of laudanum more his style if the melancholy became more than he could bear. In any event, the holidays were no time for such thoughts, although the holidays had brought them on in the first place. For the first time in six years, he had come home for Christmas. No living in a tent in the middle of a mud field, no lounging on a bug-infested mattress in a bordello where everyone spoke a foreign language. The voices around him spoke clear crisp English with a rural accent, the air smelled fresh and sweet, and childish laughter echoed up hill and down valley. He couldn’t bear it.

He kept seeing the shadowed eyes and hollowed cheeks of children so starved they could barely lift their feet. He saw their mothers, worn out from years of fighting and surviving, often not knowing the father of their children, victims of rape and necessity. With enough liquor and distance, he might eventually erase their faces, they were foreign faces, after all.

But he couldn’t erase the faces of those children on the docks, the hope and despair in their mothers’ eyes as they waited for their menfolk to descend from the boats returning them home, menfolk missing limbs or other vital parts making them useless as wage earners for the rest of their lives. Those faces were English, the wives and children of men he’d led into battle. Those men had fought more fearlessly and bravely than he ever had, but only he had emerged relatively unscathed to a wealthy home and a family who could support him should he never do another day’s work. His men had come home to nothing but a hero’s pride, a cold fireplace, and empty bellies.

Simon had tried talking to his superiors. He had gone over their heads and talked to every government official he could find in London at this time of year. He’d met with stone walls everywhere he turned, and finally the melancholy had overwhelmed him to the point that he had to come home. At least in battle he’d felt some sense of accomplishment. He could make a difference occasionally. But back in the security of England, he could do nothing. He had no power, no wealth of his own, no status to change a system so archaic it would treat men as pawns to be disposed of at will.

He had to stop thinking like that. The anger and frustration had long since dissipated into this endless despair. He would throw himself off on the rocks if he kept up this train of thought. He had to divert his attention, think of the gingerbread cooking back home in the kitchen, decide on presents for his nieces and nephews, search for the happiness that eluded him when he should finally be at peace. He had everything. Why should he mourn for those who did not?

Simon heard the sharp yip of a dog somewhere further down the cliff path, and he scowled. People ought to keep their dogs at home, not let them run the dangers of these crumbling cliffs. Too often loose dogs ran in packs, endangering the sheep. He debated searching for the culprit or leaving it be. He had difficulty making any decision at all these days.

A sharp yipe called him to action much as the call of a trumpet once had. Cursing his aching foot, Simon hobbled over the rough ground, searching for the source of the sound. He found it in a pile of rubble and boulders a little way down the path. A young collie, tail flapping like a flag, worried at a paw caught between two stones. Liquid brown eyes turned trustfully to the stranger approaching.

“Stupid, fool animal,” Simon muttered, wincing as he slid on his bad foot. The path could be treacherous to the sure of foot, and he most certainly was not that at the moment.

With malice aforethought, he unwrapped his cravat and tied it to the dog’s collar. He intended to find the owner of the mongrel and lecture them thoroughly on the care and upkeep of stupid animals. The dog made no protest but licked his hand gratefully. Maybe the animal wasn’t so stupid after all. At least it had the sense to offer gratitude and respect to those who came to its aid.

The stone dislodged easily. The dog presented another difficulty entirely. Leaping and bounding and smearing Simon’s doeskin breeches with mud, he nearly jerked his rescuer from his feet when he raced for the top of the cliff.

Still, it gave Simon something to think about besides his despair. The walk back to town was considerably brisker than the one out here. The dog remained mercifully quiet now that it was free, but it tracked the scent of every rodent ever to cross its path until the hampering neckcloth brought it back in line. It proceeded at a run so as not to miss a single moment of the romp. Simon had practically lost his breath by the time he reached Lymeshead.

The main street of the village wound along the creek meandering through the town square, around a hill, and over a stone bridge on the far side. Fortunately for Simon, the vicarage stood on this side of town. It made as good a starting point for his search as any.

A young man of fair hair but infirm health, the vicar wandered into his cottage garden at the same moment as Simon opened the gate. They hailed each other, and the vicar leaned over to pat the tail-wagging collie.

“Leopold! What are you up to now?” the young man asked, scratching behind the dog’s ear and glancing up to the stiffly correct man holding him. He’d never seen the younger Lemaster in such disarray, with his cravat off, his shirt open, and his expensive trousers mud-streaked.

“Then you know this wretch, Richard?” Simon demanded. “He nearly got himself killed out on the cliffs today. I mean to give his owner a severe talking to. Could you direct me to the culprit?”

Straightening, Richard smiled at the young lordling’s outrage. He’d known Simon since childhood. The younger son of a viscount, Simon had all the stiff-necked pride of the aristocracy, but a sense of responsibility wider than the sea lapping at their doorsteps. No man could shoulder the weight of the world. Even Richard had abandoned that hope at an early age. But Simon was too stubborn to admit defeat. Richard pretty much figured Simon would have single-handedly defeated Napoleon if necessary, for he would never have come home otherwise.

“Oh, I don’t think there’s a culprit involved. Leopold is a stray that landed on the Widow Tarkington’s doorstep some months ago. She’s done everything within her power to find the dog’s owner, while attempting to teach the rascal manners. Unfortunately, animal training is not one of her strong suits. I should imagine Leopold either escaped the barn or chewed off his rope.”

“Widow Tarkington? Matthew married?” Thunderstruck, Simon stared at the amiable vicar.

Richard shrugged. “Men do, you know. He came home long enough to meet and court her, then went off to get himself killed. There’s times I think he married her because he knew he would die, and he wanted someone to look after his sisters.”

“Stupid sod,” Simon grumbled, staring past the vicar’s head to the gray-shrouded sky over the sea. The wind was less here, on the lee side of the hill. “A soldier should never marry. There ought to be laws.”

“Yes, well, I suppose if celibacy went into law, we wouldn’t have many soldiers. Not a bad thing to consider if all countries enforced it, I suppose, but I can’t see it happening in our lives.”

Simon ignored this wisdom. Grasping the collie’s impromptu leash more firmly, he took his leave. “I should call on the widow, in any case. Matthew would have wanted it. I wish someone had told me sooner.”

Richard shrugged. “Someone would have soon enough. You’ve only been home a few days. I truly don’t think Matthew is frowning at you from heaven.”

Ignoring that small admonition also, Simon followed the collie through the garden gate and back to the main street. Although he and Richard were much of an age, Simon had never been particularly close to the vicar, who had always been sickly and something of a scholar. But he and Matthew had got into romps together through most of their lives. They’d gone to war together, but in different units since Matthew couldn’t afford colors in the more prestigious guards Simon had joined. It must have cost the better part of Widow Tarkington’s savings to have bought colors at all, but there had been little other chance of Matthew making a living. His acreage was too small and too rocky to produce the kind of income needed to support a country squire—which was why the Tarkington men seldom led long lives. It seemed a sin to have another widow in the family so soon.

Wondering which of the village girls Matthew had chosen for wife, Simon wandered the familiar path through town, past overgrown hedgerows, and down a dirt lane to the old farmhouse Matthew had grown up in. Matthew’s father had once been owner of sufficient land to scrape a comfortable living, but bad investments, a bad economy, and an early demise had brought the squire’s living to an end. Simon remembered hearing some time back that Matthew’s mother had died also, but he had just assumed the girls had gone to live with family. It hadn’t occurred to him that Matthew had chosen to raise his sisters by himself. Although, now that he thought about it, Simon couldn’t remember ever meeting any of Matthew’s relatives other than his parents. Perhaps there hadn’t been any.

The collie sensed he came close to home and jerked and strained at his leash. Simon’s damaged foot ached with the exertion, and he found his pace dragging in direct proportion to the dog’s need to go faster. Wearily, he contemplated unfastening the leash, but he refused to allow the dog to come out ahead. He would see it firmly secured first.

The stone farmhouse looked shabbier than he remembered, but the front door had been freshly scrubbed, the knocker polished, and the steps swept. Simon pounded on the knocker, listening to it echo through the hollow inner hall. He and Matthew had frequently tested its echoing capacity in years past. With no furniture or wall to obstruct it, the knock resounded quite clearly through to the kitchen.

Still, no one came to the door.

Remembering the Tarkingtons had kept few servants, Simon surmised they had none now. He waited a while longer, giving the occupants time to set aside whatever they were doing, but still no one responded to his call. He meant to turn away and loose the mongrel in the barn when a high-pitched squeal sent him racing as fast as the dog toward the rear of the house.

As Simon came around the corner, a fleet-footed creature dashed between his legs, and his weakened foot finally gave out under him, landing him firmly on his rear in the muddy yard. The makeshift leash slid from his hand and the dog ran off, barking, in the direction of the squealing pig, trailing the cravat after him. Before Simon could attempt to right himself, a tall figure in skirts, racing around the corner, screaming in fury stumbled over his outstretched legs and fell smack into the dirt beside him.

Simon only had a dim impression of angles and bones and creamy skin before the female gave him a surprised look, darted a glance in the direction of the racing animals, and leapt to her feet again. Without a word of apology, she charged after pig and dog.

Shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs evidently replacing his brain, Simon staggered upward. His fleeting impression was enhanced now by the sight of the tall slender figure outracing the pig to shoo it awkwardly with her long skirts. With the aid of the barking collie and a fence, she managed to trap the animal sufficiently to confuse it, but not necessarily to send it in the appropriate direction. With a sigh, Simon limped to her rescue.

Even the pig had a collar, Simon noted wryly as he swatted a porky rear end with his walking stick, sending the obstreperous animal back toward the barnyard where it belonged. The collie followed at its tail, shepherding it as he ought to shepherd sheep. The sight made Simon’s lips twist in a smile he hadn’t felt on his face in quite some time.

“I apologize, sir,” the woman said breathlessly as she walked at his side, holding her ribs as she gasped for air. “Just look at you! You’re all over mud. As soon as I get those dratted animals locked up, we’ll go inside and I’ll see what I can do to right the mess. Although I daresay that mud will stain,” she said doubtfully, giving his trousers a second look.

“I’ve had worse than mud stains before,” he answered, the smile disappearing as he remembered the valiant soldier who had served as his valet these last years. O’Hara had always known how to remove mud and blood and the scars of war. The man had been blown to bits in a retreat that went astray not many months ago. “You need to find some way to control these animals of yours.”

She shrugged, and he noticed the muddy tear in her shawl, apparently another victim of their fall. She had the shawl tied loosely over her bodice, so he could see little of the figure beneath, but her reed-slimness gave the impression of frailty, although she stood nearly as tall as he.

“The girls insist on making pets of them, and I haven’t the heart to tell them all creatures have a purpose. I’m afraid we’ll end up feeding that rapacious pig for the rest of our lives instead of turning him into the ham he’s supposed to be.”

They shooed the pig back into its sty and locked the protesting dog in the barn before turning back toward the house. Only then did she stop and give him a quizzical look. “We haven’t met, have we? I’m sorry. My manners are abominable these days.”

Simon would say her manners were immensely practical, but he supposed one didn’t address an unknown lady with such familiarity. He’d been too long from civilization himself. He made a brief bow, only then realizing his state of undress. The last he’d seen of his cravat, it had trailed through mud and briar in the front hedge.

“I apologize. I’m Simon Lemaster, an old friend of Matthew’s. I just heard he’d left a widow, and along with returning your dog, I meant to pay my condolences. I hadn’t realized I scarcely look the part of proper caller.” He gave his rumpled clothing a wry look. “I think I’m the one whose manners have gone begging.”

“Lemaster!” she exclaimed with a little more enthusiasm, her too-wide lips turning up in a brilliant smile. “Matthew told me all about you and the escapades the two of you indulged in. It’s a wonder either of you lived to see maturity. I keep congratulating myself that I have only his sisters to contend with and not any little brothers who might resemble either of you. I’m Rebecca.”

She calmly led him through the kitchen door as if he were one of the family instead of a guest. She gestured toward a bench near the fire. “Take off those wet boots while I make some tea. Your feet must be frozen.”

She’d no doubt attributed his limp to wet, cold feet. If he didn’t remove his stockings, she’d see no less. Simon shrugged and did as told. In truth, it felt good to remove the confining boots from his aching toes. “How old are the girls now? They were always pests we managed to elude. Surely they’re nearly grown?”

“Just old enough to cause trouble. Mary is twelve, and Lucille’s fifteen. Matthew always said had his sister Johanna lived, he could have left the lot to her, but she died in childbirth some years ago. I don’t mind, though. Had it not been for the girls, he would probably have waited until he returned from war to marry me, and then I would never have married at all.”

She said it quite matter-of-factly, without a hint of anguish as she went about setting the teapot on the stove and measuring the leaves. Simon noted she measured very carefully, as if the tea leaves had the value of gold. Glancing around, he saw little in the way of food. Behind the open pantry door he glimpsed a sack of flour and a container he thought might contain sugar. No meat cooked over the fire or hung on the drying rack. He remembered a time when this kitchen was redolent of baking pastries, roasting meats, and savory stews. The weak concoction simmering on the old stove now barely carried the odor of meat.

“Would you like a bit of apple tart with your tea?” she asked, removing her torn shawl and attempting to disguise an expression of dismay as she noticed the tear. Biting her lip, she slipped on a clean apron and washed her hands at the pump.

Not seeing anything resembling a tart anywhere in the kitchen, Simon was about to politely decline when she removed the cold pastry from a shelf above the stove. From his sitting position, he couldn’t have seen it up there. He couldn’t remember Matthew’s mother ever keeping anything on that shelf, but then, old Mrs. Tarkington had barely stood five-foot high. This Widow Tarkington had sufficient height to dust the low kitchen ceiling without standing on a chair.

Stomach rumbling, he could scarcely decline. He remembered the apples he and Matthew used to filch from the old trees out back. They’d always tasted sweeter than any others he’d ever eaten. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten crunchy apples or even a tart.

The Widow Tarkington moved gracefully for a tall woman. A steaming hot cup of tea appeared before him along with the tart topped by a little cream. With the fire warming his back and hot food in his stomach, he felt transported to a time when he’d thought those niceties constituted heaven. He closed his eyes and savored the warmth and aromas, then found himself noticing the fresh mild scent of the widow’s skin as she refilled his cup.

His eyes flew open again, but she hadn’t noticed his momentary aberration. She merely took a seat at the table with him and warmed her fingers on her hot cup. Simon wondered about her background, where Matthew might have found her. She certainly didn’t come from the village. She had thick whisky-colored hair pulled back in an unfashionable bun, and eyes he could call neither gray nor green, but she possessed a calm air of assurance none of the village girls would have shown in this situation. Most of them giggled and looked at the floor when he was around.

Before he could open his mouth to ask the question hovering on the tip of his tongue, the front door opened and the echo of girlish laughter drifted down the long hall, followed by the loud tramp of feet and the shouts of young voices.

“Rebecca! Rebecca! We talked to the vicar’s wife!”

Simon couldn’t distinguish one voice from the other, but he could tell both talked at once. Rebecca winced and rolled her eyes at their unladylike exuberance, but she rose with a smile on her face to greet them.

“Lucille, Mary, we have company. Mind your manners,” she admonished gently, catching the youngest by the shoulders to gently brush her long hair back out of her face, turning her to face their guest properly.

Both girls bobbed hasty curtsies and made polite murmurs of greeting, but instantly turned back to Rebecca for the topic most on their minds.

“Mrs. Lofton says you might go a’Thomasing. She says it’s perfectly proper. Then we might have enough for a goose and to buy those ribbons in the window.” As the eldest, Mary spoke first, keeping her voice just short of pleading.

The color in Rebecca’s cheeks faded, but she managed to speak quietly and proudly, not even looking at their guest. “We will not discuss this again, girls. Begging is only for those who have nothing, and we have a great deal. Now run upstairs and wash. We need to begin dinner.”

She tried to behave as if the girls hadn’t embarrassed her to the bottoms of her feet as they ran, protesting, from the room. She set her cup on the sink, cleaned up an apple spill on the side of the pan, and carefully replaced the remains of the tart back on the shelf. She’d left just enough to split between the two girls. Mr. Lemaster had eaten the piece she had meant for herself. She didn’t mind. It had been rather pleasant having an adult conversation in the middle of the day like this. She didn’t often have time.

She felt his silence and wished for something with which to fill the void. They both spoke at once.

“I don’t suppose you...” he started to say.

“I apologize for the...” she began and stopped.

She turned, and they smiled hesitantly at each other. He wasn’t a bad looking man when he smiled. She’d thought him harsh earlier, with grim lines along the side of his mouth, and cheekbones hollowed to rawness, but when he smiled, she could see the laugh lines beside his eyes, and his face took on a whole new demeanor. She could picture him swirling lovely young ladies around the dance floor, their eyes sparkling up at him as he whispered pretty words in their ears. He was that kind of man. The handsome, wealthy, spoiled kind. The kind who ignored gawky, intelligent, plain women such as she.

“Ladies first,” he murmured politely. “Although you really don’t need to apologize for the girls. They’re young and it’s Christmas. They want everything they see. I have a young nephew who’s convinced I can give him the stars if I so chose. He’s demanding a big one.”

She laughed. That was the awful thing about handsome, charming men. They could make you laugh and feel good with just their words. They meant nothing by them. The charm just came easily to them, smoothing over rough spots, getting them out of difficult situations without harm to themselves. If they eased someone else’s way in passing, fine, but more often than not, they ended up leaving a trail of tears. She was too smart to see more in his words than was there.

“I’m not at all certain those two would be satisfied with a star unless they could wear it in their hair. It’s been a rough few years for them, but they still believe Christmas is a magical time, one when miracles come true. I have yet to teach them that we must make our own miracles.”

He leaned over and pulled on his boots. “It’s a shame we can’t all keep that belief. What I started to ask was if you would mind sending your apple tart recipe up to our cook. I would be happy to deliver it myself. I have never tasted anything so delightful in my life.”

Rebecca blushed. She knew better. She kicked herself mentally. But Matthew had been dead well over a year and not home for longer than that. She had very little experience in dealing with a man’s flattery, in any event. Obviously, she must be starved for masculine attention.

She tried to respond coolly. “The type of apple makes all the difference, and the amount of seasoning. A sweet apple needs less sugar, a tart apple cooks better but requires more cinnamon. And since tastes differ, not all cooks produce the same results.”

He gave her a quick glance as he straightened his last boot. “I suppose that goes for a lot of things. If I bring you the other ingredients, do you have enough apples to make one of those tarts for me? I’ll be happy to pay you for your labor.”

Rebecca narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but he seemed perfectly sincere. “You needn’t go to that trouble. I’ll send a tart up to the house on the morrow. That’s my baking day anyway.” She lied through her teeth, but she wouldn’t have this man seeing her as a charity case. She had little left but her pride, but she would cling to it for as long as she could.

He stood up, towering over her as few men did. The laugh lines had disappeared. “It is foolish to give away what others will buy. The labor and ingredients for a tart like that come dearly. We pay our cook and the grocer and the kitchen maids for the likes of that. Why should you not be reimbursed as well? Then the girls could have their ribbons.”

She wrapped her hands in a towel and tried not to glare at him. “I am not your cook or your kitchen maid or your grocer. I am your neighbor. In case you have not noticed, I am not in trade.”

He opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, and wisely nodded his head before stalking to the door. Rebecca couldn’t call it anything else but stalking. Simon Lemaster liked to have his own way. He was the type of man who liked to reorganize the world around him to match his ideals. And she hadn’t conformed. Her father had tried for over twenty years, and she’d never learned the knack. God had given her height instead of docility. Mostly, she didn’t mind. But Simon Lemaster wasn’t precisely happy with the arrangement.

“I thank you for the tea, Mrs. Tarkington,” he said stiffly, opening the door. Then, with a brief nod, he was gone.

She wanted to sigh in relief. She wanted to be glad that the meddlesome man had received his comeuppance. But it had felt so good having a man in the kitchen again, hearing a deep voice praise her cooking, have a helping hand with the wretched animals. She had nearly wept with relief when he’d come to rescue her from the dratted pig. She had instantly bestowed upon him the part of conquering hero: strong, brave, handsome. But he was made of clay like all the others.

Quashing her easily aroused daydreams, Rebecca returned to the real world with the advent of the girls to help with dinner. Assigning each of them a task, she tried not to let their chatter pierce her easily wounded heart. They thought all adults invincible. They needed to believe in that security. She wouldn’t allow them to learn otherwise.

“Molly said last year she got a fur muff and fur-lined gloves,” Lucille declared. “And this year she’s asked for a fur-lined cape to match.”

“Just think of all the bunny rabbits that must have died for her,” Rebecca responded absently. She had given up hope of convincing the girls they didn’t need everything they saw, but she couldn’t give up the practice of teaching them.

“Bunny rabbits?” Mary asked, wide-eyed. “That’s bunny rabbit fur? Oh, how awful!”

“Fur has to come from animals,” Rebecca answered calmly, hiding her smile. “And I shouldn’t think there’s much left of her muff to match this year. Rabbit fur sheds abominably.”

“You’re making that up,” Lucille said suspiciously, chopping at her carrots.

Rebecca raised her eyebrows. “And when have I ever lied to you?” She waited for that to sink in before continuing, “Once I learn the knack of weaving wool into yarn, I can make you warm gloves and hats and coats, and they will all match, and no one will have anything like them. You just have to be patient.”

“Molly says only peasants wear wool and make their own yarn,” Lucille muttered scornfully. “Her mother buys velvets and the prettiest embroidery thread in London. Papa used to buy us velvet dresses every Christmas. And we used always to have goose for Christmas dinner.”

Rebecca tried to keep the tears away. Once upon a time, she’d had a father who bought her velvet and silk dresses, any kind she’d ever asked for. She’d had cooks and maids and a horse of her own. She’d never worn wool, knew nothing of where it came from. The only practical thing she had ever learned was how to cook and bake, and that was because she’d spent so much of her time mooching whatever she wanted to eat from the kitchens. She’d lost all that and would never see it again. She’d traded it willingly for the chance to be Matthew’s wife, but she knew how Lucille felt. She couldn’t fault the child for expressing the same desires and thoughts she had when she donned her scratchy woolen gown each morning, or stared at another meal of turnips.

“Maybe next year the sheep will have a finer wool and will bring a better price,” she answered without too much hope. She knew nothing of sheep. Matthew had left a manager in charge of the few they possessed. The sum the man had given her after the shearing hadn’t been enough to do more than pay their most pressing debts.

“Do you think we might have a plum pudding this year?” Mary asked timidly. Of the two girls, Mary was the quietest, the easiest to frighten, the one who tried the hardest. Rebecca understood that the three people Mary had counted on most in this world had been ripped from her short life without warning, and the child feared Rebecca, too, would one day disappear. It was an impossible fear to ease. She could only love the little girl and pray circumstances would improve.

Rebecca had no idea how she would make one of the elaborate plum puddings her family used to serve, but perhaps she could come up with a more modest version. Brushing a kiss over Mary’s hair, she gave her a hug. “Let’s see what we can do, all right? Tomorrow I must make a tart for the viscount’s family, so I will go into town and see what I can find.”

Both girls cheered considerably at the prospect, and Rebecca nearly wept at the easiness of pleasing them. At their age, she would have thrown a tantrum had she not received a dozen gifts, had her plum pudding and cooked goose, and a Yule log larger than two men could carry. She had been spoiled horribly. Perhaps that was why she had been so determined to have Matthew after her parents had said she could not have him. Still, she refused to regret the few short weeks they had together. She just regretted the result.

As if reading her mind, Lucille asked, “Will your papa come to visit this year, do you think, Rebecca? You must miss him.”

Rebecca wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a floury streak across her face. “No, I think not, Lucy. He’s old and set in his ways. We’ll just send him a cheery note, shall we?”

She didn’t expect a reply this year any more than in years past, but she refused to be as cold as he.

* * * *

“My word, Simon! What have you done to yourself?” Looking alarmed, the Viscountess Lemaster studied her younger son’s ruined clothing as he came through the upper hall. “You have not been to the cliffs, have you? You could have fallen!”

He could have taken a bullet or a cannonball any number of times these past years, Simon thought dryly, but his mother hadn’t been there to see that. She only worried about those things she could see.

“I did fall, but not on the cliffs. Why didn’t you tell me Matthew left a widow? I should have called sooner.” He was impatient to change out of his filthy clothing, but he had a restless need to learn more about the woman he’d just left. Where could Matthew have possibly met her? She had too much sophistication for a village girl, but she wore none of the physical attributes of a lady.

“I didn’t realize you hadn’t met her, dear. Why don’t you go change those horrible clothes while I call for tea? You must be starved.”

He had a thousand questions he wished to ask, but Simon nodded and wandered off to his own chamber first. He would never get a word out of his mother otherwise.

Once properly bathed and attired, he returned to the parlor, where the entire family had gathered in front of the fire for tea. His father sat scribbling at a small desk, only occasionally sipping at his tea or nibbling at a sandwich. His eldest brother, Thomas, had his head together with his wife, Helen, obviously discussing Christmas preparations, while the twins bounced merrily on the sofa, entertaining their grandmother with this unexpected visit in adult company.

Again, Simon felt the pangs of melancholy strike. The family seemed entirely whole without him. He’d not graced their presence at this time of year for six years or more. The twins thought him no more than a visiting stranger. Thomas and Helen had their own lives, revolving around their children and their friends and their social life. His father had made an idle inquiry as to his plans now that the war seemed over, but he’d scarcely acknowledged his younger son’s presence since. Only his mother fussed and bothered over him, as if he were still a small child.

Why did he feel so out of place with the people he loved when he’d felt comfortably at home in the kitchen of a woman he didn’t know?

Shaking his head at the perversity of his nature, Simon settled into this family scene. Perhaps he’d become used to crude conditions and a simple country kitchen had felt more like home than this elegant parlor. He didn’t mean to analyze it. He took a seat beside his mother, across from the twins, and accepted the cup handed to him.

“May we have your cherry cake if you don’t want it?” four-year old Tobias asked, his face already liberally smeared with the remainder of an earlier cake.

“But I mean to eat them all up,” Simon responded soberly, “Even the chocolate ones. You may have the sandwiches, if you like.”

Beside the brash Tobias, dainty Tabitha puckered up. “I wanted a chocolate one,” she murmured.

“They’re nasty pasty sandwiches,” Tobias declared. “You can’t have all the cakes.”

Amazing how even at an early age the boy learned to stand up and argue while the girl just sobbed to get her way. Simon hadn’t had enough experience with children to notice that until now. He thought back to the two young girls in Rebecca’s kitchen. Those two hadn’t sobbed or protested. They’d merely stated their case and went about their business when told. He wondered how the argument fared after he’d left. What was “a’Thomasing” and why had Rebecca gone so pale at the thought?

“One more cake for each of you,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts. “Then back to the nursery. You’re all over crumbs.”

While the children carefully chose their favorite cakes, Simon turned to his mother. “I’ve been from home so long, I’ve forgotten it all. The vicar mentioned something about a’Thomasing, but I had to pretend to know what he was talking about. Is it related to St. Thomas’s day?”

Lady Lemaster gave him a little pat and handed him a plate full of sandwiches. “It’s just the day some of the widows in the village come around to visit with sprigs of holly or mistletoe. We leave a plate of shillings at the door in exchange. We have a sip of tea and talk a bit, then they help themselves as they go out. It’s a polite way of helping out this time of year. It’s so hard on some of them, and this year it’s particularly bad. The wool brought in nothing at all, corn prices are down, and with many of the miners out of work, there’s no extra to be had anywhere. And there are so many widows these days, with the war and all. I’m afraid the poor rates will have to go up to take care of them all. We do what we can.”

Stunned, Simon sank back against the cushions. “Does the government not provide pensions for the military widows?”

His mother sent him a shrewd look. “I suppose, of some sort. It doesn’t seem enough to live on, though. I’m not certain they all receive it, and of course, they can’t afford solicitors to look into the matter. It’s a sad business, but there is little we can do. Did you say you met the Widow Tarkington today?”

“I returned her collie to her. I hadn’t realized Matthew married. She’s not from around here, is she?”

“I haven’t really inquired, dear. Matthew didn’t bring her around and introduce her before he returned to war. I’ve seen her in church, of course, but we’re not in the same circles. I can’t imagine how Matthew found her.”

Simon gritted his teeth and tried not to condemn his mother for her attitude. She had thought little of Matthew’s mother, calling her a “common woman from the village.” But the previous Mrs. Tarkington had been as educated and well brought up as the viscountess, perhaps more so. Matthew’s mother had never condemned anyone for their lack of breeding.

To Simon’s surprise, his father intruded upon the conversation, leaving his desk to help himself to one of the cakes the twins hadn’t mangled before departing. “Met her in London, he did. He was on leave, she was there for her come-out. Right smitten the moment he laid eyes on her, I understand. Came to my office and asked for my aid in winning her father to his suit. Didn’t make much difference. Botherwell always was a hard-headed ass.”

“Botherwell? The only Botherwell I remember is the baron who turns coal into cash. She’s his daughter?”

The viscount shrugged. “His only child. Spoiled her. Told him so myself. Not that she took well in society in any case. Too tall for most of those lazy young louts. Botherwell should have known something of the sort would happen. Gal had too much sense to fall for the fortune hunters who swarmed around her, so she found herself a pretty face instead.”

Simon sifted through his father’s laconic explanations for the whole story. The conclusion he reached raised his eyebrows. “She eloped with Matthew?”

His father filled his plate and wandered back toward the desk. “So I heard. Matthew didn’t ask me about that part.”

By this time, Helen and Thomas had finished their discussion and now returned to the table. Helen set her cup down and asked, “Are you talking about Rebecca? Sad case, that, but she should never have gone against her family’s wishes. Matthew Tarkington only wanted a mother for his little sisters.”

Simon scowled. “I don’t believe that. He wouldn’t have eloped with the daughter of a wealthy baron unless they’d made a love match. He was always impetuous, but he wasn’t selfish.”

His sister-in-law daintily dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Men always defend each other. He took a wealthy young girl from her loved ones and dumped her in the middle of nowhere to look after two little girls, then he returned to war and left her to fend for herself. If that’s not selfish, I don’t know what is.”

“If I recollect rightly, it takes two to make a marriage. She must have had something to say about the matter. Perhaps she didn’t realize her father was so opposed to the match. I suppose he cut her off?”

Helen nodded as she wiped her fingers. “No dowry, nothing. He’d had grand plans for her. He probably could have bought her an earl, if she’d wanted. He doted on her. I never had a chance to talk with her much, but Rebecca never seemed interested in owning an earl. Growing up without a mother, she lived a little wild at home. She had some strange ideas.”

Strange ideas like wanting the same love and affection from a husband as she’d received from her father, Simon supposed. She hadn’t grown up wild. She’d grown up naive. No one had explained the facts of life to her. He began to understand a little better why she’d practically thrown him from her kitchen for offering her money. He’d made an ass of himself.

As he left his family to go on to other topics, Simon wandered in the direction of the billiard room. He hadn’t practiced in years. He and Matthew had used to enjoy the challenge of a good game of billiards. Thomas never had the eye for it. He wondered who he would play against now. Not having Matthew here left a gap he hadn’t expected. Maybe Richard played? Probably not. A vicar wouldn’t.

He couldn’t keep his mind from straying back to Matthew and his widow. Matthew had married a wealthy baron’s daughter. It seemed too incredible to be true. Of course, Matthew had always had a way with women. He’d seduced his fair share in the village and even had a few swooning when they’d gone to London to buy their colors. They’d thought it jolly good fun at the time. At the age of twenty-one, fun was the only thing of importance on their minds. Marriage had never occurred to either of them. They’d meant to be decorated, glorious war heroes.

Simon shot his cue into the ball so sharply that it bounced back and forth across the table without ever hitting a hole. Cursing, he put the cue back in the rack. War heroes. A lot of good they were dead and buried in some stinking hole.

* * * *

“My, how lovely you look today, Mrs. Tarkington! And Miss Tarkington! Soon enough, you’ll have all the lads stumbling over their feet around you.”

“That’s about all they’re good for,” Lucille muttered under her breath, making Rebecca smile. Lucille had just had a major tiff with the butcher’s boy, until now, her favorite suitor, if he could be called that. Mostly, he gave her meat pies and showed her where the frogs swam.

Rebecca smiled at the friendly grocer and produced her shopping list. “You flatter us, I’m sure, Mr. White. It must be the Christmas spirit come upon us.” She handed the list over the counter to him.

“Just a few weeks more,” he declaimed merrily. “I’ve got the gander all picked out. How about you? Will you have goose?”

Rebecca clasped her gloved hands tightly but managed to return his good cheer. “If I had my way, we’d have roast pork, but the girls treat that little monster as a pet.”

White laughed and turned to find the supplies listed. “Going to have plum pudding, I see. Haven’t had a good plum pudding in years. Wife says they’re too much trouble without the children there to enjoy it.”

“You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like, sir. I’m sure we’ll have more than we can eat. It’s a modest recipe, not as grand as you remember, perhaps, but we’ll have the usual surprises, I’m sure.” Rebecca shook her head silently at Lucille’s frown. The child would have to learn it was more pleasurable to share treats with others than to keep them to themselves.

“That’s right kind of you, Mrs. Tarkington, right kind. Might take you up on that. Squire always dressed a good table. Remember sharing his punch many a year. Here you are.” He returned to the counter, piling up the supplies that would provide a Christmas baking of tarts and pudding as well as the usual staples for cooking.

“Put that on our bill, if you would, Mr. White. Matthew’s pension money should come in after the first of the year.” She crossed her fingers as she said this. She hoped the pension money would appear then. She’d written. They’d acknowledged her petition. When the money hadn’t been forthcoming, she’d written again, mentioning her father’s name. The reply had promised. Surely, they wouldn’t hold out any longer than the first of the year.

A frown of concern replaced the grocer’s earlier good cheer. He glanced at Lucille, who had gone to look at something in the window. Quietly, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tarkington. The bill’s higher than is good for both of us. What if I put a few of these extras back? Then it won’t come to so much.”

The extras, like the expensive cinnamon for the tarts and the candied fruits for the pudding. Rebecca bit her lip, trying not to let him see it quiver. She had nothing to give the girls this year. She had thought and thought and found no money for anything. She’d hoped the pudding would lift their spirits. Mr. White let her run a generous bill, knowing she paid what she could whenever she had it. Now even he threatened to cut off her credit. Much more of this, and she would be forced to take charity. Or sell tarts to the odious Simon Lemaster.

With a calmness she didn’t feel, Rebecca removed her glove and pulled off the simple gold band on her finger. “Will this help pay toward the bill, Mr. White?”

He looked shocked. “I couldn’t take that, Mrs. Tarkington. That’s your wedding ring.”

She smiled bitterly. “But I’m not married any more, am I? So it’s of little use to me. And I promised the girls plum pudding.”

She could see the indecision on his face, the goodness of his heart warring with the instincts of a businessman. He had a wife and home and shop to run. She could understand his fear that he would end up supporting the Tarkingtons if they never paid their bill. She lay the ring down on the counter. “I don’t wish to take charity, Mr. White. I’ll trust your judgment on the fairness of the payment.

“I’ll have a jeweler weigh it,” he promised, slipping the ring in his pocket. “You’ll get the best offer I can find.”

She hated to see the pity in his eyes. That was the worst part of poverty. She could learn to deal with recalcitrant pigs and smelly sheep and scrubbing floors and all that. She just couldn’t abide the pity. She moved to examine an exotic assortment of spices on the wall while the grocer packaged up their order.

With their supplies neatly tucked into their bags, Lucille and Rebecca returned to the unpromising gray light of the street outside. Heavy clouds still hung over the sky, and a brisk breeze whipped their skirts, cutting right through their flimsy cloaks. For the hundredth time, Rebecca wished she’d had the foresight to elope with her winter clothes as well as her summer gowns. Of course, at the time, she hadn’t thought her father could be so unforgiving.

“Isn’t that Mr. Lemaster coming toward us?” Lucille asked as Rebecca stopped to tie her woolen scarf more securely around her neck. The girls had knit it for her last winter. It had odd lumps and knots in it, and the red, green, and brown made a strange combination of colors, but warm wool accomplished its purpose.

Rebecca looked up in time to see the young soldier advancing on her. She could tell he had been a soldier even though he wore civilian clothes. The military stride and determined expression said it all. She would find herself outflanked if she didn’t surrender her position immediately.

“Good morning, Mrs. Tarkington,” he said in clipped tones that almost demanded a salute. “You’re out early.”

“The same could be said of you, sir,” she answered politely, ignoring the stirring of interest in her more feminine side when his gaze seemed to soften as it fell on her. “We decided we wished to make plum pudding as well as apple tarts today, and I needed a few ingredients.”

His eyes lit with anticipation. “Would you need any help, then? I haven’t stirred a good plum pudding in years.”

Surely he couldn’t be setting up a flirt with her. He’d said he was Matthew’s friend. A friend wouldn’t try to seduce his friend’s widow, would he? Remembering herself, Rebecca laughed inwardly at her misplaced vanity and gave the answer she would have given Matthew. “We’ll make the tarts first. How good are you at peeling apples?” A man as handsome as Simon Lemaster would never set up a flirt with a woman as plain and unappealing as herself.

“Quite good, as a matter of fact,” he stated, falling into step with them. “Even better if I’m allowed to munch a few while working.”

They didn’t make it past the village tavern before Mrs. Lofton, the vicar’s wife, hurried forward to greet them.

“Rebecca! There you are. I’ve just been out to the house looking for you. We needed you at the Ladies’ Meeting last night. We’ve decided to have a holiday festival to help the needy this year. Everyone will bring in odds and ends of things: baked goods, knitted garments, Mrs. Baker will bring some of her fine jams, you know the kind of thing. And we’ll auction them off! We’ll have refreshments and entertainment for the children, then the proceeds will go toward buying coal and staples for those who need it. We were hoping you could contribute some of your baked goods, both for the auction and the refreshments.”

Rebecca hesitated only a second. She couldn’t lower herself in the eyes of Lucille and Mr. Lemaster and the vicar’s wife by saying she couldn’t afford the expense. She certainly couldn’t admit that they could use the coal and food themselves. She had been raised as a lady, and it was a lady’s duty to help those with less. She knew of a certainty that many families had a great deal less than they did. The Tarkingtons had been landed gentry in these parts for centuries. She couldn’t sully their name. She nodded quiet agreement, discussed the refreshments briefly, then left Mrs. Lofton on her round of errands.

She felt Mr. Lemaster’s questioning gaze on her as they set off down the path, but she refused to meet his eyes. Making more tarts would use what sugar remained in the larder, and most of the flour. If they received the pension in January, they wouldn’t have to go without. If they didn’t...

She couldn’t let herself think of that. Instead, she turned her attention to the nonsense Mr. Lemaster and Lucille exchanged while her mind wandered elsewhere.

He had them laughing as they scuffled through damp brown leaves and frozen ruts. Rebecca had seen the sternness in his face yesterday, but she had recognized the charm in him from the first. Matthew had possessed that same ingenuous charm, the easy smile, a manner that made her feel wholly feminine and like the only woman in the world for him. She couldn’t say Simon Lemaster made her feel like that, but she suspected he could should he turn his mind to it. The thought made her uneasy. She knew her own vulnerability too well.

That was one too many things to worry about.

As they hurried around to the kitchen door so as not to clutter the parlor with their muddy boots and damp cloaks, Mary came running from the back field, shouting with hiccupping sobs, “Ginger’s in the pond!” The rest of her cries were mostly incoherent until she was closer, and Rebecca’s stomach sank further as she understood the extent of the disaster.

“Leopold was chasing a mouse, and he scared Ginger, and she broke the rest of the stall door, and now she’s wandered down to the pond and I can’t get her out!”

Rebecca tried to stay calm. She was the adult here. The girls needed her to behave accordingly. But without Ginger the cow, they would have no milk or cream or butter. And the foolish animal would freeze in the pond if Mad George didn’t come out and shoot her for trespassing—as he’d threatened to do the last time the cow had muddied up his fishing pond. Ginger weighed eight times Rebecca’s weight and had the mind of a mule. She didn’t go anywhere she didn’t want to.

Even as she thought that, the squeal of a rambunctious pig warned of impending chaos. Sure enough, Pigmalion rushed through the gate Mary had left open in her haste, charging directly toward them as if the only escape route she knew involved flying between the legs of humans, tumbling them like bowling pins.

“Not this time, you nuisance,” Mr. Lemaster declared, hopping aside and swinging his walking stick toward a piggy snout.

Pigmalion squealed and tried to dart around the swinging stick, but he applied it firmly to her snout again, steering her back toward the open gate.

“I’ll get her leash!” Lucille cried, dropping her groceries and rushing toward the barn.

“Ginger! We have to save Ginger!” Mary cried in dismay as attention seemed to be diverted from one crisis by another.

“Find me a stout stick and I’ll go after her,” Rebecca declared, marching off in the direction of the pond.

“You’ll hurt her!” Mary protested.

The cow was Mary’s particular pet, while Pigmalion belonged to Lucille. At the moment, Rebecca would gladly take both to the butcher’s. She ignored Mary’s protest and started toward the open field, knowing full well the hopelessness of her quest. She’d never persuaded the wretched cow to do anything it didn’t want to do before. She didn’t expect it to happen now. But she had to try. If nothing else, she had counted on selling some of the cream and butter to Mr. White in exchange for some of the staples they would need if the money didn’t come soon. It smacked of trade, but not charity, at least.

She heard pounding footsteps and turned to see Mr. Lemaster limping hastily after her. Behind him, Lucille had leashed her pet and was leading the pig back to his pen. Astonished at the swiftness with which the animal had been caught, she remained where she was. Maybe Mr. Lemaster was a miracle worker.

“I’ll get the cow,” he informed her, not even breathing hard. “You’ll get your skirts wet, and if Mad George is still as mad as he used to be, I don’t want you near him. He’s as likely to shoot you as the cow.”

“Then he’s as likely to shoot you,” she answered dryly. “I don’t think your family would appreciate that.” She started back down the path again.

“I assure you, I can handle George. You needn’t waste your time. Your nose is turning blue with cold, and I daresay your fingers are the same. Why aren’t you wearing a hat and warmer gloves?” He traipsed beside her, their long strides evenly matched.

Fool question, Rebecca thought sourly, but she didn’t say it aloud. She’d admired his leather fur-lined gloves earlier. She wondered if gloves like that could be made for women. She supposed not. But even mittens would do. She clenched her shivering fingers into balls and kept on walking.

“Stubborn woman,” Lemaster muttered beside her. “Why don’t you sell this dump and find a snug little cottage somewhere?”

“Do you always dispense unasked-for advice?” she asked curtly. She shouldn’t do that, she knew. He was offering help, and she should act helpless and grateful. Right now she was too cold and frightened to care.

He didn’t reply immediately. But as they came in sight of the cow standing in the pond, he said, “You’re right. I apologize.”

They didn’t have time to exchange any further pleasantries since Mad George chose that moment to race out of his house carrying an antiquated musket that might just shoot off of its own accord the way he waved it.

“Stay here,” Simon ordered.

She didn’t, of course. She hurried in the direction of the mule-headed cow as he intervened with the irate farmer.

Rebecca had to wade into the icy water to grab the cow’s halter. Her teeth instantly began to chatter as she tried to persuade the recalcitrant animal to turn around and walk out of the bone-chilling cold. Big liquid brown eyes looked up at her, and she could swear she saw the devil in them as the cow let out a long moo-o-o and refused to budge.

On the bank, Mad George ranted and raved and swung his musket, while Mr. Lemaster talked soothingly, easing closer to the dangerous firearm. Rebecca couldn’t think about consequences. Her mind had grown as numb as her toes and fingers. She tugged at Ginger’s halter, alternately cursing and pleading.

“...out of my pond now!” The words floated over the water, accompanied by the loud boom of gunpowder.

Ginger jerked free of Rebecca’s numb fingers to run in panic to the far bank. Losing her balance, Rebecca tumbled seat first into the water, her frantic gaze swinging to the far shore for certain signs of bloodshed. Instead, she saw Mr. Lemaster heaving the old gun into the pond and running towards her. Mad George, apparently intent on capturing the cow with his bare hands, now stormed around the far bank.

Had her teeth not chattered so fiercely, she would laugh at the scene. By the time Mr. Lemaster reached Rebecca, the cow had decided she’d had enough and calmly climbed from the pond, heading for home. George jumped and down in fury, unleashing curses to hurry her along. Mr. Lemaster waded into the water, heedless of his impeccably polished boots as he bent to help her out.

“You’ll catch your death of cold!” he scolded, sounding more annoyed with her than with the cow. “I told you to wait. Look at you, you’re soaked!”

Teeth chattering, she couldn’t make a suitable reply. With little success, she tried to pull away from him so he wouldn’t end up as wet as she. He wrapped her in his arms and kept her from falling as she stumbled back to dry land.

He cursed and fussed all the way back to the house. They heard Mary’s shouts of delight as Ginger plodded back to the barn in search of fodder after her little escapade. Rebecca again tried to escape Mr. Lemaster’s hold as they approached the house, but he threatened to pick her up and carry her if she tried again. Feeling as if her feet were blocks of ice, Rebecca had to acknowledge his judgment.

“Run, build up the fire,” Simon shouted at Lucille when she raced toward them.

The child took one look at his face and ran to do as told without question. Rebecca wearily thought that nothing short of a miracle in itself. Lucille never did anything without question these days. Shivering violently, she allowed herself to be led into the kitchen.

“Hot tea,” Simon demanded, and Mary leapt to pour two cups.

When he kneeled on the floor to remove Rebecca’s ruined shoes, she finally managed to squeak a protest. He gave her a look from his position on the floor, took notice of her chattering teeth and blue fingers, and ignored her protest. Peeling off his gloves, he removed both shoes and stockings and began to hastily massage her toes between his warm hands.

She wanted to die of utter embarrassment, but she was too cold. She wrapped her frozen fingers around the hot cup Mary handed her, but she still shivered too much to bring it to her lips. Simon looked up and noticed.

“Get the tea down,” he ordered. “You’ll stop shivering with something warm inside. Spill it, if you must, but get it in you or I’ll pour it down you myself.”

Rebecca thought him an extremely presumptuous man. She would have told him so, but she couldn’t persuade words from her trembling lips. He had no reason to come in here and order her around like that. He didn’t even know her. She could freeze to death if she wanted. It wasn’t any of his business.

But she managed to bring the cup to her mouth and sip cautiously. She would have to stop shivering if she meant to yell at him.

“Start a fire in the bedroom,” he was ordering now, talking to Lucille. “You’ll have to help her into bed. Mary, find a warming pan and heat the sheets.”

That was absolutely the outside of enough. Kicking her feet from his hands, Rebecca did her best to stand, though he kneeled too close for it to be easy. The tea had warmed her thickened tongue enough to scold. “I have work to do. I have no intention of lounging about in bed all day. Now let me up, Mr. Lemaster. You’ll need to go home and find something warm for yourself. You’re almost as soaked as I am.”

He stood only to tower over her, trapping her in the chair. “I see the tea has finally warmed your tongue, Mrs. Tarkington. You will have lung fever if you don’t warm yourself. Do you wish to spend the holidays in bed with a vinegar poultice on your chest?”

She blushed heatedly at the reference to her chest but refused to acknowledge her embarrassment that he should notice she had such a thing as a chest. “The kitchen is the warmest place in the house. There is no sense in wasting good coal in heating the bedroom during the day. Now either take yourself home to change, Mr. Lemaster, or remove those wet boots. Lucille can find a pair of Matthew’s stockings for you to wear until yours dry.”

She had him there. He could not in all good conscience demand that they use coal that cost so dearly, nor could he offer to supply them with more. He understood that now. Frowning, he stepped away from the chair and the now blazing fire. “I’ll accept the offer of Matthew’s stockings and go into the parlor to change, if you’ll have sense enough to stay before the fire here while the girls fetch you some dry clothes.”

They practically stood toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye. Simon found this new angle of looking at a woman more fascinating than he cared to admit. She had lovely gray-green eyes with golden specks surrounding the dark centers. Her lips were just inches from his. One small move and he could capture her mouth, feel its warmth and sweetness against his.

Gad! Had it been that long since he’d felt a woman’s mouth beneath his? He remembered distinctly every line and curve of this woman’s body beneath his fingers as he’d helped her back to the house. She was too slender. He could nearly feel her ribs. But she was round in all the right places. The desire for her burned hot and quickly through the length of him. He had to leave the room to conceal the extent of his need.

Shivering in the unheated front room, Simon stripped off his boots and stockings and accepted the warm woolen ones Lucille threw in to him. He waited while the girls hurried up and down stairs, bringing Rebecca dry clothing. She had been wet to the skin. He’d seen every curve, every bit of lace and ribbon beneath her soaking clothes. He had no difficulty at all imagining how she would look before the fire, her skin glowing as she toweled herself off. All the cold in the world couldn’t suppress the heated blood flowing through his veins at the moment.

It startled Simon to realize he hadn’t felt like this in a long time. He hadn’t sought out any of London’s numerous courtesans when he was there. It hadn’t even occurred to him. His thoughts had stayed entirely with the cause he foughtand lost. But now, when he felt as if he’d fallen to the very depths of the Slough of Despond, his body awakened, and his best friend’s widow had caused it.

He didn’t know how to act. He’d never been in such a predicament before. He couldn’t take advantage of Rebecca. She’d suffered enough. But he couldn’t bear to leave the heat and company in her kitchen to return to his cold room.

Once the warmth of the kitchen seeped through them, Rebecca and the girls turned their tasks into laughter and song. While he peeled apples as promised, they giggled and gossiped and poked fun at each other and everything around them. Shriveled apples became talking doll’s heads with the addition of currant eyes and carved mouths and Rebecca’s mincing voice speaking for them.

Simon watched jealously as she kissed Mary’s brow and hugged her when the younger girl spilled her bowl of cream and almost cried. He listened raptly to their crystal clear voices blending in an old Christmas carol as they rolled out pastry dough. He didn’t attempt to join in, knowing his own voice poor and rusty from disuse.

He soaked up the merriment, remembering happier times when he and Matthew had sneaked into the kitchen to filch whatever crumbs they could find, only to find themselves caught and put to work. There had been laughter and warmth and the rich scents of baking cakes and roasting geese then.

Still, nothing could replace the six years hollowed from his soul by war and death and destruction. The ghosts of dead men haunted this room, Matthew’s among them. Simon could see them now, shivering over meager fires on distant shores, teeth chattering as they sipped boiled water to keep warm, uniforms torn and ragged from months of fighting. Hunger, thirst, filth, and disease had killed as many of them as bullets and cannonballs. And while they died, people back home had sat in their warm houses, drinking hot punch and wishing each other good cheer.

He couldn’t mix the two scenes together. They wouldn’t settle into one whole. He felt as if he still lived back there by those distant fires, and he merely looked through some window to this happy interior now. He wanted to join in. When Rebecca teased him into a fa-la-la-la, he did his best to enter the spirit of the song, but his spirit had long since departed. He simply wanted to warm his body next to hers.

By the time they reached the stirring of the plum pudding, the girls were feeling reckless enough to tease him as much as they did Rebecca. They insisted on blind-folding him as he stirred the pudding and made his wish, while Rebecca added whatever charms she’d bought for surprises.

“What did you wish for?” Mary asked excitedly as Simon handed over the wooden spoon to her.

He hadn’t wished for anything. He already had everything, and it seemed pointless to ask for more than he needed. But he merely smiled and chucked her under the chin. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Maybe I wished for a big hairy dog to chase Ginger when she gets out.”

“We already have Leopold,” she pointed out reasonably. “He just doesn’t understand he’s supposed to chase her back to the barn and not play with her.”

“If Ginger had claws like Miss Kitty, he’d learn soon enough,” Rebecca responded dryly, tying the blindfold around Mary’s eyes. “No wishing for the moon,” she reminded the girl as she took the spoon. “There’s no sense in wasting a wish.”

“Oh, I’ll not waste it. I know just exactly what I want.” Eagerly, the small girl took the spoon and pushed it through the thick batter.

Simon wondered what an eleven-year old could want so passionately as he watched her purse her mouth in intense concentration. He would have liked to provide it for her. He could have bought anything their hearts desired, but he knew their guardian wouldn’t allow it. He had to find some way of providing what they needed, without making them accept charity. A flicker of a thought played at the back of his mind as they made the final stirs to the pudding.

“Now, we put it in the pot and bring it to a boil,” Rebecca was saying. He admired the way she taught the girls without seeming to preach. Matthew had chosen well. Simon wished he’d been half so wise.

All too soon, the day ended. As Rebecca proudly handed him the apple tart to take home, Simon wished more than ever to give her something in return. He wasn’t much good at gift giving, but he had to try. Perhaps he couldn’t help the men in his company or their families, but he ought to be able to help Matthew’s widow. If he could just do this one small thing, perhaps some of this despair and frustration would dwindle a little.

He had the tart for dinner that night, and the next morning, for the first time since he returned to England, Simon woke early, refreshed and ready to meet the tasks ahead.

“Mother, do you still send Christmas baskets to the neighbors?” Simon asked over breakfast, causing his mother to glance at him with surprise. He’d not come down for breakfast since he’d returned home, preferring sleep to meeting the day, but he’d never been inclined to conversation in the morning even before he’d left home.

“Yes, of course, dear. It’s tradition. They expect it of us.”

“Could we send a goose this year instead of the basket?”

“A goose?” She glanced at him speculatively, as if wondering if he’d taken leave of his senses. “I don’t see the purpose, dear. Everyone is expecting the baskets.”

“That’s just it, Mother. Everyone must be bored silly with baskets by now. Christmas should be full of surprises. Can’t you imagine how thrilled they will be to receive a goose instead?”

She inclined her head in thought. “It would certainly be easier. I could just send for the poultry and have them delivered to each family, all in one swoop. I wouldn’t have to buy the baskets and apples and oranges and spend days putting them all together and hoping they don’t get bruised. Are you certain they wouldn’t mind?”

“Quite certain. And just in case, I’ll tell the vicar that the oranges were bad this year, and we looked for something a little more satisfying. He’ll pass the word around the village fast enough. They’ll be expecting something different. Are the Tarkingtons still on your gift list?”

Amusement flickered in his mother’s eyes, but Simon chose to ignore it. “I debated it after Matthew’s death, of course, but I couldn’t see any reason I shouldn’t send a basket to the girls if I sent one for Matthew. The widow usually sends up an apple tart in return. Very well bred girl, apparently.”

Simon nodded in satisfaction. “Shall I make the arrangements for you, then? I know a poultry dealer who might handle the order.”

Letting the look she gave him speak for her, his mother merely replied, “I’ll fetch my gift list, shall I?”

* * * *

Sneezing violently, Rebecca watched with dismay as the farmer deposited the goose from his cart onto the front lawn. Giving a cheery wave, the man called, “Greetings from the Lemasters!” and merrily drove his cart down the drive, the caged contents squawking and squealing as the wheels jostled through the ruts.

The gray gander on the lawn chased wildly after its departing companions.

Rebecca cynically contemplated letting the wretched bird go, but the goose was too valuable to let run free. Besides, the girls would be hideously disappointed if they knew their Christmas dinner had escaped. The basket of fruit that usually arrived at this time of year had become expected, as if it were no more than the first snow. But a goose! They would be beside themselves.

Rebecca groaned at the thought of all the ramifications of cooking a Christmas goose, but she didn’t have time to contemplate them. She had to catch the escaping bird.

Hearing her shouts, Lucille and Mary ran from the house, lending their efforts to trap the terrified bird. The goose squawked in outrage. The girls squealed and darted from vicious pecks. The yard erupted in a chaos of shouts and flying feathers. Unable to allow everyone else to have the fun, Leopold found his favorite bolt hole and joined the fray.

Had Rebecca any experience whatsoever at killing poultry, she would have wrung the gander’s neck right there and then. As it was, they could only herd the protesting bird into the barn to join the other animals. Wondering vaguely how one went about keeping a goose until one was ready to eat it, Rebecca allowed the girls to feed it corn, and sneezing, made her way back to the kitchen. The drenching in the pond had apparently had its effect. She thought she might have a bit of a fever. Looking on the bright side, she would need less coal to keep her warm at night.

By the next day, she didn’t feel quite so optimistic. Her hands shook as she prepared the chamomile tea her mother used to prescribe for head colds. She wrapped herself in blankets and lingered by the kitchen fire to drink it. Heaven would be lying in bed in front of a roaring fire, buried in blankets, with tea on one hand and a good book on the other, as she had once used to do when feeling under the weather. But she had the pastries to bake for the church auction, the hems to sew into the gowns she meant to give the girls for Christmas, and the house hadn’t been dusted and swept in days. She couldn’t afford the luxury of pampering herself.

She should have known Simon Lemaster would pick that day to pay a visit.

She had pulled a cap over her hair as much to keep her head warm as to keep her hair neat. She wore a wool gown she’d made for herself that first winter of her marriage, the warmest gown she owned but far from the fashionable confections she had once worn. Flour dusted her sleeves, and the hem was stained where she had gone out into the mud with it once too many times. On top of that, her nose was red from holding a handkerchief to it all day, and her eyes felt strained and teary. She almost didn’t answer the door when she heard the knock.

Her heart plummeted when she opened the door and saw Simon standing there, glorious in his bottle green fitted morning coat and pristine cravat, his boots polished to a shine she could probably see herself in were she inclined to look at his feet. That first day when he’d appeared sans cravat and muddy from head to foot, she’d accepted his presence much as she had Matthew’s familiar countenance. Today, he stood before her as a stranger, a wealthy, aristocratic stranger who must see her as little more than a housemaid. She had the urge to slam the door in his face.

His expression of alarm certainly didn’t enhance her feeling of well-being. She swayed and caught the door, but she sneezed before she could think of an appropriate greeting.

“Why in hell aren’t you in bed?” he exclaimed, grabbing her arm to hold her steady, then practically shoving her into the hall to close the door on the chilly air outside.

Rebecca wanted to chide him for his inappropriate language, if only to remind him that she was a lady and not a housemaid, but another fit of sneezing kept her from anything resembling a coherent reply. When he led her toward the cold and drafty front parlor, she managed a struggle of protest, but even limping, the ex-soldier had greater strength than she.

“Where are the girls? They ought to be here taking care of you. I’m certain Matthew didn’t intend for you to be a slave to their whims. Sit down here while I build up the fire.”

She started to protest the wicked waste of fuel, but he turned and glared at her. “One word more and I’ll set fire to this barn. I’ve seen enough wasted lives, thank you very much. Throwing yours away to save a few pennies isn’t in the least sensible. Now where are the girls?”

Reluctant to admit to the relief she felt that someone else had come in to take charge, Rebecca sank into the ancient over-stuffed sofa and applied the handkerchief to her nose again. “The dratted goose chased the cow through the barn doors. They’re trying to herd the cow back, but I fear the goose is lost.” She didn’t mention that she feared the barn doors were a loss, also. She had no experience in carpentry. “I’m really quite fine. It’s just a head cold.”

“And tomorrow it will be a chest cold, and the day after that, pneumonia, if you don’t keep warm and get some rest. I’ll fetch Mrs. Lofton. She can look after you for a bit while I help the girls find Ginger.”

Rebecca shook her head. She tried not to look at the man crouched at the fireplace lighting the fire as if he belonged there. He had swept into their lives like a summer breeze, and he would sweep out again just as swiftly. She would not come to rely on him like some helpless invalid, or widow. She’d seen the elderly women in the village relying on others to provide their fuel and look after them, as if being female made them helpless to do it themselves. She refused to be helpless.

“I cannot ask you to go out of your way. The goose was a lovely gift. Send your family our gratitude, and I will pen an appropriate note just as soon as I can. We needn’t take up more of your time.”

The glare he gave her now should have formed ice crystals in the air. Apparently satisfied the fire had caught, he rose to his full height and towered over her. “Oh, yes, the goose was a truly lovely gift. It gave you one more animal to look after and feed. Just exactly what you needed. Have the girls named it yet?”

She heard his sarcasm but wasn’t certain of its direction. Did he complain of his mother’s choice of gift? Her inability to tend livestock? The girls’ tendency to turn food supplies into pets? Her head ached too much to puzzle it out. With a wry tone, she admitted, “They called it Betsy. I didn’t think it wise to explain it was most likely a Bill.”

A flicker of a grin bent his harsh lips for just a moment. Grabbing a neatly embroidered pillow from one of the side chairs, he handed it to her along with an aging afghan thrown over the loveseat. “Wrap yourself up and don’t move. I’ll have Mrs. Lofton here shortly.”

Rebecca shook her head. “She has her hands full with the charity auction and Felicity Smyth’s new baby. She can’t be in three places at once. I’m fine. There’s no need for this concern. Perhaps if you have a moment to spare, you could help the girls fetch Ginger. She’s rather contrary and doesn’t always respond to orders.”

“Just like another female I know,” he muttered, shaking his head. “However did you and Matthew get along? He always swore he meant to marry a docile female who would bow to his every wish. I cannot imagine the two of you together.”

Simon didn’t wish to imagine the two of them together. That would acknowledge that this bristly woman on the sofa had shared a bed with his best friend, putting her beyond the bounds of propriety for him. Even with her nose red and runny, he found her immensely attractive.

Or perhaps it wasn’t her physical appearance causing this unprecedented display of concern so much as the combination of frailty, helplessness, and damned stubborn hardheadedness. In his world, widows were fair game for seduction, and he had to admit he’d come here this day with something of the sort in the back of his mind. But though his body still responded to just her proximity, he wasn’t listening to his body at the moment. His head screamed “off limits” and his heart shivered with fear.

“I am a docile female,” she muttered from behind her handkerchief. “But sometimes it is impossible to take orders from every male who staggers into my sphere. One has to draw the line somewhere.”

Amusement finally drew a smile from him. “Point taken. All right, I shall find the girls and send them back here to pamper you. Then I’ll take the wretched goose to the butcher shop where he belongs.”

“It’s too early to keep it for Christmas dinner,” she pointed out sensibly.

“You want me to put it back in the barn with the damned cow?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. He almost regretted his harsh tone when a look of resignation briefly crossed her face. Only then did he remember she mentioned something about the cow breaking down the barn door.

“You can’t run this place by yourself,” he bit out angrily, stalking toward the door rather than face that look of resignation. He preferred it when she argued. “I’ll have someone take a look at the door.” He slammed the parlor door before he could hear her protests.

He found the girls tugging on the cow’s halter, the dog barking on its heels, half a mile down the lane. The goose, of course, was nowhere in sight. Taking the cow’s lead and smacking it sharply on the rump, Simon got it started in the right direction. Within minutes, Mary had her mittened hand tucked firmly around his arm while she skipped beside him, chattering merrily. Matthew had undoubtedly spoiled his sisters dreadfully for them to accept him with such ease.

“I’ll put Ginger back in the barn, but you two must go in and persuade Rebecca into bed. She’ll be of no use to you at all if she comes down ill. I’ll try to send Mrs. Lofton up here to tell you what to do, but she must have rest and lots of hot tea and warmth. Can you do that?” 

He directed this mostly at Lucille, the eldest, who nodded her head and tried to fight back tears. He wondered if he’d spoken too harshly. He was more accustomed to ordering soldiers about than dealing with little girls.

It was blithe Mary who put their predicament into words. “We were to write to Rebecca’s papa today. We write every Christmas, telling him everything we have accomplished this year and wishing him a merry holiday, even though the grouchy old bear never answers our letters. She cries a lot when Christmas comes, although she tries not to let us know. I know she hopes he will come and visit, but now we won’t even be able to write if Rebecca is ill. It wouldn’t be seemly for us to write to a man we don’t know, would it? And if it is not written today, Mr. White cannot take it with him when he leaves for London tomorrow. Rebecca says we must not waste our coins on postage.”

My word. Simon had never considered the details of poverty before. His father had always franked his missives, and he’d never given thought to how his pen scratching got from one place to another. He remembered now how his men had carefully crosshatched their letters on a single page. He’d assumed they conserved the costly paper, but no doubt they meant to keep the cost of mailing down also. And more than one sheet of paper would involve an excess of sealing wax, another luxury he took for granted. Shaking his head at his obtuseness, he tried to come up with a solution to the problem that didn’t involve charity.

“If you take good care of Rebecca, I’m certain she will feel like writing in a day or two, and then I can take the letter to town with me when I go,” he said, surprised by his own decision. He hadn’t meant to make the long journey to London in this wretched December weather, but if that’s where he could find Rebecca’s father, that’s where he meant to go. The idea hadn’t been so clear to him the other day, but the fiasco with the goose had made the decision urgent.

The girls accepted his announcement with aplomb, as if they knew of people traveling to London every day of their lives. Once they reached the house, Lucille even managed to pull him aside and to ask, “Will you be seeing Baron Botherwell?”

Trying to hide his surprise, Simon nodded. “I shall deliver your letter personally.”

Cautiously, digging her toe into the dirt and watching it rather than him, she asked, “Do you think you might mention how much an answer would mean to Rebecca?” She looked up at him with sudden defiance, although tears still rimmed her eyes. “It is Christmas, after all. He could be just a little generous with his heart. Could you do that for us, please? We have not been able to make anything really special for her this year, and this would be like a gift, wouldn’t it?”

Something once solid in Simon’s heart cracked a little as he looked down into that tear-stained, wind-blown face. She asked the impossible of him, just as he’d asked the impossible of himself—and failed. He knew he could never persuade the baron to do anything he didn’t wish to do, but he couldn’t ruin this child’s Christmas by telling her so.

Perhaps he could think of some solution between now and Christmas, pull some strings, bargain with the devil. He didn’t know what he could do, but he knew he couldn’t disappoint Matthew’s sisters.

The girls darted into the house as he towed the cow back to its stall. The barn door had, indeed, come down under Ginger’s assault, although looking at it, Simon could see it hadn’t taken much pressure. It was a pure miracle the whole structure didn’t fall down about their heads in a strong wind.

Cursing Matthew for not providing better for his responsibilities, cursing himself for not understanding how strapped for funds his friend must have been, Simon shoved the barn door upright and made a makeshift bolt to hold it in place. One more of Ginger’s attacks ought to shatter it into sawdust.

He stopped to check on Rebecca before he left. He really ought to think of her as the Widow Tarkington, but she was too young to be a widow, and the girls had him thinking of her in their terms. He found the trio ensconced before the roaring fire, sipping hot chocolate and engaged in some game of cards that involved wagering with hairpins. Half Rebecca’s hair was already down about her shoulders. The dishevelment made her look as young as her youthful charges.

He didn’t have the heart to scold them for not allowing Rebecca to rest. He suspected the rosiness of her cheeks had more to do with fever than the fire, but he wasn’t in a position to play the part of nurse. He would see that Mrs. Lofton visited, despite Rebecca’s protests. He took his leave, vowing to himself to see that they had ample fuel to keep the drafty old house warm.

Upon a sudden intuition, Simon took the path across the fields instead of the road and found the gander chasing minnows in Mad George’s pond. He had little experience with geese, but he knew the secret to dealing with animals was firmness. He was wetter than when he started by the time he had the goose firmly tucked under his arm, his other hand holding the vicious bill closed. He’d intended to feed the Tarkingtons with Christmas goose, not the crotchety farmer, whether the blamed bird accepted its fate or not. Satisfied he could still control members of the animal kingdom even if he could control nothing else of the world around him, Simon deposited the goose in a rickety chicken house, threw in some corn, and bolted the door shut, leaving the bird squawking its protests.

* * * *

A light flurry of snow dusted Simon’s caped greatcoat as he stepped down from the carriage at the door of Baron Botherwell’s London town house. Impressive walls of limestone block towered against the smoke-choked London sky, with only an occasional glimmer of lamplight from behind heavily draped windows to brighten the façade. No festive evergreens adorned the grim structure to welcome a shivering visitor. Simon expected a similar reception from the human inhabitants.

He felt no surprise when the butler placed him in the front drawing room when he sent his card up. The Lemaster name carried significant weight in both social and financial circles, even when carried by a younger son. But a name could get him only so far. His failure at swaying government officials to their duties proved that. Simon held out little hope for the success of this meeting.

The baron appeared in velvet dressing gown and neatly tied cravat, obviously intending a quiet evening at home. He regarded Simon with a degree of suspicion and closed the door after him.

“Viscount Lemaster’s younger son, if I remember correctly?” he said without inflection, stopping before a crystal decanter. “Brandy?”

Simon nodded and accepted the glass offered. “I appreciate your seeing me, sir. I have a missive I promised to place in your hands directly.”

The shorter, rotund man stiffened and turned his back on him. “From my daughter, no doubt. You may heave it on the fire. She’s chosen her life. I’ll not heed her pleas.”

Simon gritted his teeth and removed the carefully preserved letter from his inner pocket. “I doubt that the lady would beg. She has too much pride for that. She and her stepdaughters merely send Yuletide greetings, as would any dutiful daughter. The most they hope for is a reply assuring them of your continued good health, I believe.”

The baron snorted. “No doubt in order to determine the date of my death and when she can expect to come into her inheritance. I’m a far cry from death’s door, be sure to tell her. Although what interest you have in a common soldiers’ wife, I hate to imagine.”

Simon thought he might explode from rage. His grip nearly cracked the fragile crystal stem of his brandy snifter before he had sense enough to return it to the table. Seeing no point in continuing an argument with a man determined to wear blinders, he kept his voice low, but fury colored his words.

“A common soldier’s widow, sir, who is doing amazingly well supporting two young girls and running an estate without any help from anyone, certainly not from you. For a spoiled young rich girl, she’s adapted very well and needs nothing from you but assurance that her father doesn’t hate her. I’ll be happy to tell her that she wastes any efforts to form a reconciliation with you, and the girls may go on thinking they have no one who cares about their welfare except herself.”

Simon’s angry strides to the door were interrupted by the baron’s scathing reply.

“If you think to form a reconciliation between me and my daughter so that you may marry her and gain the dowry her first husband did not, you may disabuse yourself of that notion now.”

Simon gripped the door handle and twisted hard before he turned and glared at the bitter old man. ““I doubt that you will ever understand that all your daughter needs is love, but I give you her best Merry Christmas, Baron.”

He stormed out, leaving the old man to stare into his warm fire alone.

Only some minutes later, shivering inside the cold carriage, did Simon realize what he’d done, again. He’d failed.

* * * *

It took Simon a week to admit his failure to Rebecca.

He made certain that the physician visited her when Mrs. Lofton reported that the widow’s illness lingered. He supplied the medicines required and allowed Mrs. Lofton to take the credit. The vicar’s wife looked at Simon oddly when he assumed the expense, but she held her tongue. Only when she informed him that Rebecca was back on her feet again did he force himself to admit that he couldn’t hide from her forever.

He had spent two nights in London with every intention of finding a willing woman to ease his needs, but for some reason he had never felt the urge and hadn’t stirred himself to look for what he needed. But this week back in Lymeshead had made him miserable with longing. He saw Rebecca’s rosy cheeks and laughing smile every time he walked through the main street. He heard her voice lifted in song whenever he smelled cooking apples. He remembered her soft curves in his arms every time he lay down to sleep. The thoughts drove him to madness.

He knew it was madness. He barely knew the woman. She was his best friend’s widow. He had no right to think of an impoverished widow with two children in the way he was thinking of her. If he just thought of her in his bed, he might dismiss the matter entirely as lust, but he longed for the warmth and joy of her kitchen, the smile on her face, the loving touches he’d seen bestowed on the girls. He wanted something from her for which he had no right to ask, and now he came to her door, hat in hand, announcing his failure. She had every right to never speak to him again.

When Rebecca opened the door, Simon could see the roses hadn’t returned to her cheeks yet. She looked pale and drawn, and she coughed when she tried to smile. She might as well have ripped the heart out of him. He wanted to grab her in his arms and carry her up to bed and scream for a physician. He wanted to rail against the fates that required her to work when she should rest, when she should rightfully have servants at her beck and call. He could do nothing but take off his hat and find words to lighten the blow.

“Mr. Lemaster! Come in. We haven’t seen you in ever so long. I just finished the gingerbread for the church auction. Won’t you come in and test it for us?”

She ushered him into the drafty hall, taking his scarf and hat and hanging them on hooks, coughing as she chattered. Without embarrassment, she led him back toward the kitchen and the only warmth the house offered.

He ought to tell her she didn’t look well enough to be out of bed, but he couldn’t insult her like that. He thought her lovely even in her illness. Her eyes sparkled with delight at his arrival. Her fingers brushed his coat with the same loving attention as she gave the girls, and Simon could see a spot of color return to her cheeks when she looked at him. That look stirred his longings even more strongly than before.

Gratefully, he accepted the chair she offered, but then realizing she meant to wait on him, Simon leaped to his feet again. His injured foot no longer pained him as it once had, but the sight of her coughing from her efforts felt like a stab wound to his heart.

“Sit, and let me wait on you for a change. I suppose you have spent the morning on your feet, baking gingerbread for others instead of caring for yourself,” he scolded, catching her shoulders and pushing her down on the cushioned bench beside the fire. “Where are the girls today?”

“Lucille is delivering the first batch of gingerbread and”—she blushed slightly and turned her face away—”I shouldn’t tell you this. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. But…” She shrugged and met his gaze anyway. “I offered the goose to the church for the auction, also. We couldn’t feed it, and the girls would never allow me to kill it. We talked about it, and they agreed it was best to give it to charity. Mary’s taking it down to the vicarage now.”

Simon ran his hand through his air in perplexity. He really should have known the girls would make a pet out of the creature, but he’d meant to give the Tarkingtons a merry Christmas dinner for a change. He’d meant do many things, but he didn’t seem to have the knack for doing anything right in this civilian life. He stared down into her flushed face and could only think of one thing to say.

“Do you have any idea how lovely you are when you blush like that?”

She reddened even more, and turned her eyes away, brushing at a wayward strand of hair as she did so. “You needn’t tease to get even. I know I shouldn’t give away presents from others. I debated it long and hard. But…”

Giving a sigh of exasperation, Simon caught her chin with his fingers and turned her face up to his. She looked so startled, he couldn’t find any words to ease her plight. Giving up the fight, he bent and kissed her.

The sweetness of her lips warmed his blood like ripe strawberries on a summer’s day. He couldn’t indulge in just one. He couldn’t keep bending over her like this either. Without any more thought than that, Simon pulled her to her feet and into his embrace.

She struggled briefly, protesting with a push of her hands against his chest, but she never attempted to remove her lips from his. Their mouths had somehow sealed together, nourishing, encouraging, taking and giving with equal parts hunger and need. The black void in Simon’s soul disappeared, filling with the bliss of this brief moment.

And brief it had to be. The sound of the girls’ chatter as they flung open the front door shattered the intimacy.

They both backed away in embarrassment, afraid to look at each other as the girls ran into the kitchen, laughing and shedding coats and scarves across the furniture.

“Betsy squawked and chased the butcher’s dog all the way through the village!” Mary laughed as she reached for the teakettle simmering on the stove. “I don’t think she’ll end up anyone’s Christmas dinner. I think she ought to be a guard dog.”

Rebecca tried not to look at the tall man beside her as she carefully spooned tea leaves into the pot. He seemed as rooted to the spot as she felt. She didn’t know what had come over them. An excess of Christmas cheer, perhaps. She certainly felt as overheated and excited as if she’d drunk too much Yuletide punch. She had to force herself not to glance over her shoulder to see his expression.

Mary might be oblivious to the tension between the two adults, but Lucille sent them quizzical looks as she set out the plate of gingerbread. More boldly than she ought, she confronted Mr. Lemaster with the questions Rebecca had refused to put into words.

“Did you see Rebecca’s father? Did he read our letter?”

Rebecca could feel the way he stiffened, felt the tension as surely as if it were her own. Perhaps it was. She was having difficulty separating herself from that kiss. She felt as if she’d entered Simon’s soul when he’d taken her into his arms. It had felt so right. She’d never thought anything could ever feel so right again. But she knew enough now to know Simon Lemaster would never dally with the widow of a friend. He’d meant no insult by that kiss. She didn’t know precisely what he had meant, and maybe he didn’t either. But she knew the despair she’d seen in his eyes had found its outlet now.

“I saw the baron.”

Rebecca wanted to keep her face turned from him, didn’t want to see the torment behind his words, but she couldn’t resist looking. Perhaps she heard wrong. Perhaps she could see something in his expression that would tell her more than his words. She trusted the unhappy lines of Simon’s face. At least they were honest. Unlike other handsome men, he didn’t use his charms to hide the truth, not about something that mattered as much as this did. She wanted to make it easier for him somehow, but she couldn’t.

Simon looked directly at her as he spoke. She could feel the distance between them widening as the words emerged.

“I delivered the letter into his hands. He knows you’re alive and well and doing fine. He appears quite hearty and healthy. He sends you his warm wishes.”

She couldn’t quite believe she was hearing this. He’d seen her father? He couldn’t have. But why should he lie about such a thing? Did that mean her father had refused to see him or was too ill to see him? Panic rose, unbidden, into her eyes, before she could even say the words.

He must have seen the panic, must have recognized her disbelief. His expression shuttered, Simon set down the cup Lucille had handed him. “He’s doing fine, Rebecca. You needn’t concern yourself about him at all. I think it’s time I left. Thank you for the tea.”

She let him go. The girls escorted him through the hall, asking excited questions about London and the man they thought of more in terms of step-grandfather than as no relation at all. In their innocence, they saw the baron as an old man, rocking by the fire, reading their letters with loving repetition. Rebecca had never had the courage to correct them. They wouldn’t understand how a man could be so cold as to live without love. She couldn’t understand it herself.

Unable to fight the tears running down her cheeks, Rebecca turned the bread dough into the flour and blamed her sniffing on her cold when the girls returned.

* * * *

Simon bought the stupid goose at the auction for a sum so large that everyone attending rose to their feet and applauded his largesse. He had the bird caged and sent back to the manor to guard the stables. What else could one do with a gander wearing a red ribbon around its neck?

After sampling the refreshments, the viscountess offered an equally immense sum for the gingerbread auctioned, but Rebecca wasn’t there to appreciate the compliment. Only Simon understood the real reason the Tarkingtons didn’t join the festivities, and Rebecca’s excuse of illness had very little to do with it. She would never let a minor obstacle like a chest cold stop her from going where she wanted. But lack of coin to purchase anything for charity would embarrass her into hiding instantly.

Simon had caught Mr. White having Rebecca’s wedding ring weighed at the jeweler’s. He still cringed inside when he thought of it. He’d come in to figure out what little trinkets might please his family, but the sight of that wedding ring had destroyed any Christmas spirit he may have possessed. The gold had worn to a thin fragment of itself on the fingers of untold Tarkington wives. It was all but worthless in any light. Simon had paid the balance of the widow’s bill in exchange for it.

On Christmas morning, he carried the ring in his pocket as he climbed the rocks of the cliff in a fit of despair over not being able to aid the Tarkingtons or anyone else, for all that mattered. He had the urge to heave the wretched piece of gold into the waves crashing below. In return for that miserable piece of jewelry, a lovely strong woman like Rebecca had turned herself into a drab, worn farmwife when she could have danced in luxurious ballrooms wearing silks and satins. He didn’t understand it.

He didn’t understand life. How could he be given everything when others had nothing? And having everything, why did he feel so miserable, when the Tarkingtons, with nothing to their names but a drafty old farmhouse, managed to laugh and fill their lives with warmth and joy? Why did he, a hero with dozens of military medals to his name, feel a failure while Rebecca, with nothing more than this plain gold band, see herself as successful because she’d managed a few short weeks of marriage?

A sharp wind blew through him as he stood on the cliff, contemplating these questions and finding no easy answers. Even the weather failed to cooperate. Instead of the gloom and clouds his mood required, a bright winter sun sparkled across the waters, laughing back at him in twinkles on the waves. Simon couldn’t even find his melancholy of earlier. Something else had taken its place.

And he knew exactly when it had happened. It had happened the moment his lips had touched Rebecca’s. Something had opened in him then, something strange and unexplored, perhaps, but something so powerful that he couldn’t ignore it as he wished. He wanted to go back and try again, to explore the feeling a little further, to talk to Rebecca about it, to see if she felt any glimmer of the same thing. He wanted to know if she’d felt that way with Matthew, if she could ever feel that way again. He wanted to know so many things, but instead, he stood on the cliff’s edge, facing failure, again.

How could he ever tell her the truth about his visit with her father? That he had angered the old man so much that the baron had no doubt flung the letter on the fire, unread, after he’d left? How could he explain her father’s bitterness, a bitterness that would continue should Simon attempt to court her?

He didn’t possess great title or riches to please the old man. He had the inheritance from his grandmother. His father had offered a small farm with a manor house, but the income from it barely paid the upkeep of the house. He supposed everyone assumed he would marry well, so no one had given the matter of his support much thought. He’d never considered it himself. But if he meant to take a poor wife, he’d have to do more than idly think about it.

Simon blinked and stared out over the ocean as the direction of his thoughts became clear. A poor wife? Had he considered taking any wife at all? Not more than a month ago he’d stood on these rocks and thought about throwing himself off. How had he made such a turn around to stand here now contemplating the responsibility of a wife and children? Children? Where had that thought come from?

In something akin to shock, Simon turned and faced the rolling land behind him. he wind pummeled his back, driving him farther from the cliff’s edge, closer to the village and the road leading to a certain quiet farmhouse nestled in a valley. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t go to her a failure. He had no right to think she would accept him. No right to think she would even look twice at him.

But even as he told himself these things, he saw a tall figure appear on the crest of the hill, her bonnet whipped back from her loosened hair, her skirts and pelisse billowing around her as she scanned the horizon. Catching sight of him, she waved with all the joy and excitement and life that was the Rebecca he had come to know and love. The ill woman of the past weeks was just a momentary aberration. His Rebecca possessed a spirit akin to the wind blowing off the water, too strong to ever give in.

Simon loped in her direction, ignoring the ache in his healing foot, ignoring the idiot he made of himself as he raced to capture what was never his in the first place. If he stopped to think, he would leap off the cliff. Instead, he let himself hope. He held out his arms, and much to his happiness and relief, she raced into them.

Their lips met and clung, and the icy cold of their flesh warmed quickly to a blazing fire. Simon gasped and came up for air, catching her against his chest so she couldn’t escape in this fleeting moment when he couldn’t hold her with his kiss. Joy danced in her eyes, but whether it had anything to do with himself, he couldn’t discern. He merely basked in the wonder of sensations he’d never thought to know again.

“He’s come! You did it! You brought my father here! Oh, Simon, I can’t believe it. I didn’t believe it. I thought you lied. I’m so ashamed. But he’s here. It’s Christmas and he’s here. It’s the best gift I’ve ever had. Oh, Simon, thank you. I can’t tell you how much I thank you.”

Disbelief widened his eyes as he stared down at her. Simon wanted to protest, wanted to disclaim any responsibility in the matter, but Rebecca tugged on his arm, pulling him toward town.

“He’s being grumpy and obnoxious, but the girls are stuffing him with gingerbread and apple tarts, and I’m basting him with honey, and he’s coming ‘round, Simon. He’s asked about you.” She gave him an embarrassed grin. “I think he’s checking on your prospects. You made a strong impression, it seems.”

A strong impression. He’d yelled at the old goat and slammed a door in his face. That ought to be strong enough. Still incredulous, Simon followed Rebecca reluctantly. “Stuffed with apples and basted with honey? Are you turning him into the Christmas goose in replacement for the one you gave away?”

Her laugh chimed on the December wind. “Yes, I am. He’s a goose and deserves basting, but I’ve invited him for dinner and not as dinner. He brought us a goose already dressed. I’ve made apple dressing. Will you have some with us?”

Would he have some with her? He had a family at home no doubt sitting down to a groaning board of a dozen removes from soup to pudding, but Simon wanted more than anything else in this world to share a goose in the warmth and laughter of Rebecca’s kitchen. He followed her gladly, wiling even to face the baron’s outrage in exchange for a few more minutes of her company.

* * * *

He was insane. He knew himself as a raving lunatic. Simon had never done anything so impulsive in his entire life. Even as he walked into the utter anarchy of a farmhouse filled with the screams and laughter of two young girls as they chased Leopold up and down stairs while a crotchety old gentleman yelled at them to sit like proper young ladies, Simon still wrapped a proprietary arm around Rebecca’s shoulders as he walked through the door. He knew it was a possessive gesture, and a defiant one.

Rebecca knew it, too. She glanced up at him with a trace of uncertainty that disappeared the moment he gave her his best commanding stare. He had learned a lesson or two as an officer.

Laughter immediately danced in her eyes. She meant to lead him a merry chase, he could see that now. She would never make a docile wife, but Simon had discovered he didn’t want docility. He wanted someone to challenge him, to keep him on his toes, if only to chase her blamed pigs across creation. He gave her a wicked grin before turning to greet the old man who’d suddenly stopped waving his walking stick at the girls to glare in their direction.

“I knew it!” the baron huffed. “I knew you had designs on her. Well, let me tell you this right now, you young puppy—”

Simon helped remove Rebecca’s pelisse, hanging it on a hook as if the old man didn’t bluster worse than the wind outside. Interrupting the tirade, he held out his hand to the old gentleman. “Glad to see you again, sir. You couldn’t have given your daughter a better gift. I wager you didn’t realize she’s the best cook this side of Paris, France. A man could easily breathe his last breath in exchange for one of her tarts.”

The baron stared at the proffered hand, glared at his daughter who stood breathlessly at Simon’s side, glanced up the stairs at the two girls leaning over the banister in sudden silence, and grudgingly shook Simon’s hand.

“I’m taking her back to London with me.” The baron threw out the challenge.

Simon smiled in return. “It’s Rebecca’s decision if she wants to go. I’ve business up there myself.” Escalating the attack, he caught Rebecca’s cold fingers between his own warm ones, and asked, “Have you any of that hot cider you made for me last time? I’ll have to follow you to London in hopes you’ll occasionally feed me.”

The wide smile crossing her face made him feel more courageous than any battlefield triumph.

The baron threw in all his field artillery. “I’m bring her out in society again. She can do better than the penniless son of a viscount. She’ll not cook in my kitchens.”

This time, Simon squeezed Rebecca’s hand and let her reply. No trace of uncertainty lingered in her eyes as she sent him a warming glance and turned to her father. “I like to cook, Father. I’m not any good at dancing and flirting, but I’m a very good wife. And I’m very good at choosing my own husband. I’d like to be a good daughter, if you’ll let me, but I won’t let you tell me what to do anymore. I’m a grown woman now. I know what’s best for me better than you do.”

“Good at choosing your own husband! Just look at this hovel! How can you say—” The baron halted his speech when Rebecca leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Before he could continue, she tugged Simon toward the kitchen and gestured for the girls to come down where they belonged.

“It isn’t money that makes me happy, Papa. I thrive on love. Come along before the goose is burned. I’m certain Simon must be starved by now. Lucille, fill the gravy boat and set it out, dear. Mary, it’s your turn to light the candles. I think we ought to let Simon say grace today. We have much to give thanks for.”

With a grin, Simon pulled Rebecca back long enough to brush a kiss across her forehead. Then he released her to take charge of her particular field of battle. He stayed behind to deal with his.

The baron chewed furiously on the tip of his mustache. A drafty wind blew down the unheated hall, and Simon led the way into the simple country kitchen where the fireplace filled every cranny with glowing warmth. The carefully pressed linen tablecloth gleamed with old china and crystal, handed down from generation to generation. A mismatched plate or two and an occasional crack disappeared easily beneath the beauty of candlelight and fragrant evergreens arranged in the center of the table. The scent of roasting goose and apple tarts erased any disapproval from the hardest of hearts.

“I love your daughter,” Simon stated matter-of-factly, watching as Rebecca darted from stove to table to cabinet. She turned and gave him a wide-eyed stare.

He knew he wasn’t doing this properly. He had no experience on this particular battlefield. But as a raw recruit, he would learn. His look of confidence received a blinding smile in return. “I’m of good family and have many prospects. I’m thinking of taking a seat for one of my father’s boroughs. There are things in our country’s policies that need changing.”

Simon couldn’t believe said these words, but he realized he meant them. He hadn’t failed yet. He’d just given up too soon. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Watching Rebecca, he knew he would never give up.

Disgruntled, the baron wrapped his hands around the back of the best chair in the house. Glancing from his daughter to Simon, he growled, “Your father’s boroughs don’t have enough power to change table linen. I’ve got one in Gloucester that has enough money behind it to make those prigs in parliament sit up and pay attention.”

Simon finally relaxed and admired the slender sway of Rebecca’s back as she ladled soup into a tureen. He hadn’t won her yet. He had a victory or two under his belt, but he hadn’t cleared the battlefield or claimed his territory. But he would. He’d found a prize worth fighting for, a prize who made him want to fight again. He didn’t intend to give up this time.

* * * *

With the scattered remains of dinner still surrounding them and the girls entertaining the gruff old man in the front room, Simon moved a little closer to his goal. Taking the towel from her hands, he turned Rebecca into his arms, and watched the pink flush her cheeks.

“I know it’s too soon, Rebecca. I don’t want to rush you. Just tell me if I have a chance. I need to hear the words. I haven’t misunderstood, have I? I do have a chance?”

Shyly, she brushed a disheveled strand of hair from his face. She made no effort to move from his embrace. “I’ve only had the opportunity for wishful thinking until now, Simon. But I’ve seen enough of London and met enough men to know my own mind. You’re so much like Matthew in many ways, and in others”—she shrugged and smiled apologetically—”in other ways, you’re so much stronger. I loved him as a girl, Simon. I’ll love you as a woman loves. Can you accept that?”

The kiss he bestowed upon her gave his reply and more.

* * * *

And in the parlor, Mary whispered into her sister’s ear, “I got my pudding wish, Lucy. We have our goose and the baron and Simon, too. Isn’t Christmas wonderful?”