Chapter Two

 

 

December 31, 1828 – January 1, 1829

Pencroft, Hampshire

 

Martin stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back against the half-wall of a stall. The wooden bench was not particularly comfortable, but at least it wasn’t moving. The frozen roads had turned his carriage into a bouncing torture chamber, and he was glad to be out of it.

“Fitch, please stop fussing with my greatcoat,” he said to his valet, who was frantically brushing at the sodden mess draped over an open stall door.

Fitch frowned at the soggy fabric. “If this silly tradition is as important to the marchioness as you say it is, you can’t arrive at the door looking like a vagrant. And if you hadn’t insisted on helping the coachman remove that downed limb in the drive, your coat would be in a much better state.”

“If I hadn’t helped, we would still be sitting at the end of the drive. I doubt you would have relished a half-mile walk in this sleet and rain.” Martin tried to keep his voice level. Fitch had been complaining since the trip began—making it a very long journey, indeed.

It was no one’s fault that the bad weather had turned to worse. Normally, the trip from Cranmore Hall to Pencroft took two easy days. This time, they’d arrived at the first day’s posting inn well after dark—and the road conditions had become even more degraded the second day. If he hadn’t promised to be here by midnight, they would have stopped, but they pressed on through the night.

The cold rain coated everything with ice once the sun had set, causing weak branches to fall. On the main roads, they’d carefully made their way around the obstructions. The lane leading to Pencroft wasn’t wide enough to allow such maneuvering, however, especially when the limb that had landed in the middle of the drive was the size of a small tree.

Martin had joined the coachman and the lone groom who had accompanied them, but it had still been a struggle for the three of them to wrestle the big branch out of the way. Fitch had not stepped a foot out of the carriage. The man was an excellent valet, but at the moment, Martin was not feeling charitable and wondered how long he would keep the man in his employ.

“Why don’t you join the staff at their New Year’s celebration?” Martin asked. “The stableman said you’d be welcome.” And this would leave Martin in peace for the next half hour until he made his appearance in the hall.

“I don’t know, my lord. I suspect all the upper servants will be busy with the party upstairs, and I might feel out of place.”

Martin tried not to roll his eyes. Lord, servants were stricter about hierarchy than the snobbiest of peers. “Unless things have changed drastically in the past few years, Lord and Lady Pennington use a skeleton staff for what the Marchioness still calls Hogmanay. This allows everyone to enjoy the evening. I suggest you at least visit the festivities. You might have a good time.” Martin didn’t mention that the three oldest Dabney daughters had married men with ranks higher than viscount. He felt a perverse satisfaction that quite a few people would outrank Fitch in the servants’ hall.

To Martin’s relief, after some waffling, Fitch finally slipped out the door and left Martin to enjoy the solitude of the stables. He again checked his pocket watch. Twenty minutes until midnight and the New Year.

Just a little over twenty minutes until he was face-to-face with Alice Caruthers and admiring the big emerald ring on her hand. At least he’d managed to delay his arrival until after Drew had given it to her. The idea of having to pretend enthusiasm during all the congratulatory toasts left him feeling slightly nauseous.

But Drew had surely given her the ring on Christmas Day. Boxing Day at the latest. The excitement over the announcement would have subsided. A polite smile and a “best wishes” would now suffice.

Of course, he hadn’t expected to be here at all. He’d sent his regrets to the Marchioness, telling her he would be unable to attend the house party. And yet, here he was.

Drew had found the argument that had gotten him here. He’d sent a note asking Martin to be the First Foot, stressing how much it would mean to his mother for Martin to be the tall, dark man who brings luck for the coming year. Even though he’d come to dislike the artificiality of Pencroft gatherings, in the end, he couldn’t disappoint the lady who had been so kind to him since he was a boy.

So his participation in the tradition the Marchioness had brought with her from her native Scotland had been confirmed.

He had to see Alice again sometime, and it might as well be now. Their paths would doubtlessly cross from now on anyway, since she would be the wife of his oldest friend. Martin needed to wish her happy. Regardless of how hard it was for him, he wanted Alice to be happy—truly.

Martin didn’t have any doubts that she would be thrilled to marry Drew. He attracted females of all types and stations, and there was no reason to think Alice would be immune to his charm. The connection that Martin had felt to Alice all those years ago was obviously an aberration—and probably one-sided.

Alice had been nice to him simply because she was nice. When she looked at him, she undoubtedly saw Drew’s friend and nothing more. He needed to accept that role and get on with his life. He had let her slide into memory while he’d been in Greece, and he could do it again. In a few years, he’d look back on his reluctance to see her this Christmastide and laugh at his foolishness.

He again looked at his pocket watch, surprised that only two minutes had passed since he’d last checked his timepiece. His need to arrive at the front door of Pencroft at an exact time, a minute after twelve, was the cause of his nervousness—nothing more.

He lifted his greatcoat from the stall door, only to find it still heavy, chilled, and damp. He shrugged into it anyway. A mix of icy rain and sleet continued to fall and the coat was necessary.

He ducked into the stall and retrieved the basket Drew had left for him. It was filled with the appropriate First Foot’s gifts to the household. Martin had not expected it to be decorated with red bows and strips of silver paper, however. He smiled ruefully. Good Lord, he’d look like some fair maiden ready to go a-Maying.

He nonetheless picked up the gaudy offering and had just turned toward the stall door when he heard footsteps in the central alley of the stable. “You decided against staying at the servants’ party?” he asked as he exited the stall.

An unknown young man stood there instead of the expected Fitch. He was of middle height with brown hair, a rather prominent nose, and the kind eyes of a spaniel. His face reflected surprise that quickly shifted to distrust. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Martin shifted the basket from his right hand to hang on his left arm. “I’m Hayhurst,” he said, holding out his right hand. “I’ve been hiding out here until it’s time for me to enter as the First Foot.”

The younger man shook his offered hand. “I’m David Taylor, the local vicar, and what is the problem with your foot?” He looked pointedly down at Martin’s shoes.

Martin laughed. “No, my feet are fine. I’m acting as the First Foot. You know, in the Marchioness’s Scottish tradition, the first person to enter the house after midnight on New Year’s Eve determines the luck of the house for the coming year. A tall, dark man is considered the luckiest, so I was pressed into doing the honors.” He held out the basket. “See, I’ve come equipped with the requisite gifts for the New Year. A piece of coal for a warm hearth, some bread and salt so all within are adequately fed, a coin for financial security, and a small bottle of whiskey to represent good cheer.”

The Reverend Taylor continued to look perplexed. “Does this happen every year? I’ve only had this living since summer, so this is my first Christmas season here.”

Martin hoped the vicar wasn’t terribly conservative or he might have inadvertently supplied next Sunday’s sermon against relying on luck instead of the Almighty. “Yes, I believe this is traditional.”

He would have said more except the stable door opened to admit a burst of sleet and a cloaked lady. “You do realize I’ve ruined a new pair of slippers getting here to wish you a Happy New Year privately,” she said in a laughing voice. She pushed back the cloak’s hood to reveal typical Dabney beauty, only her features were more delicate and her hair more flaxen than gold.

“Beth?” Martin asked. The sound of his voice brought her shocked eyes up to his.

“Martin? Oh, it is you.” She launched herself across the space between them and grasped both his hands. Realization and embarrassment chased across her face, which immediately flushed such a brilliant red that it was unmistakable even in the dim lantern light.

“I’ve been sent to make sure you’re not late,” she said, now dragging him toward the door.

Martin was impressed Beth could lie so convincingly. He was quite sure she hadn’t known he was in the stables and had only ascertained his purpose when she’d seen the ridiculous basket swinging on his arm. It was obvious she couldn’t quickly come up with a way to explain the vicar’s presence, however, so she pretended he wasn’t there. Martin felt he had no choice but to follow her lead. She pulled her hood back up and dragged him into the icy night.

“Be sure to knock three times,” Beth said as they approached the front door.

Martin hoped the timing was right, since being interrupted by a lover’s tryst had lost him the opportunity to again look at his watch.

 Scene Break  

Alice laughed at Lord Chesterton’s wry comments about his wife’s dancing. They stood at the side of the room as they caught their breath and drank wassail after their own vigorous bout on the floor.

“I told her all this Scottish bounding about was sure to ruin those horn things she has on her head, and it certainly has.” Chesterton exhibited a smug delight. “They’re both listing like leaky boats.”

“They’re Apollo Knots, not horns, and they’re a popular style,” Alice said, feeling rather smug herself that she’d convinced her maid to avoid the wired arrangement for tonight. Unconsciously, her hand went up to feel the curls that came forward from her temples. They now seemed totally limp. It was a good thing she didn’t have a mirror handy, since it would probably show she now looked like Medusa. Hardly an improvement over a leaky boat. Sometimes it was better not to know.

Maybe that could become her new philosophy—If I don’t look, I will not know. If she didn’t look at her mother, she would not see her disappointment. If she didn’t look at Lady Pennington, she would not see a strain of anger that flowed beneath her gaiety. If she did not look at Drew, she would not notice that he was on the far side of the room. He’d been careful to stay away from her for the whole of the holidays. Yes, not looking made things easier.

Of course, unless she closed her eyes, she had to see something, and in this case, it was Chesterton. From her vantage point standing next to him, she could see the portly earl was developing a natural tonsure that even the skill of his valet could not hide. She could also see the fond way he looked at his wife. His expression made a tendril of envy curl through her. Goodness, he and Harriet, the oldest Dabney daughter, must have been married for more than fifteen years, and his face still reflected a deep affection.

Hoping the spicy liquid would drown such ignoble feelings, Alice took another sip from the wassail cup. She just had to accept that it was unlikely any man would ever look at her with his heart in his eyes. Some things were not meant to be. She would accept them and move on.

At least her mother now seemed to realize that the longed for alliance with the Dabney family was not going to happen. This morning her mother had referred to her supposed suitor as Andrew instead of dear Drew, and on one occasion she’d heard her call him Morrell. The distance Drew kept from Alice must have been obvious to all.

Alice was not particularly disappointed that Drew had not come up to scratch. It was the idea of never having anyone to care for her that saddened her, not the idea of never marrying Drew. But she was more fortunate than most women in that she had options.

In the new year, she would turn twenty-five, and she would have control of a large legacy left to her by her grandmother. She could take possession of her grandmother’s vacant house in town and live there with a suitable companion. A congenial, suitable companion, she amended. Perhaps one who would enjoy traveling. There was a large world waiting out there, and Alice would have the money to see as much of it as she desired. Yes, visiting distant places would be wonderful. She could try all sorts of new things. She could ride a camel through the sands of Egypt and see the pyramids by moonlight. Masked and mysterious, she could indulge in the bacchanal that was the carnival in Venice. Why, she might even take a lover.

She blushed at her own wayward thoughts. How had she gone from independence to bawdiness in the space of one heartbeat? She wondered if years of watching her contemporaries marry and then stray had rusted her moral compass. But taking a lover shouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility. She would never marry and it would be criminal to go to her grave never having experienced physical intimacy.

She unconsciously straightened her shoulders. Yes, she could toast the arrival of 1829 with confidence. This was the year when she would exert her independence. Like a butterfly, she would break out of her cocoon and spread her wings.

She felt a light touch on her arm and realized the music had abruptly stopped. “It’s nearly time,” Lord Chesterton said. “I must be with my wife at the stroke of twelve or I will never hear the end of it.” He gave her a lopsided grin that suggested he didn’t live in fear of his spouse and hurried across the room as the big, tall case clock in the hall began to chime.

Alice wished some besotted man were rushing to be with her when the New Year was ushered in. She tried again to think of a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis but was not altogether successful.

Just as the twelfth gong echoed, before the general clamor of shouts to welcome in the New Year began, the knocker on the front door sounded with three measured, firm raps.

“The First Foot to cross our threshold,” Lady Pennington called out into the momentary stillness. Her slightly Scottish accented voice seemed to herald a portentous occasion. She and her husband hurried down the stairs and into the entry hall, the rest of the throng following.

Lord Pennington threw open the door. The lanterns on the porch showed blowing sleet and a large, dark man. His hair rioted around his head in wind-tossed curls with bits of ice in them that caught the lantern light like flickers of foxfire in a nighttime wood.

“A Happy New Year and Good Tidings to you and yours,” the dark man said. His voice was low-pitched, deep and appealing. He held out a girlishly decorated basket of gifts to the marquess, who escorted him into the house and called for drink and food for their guest.

A servant bustled forward to take the man’s wet greatcoat. The removal of the coat revealed an exceptionally tall man in formalwear, slender but with shoulders that seemed to span the doorframe. He was greeted with laughter and slaps on the back by those who stood near.

As he walked further into the hall, Alice got a good look at the First Foot and her breath caught in her throat. She knew him. It was Viscount Hayhurst, Drew’s oldest friend. Or at least it was a larger and more substantial version of Hayhurst. She recalled that when they were in school together, Drew had called him Weed. Well, he was a gangly weed no longer.

He’d always stood nearly a head taller than those around him, but he’d been so skinny his height had looked odd. While still slender, the viscount was now a powerful-looking man with a physique commensurate to his height. His complexion was darker than she remembered, making his teeth flash a brilliant white every time he smiled.

He was all-together one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, and that was saying something since he was surrounded by all the golden Dabneys. By chance, his eyes caught hers where she stood at the rear of the crowd—and her stomach fell toward her feet.

 Scene Break  

It was just his luck that he should see Alice Caruthers before he even made it to the ballroom. Looking at her felt like a punch in the solar plexus. Her face was flushed and her hair in disarray. She looked surprisingly like he’d imaged she would after a tumble in bed. And there had been a time when he’d imaged that quite a lot.

His impulse was to push through those around him and make straight for where she stood. He had to remind himself that she was not his to claim—and never would be. He pulled his gaze away from hers and tried to give his attention to Lord and Lady Pennington, who seemed to want to hear everything about his time in Greece while he stood in the middle of the entry hall.

The arrival of a servant with a traditional, three-handled, pottery wassail cup seemed to remind them of their duties as hosts. “Here’s what Lady Pennington calls a wee dram to take the chill away,” Lord Pennington said as he handed Martin the cup. It wasn’t wassail. Martin could smell the strong aroma of Scotch whiskey before he got the cup near his face. The first sip went down like liquid fire, but it was decidedly warming.

“Now come and get something to eat,” Lady Pennington said taking his arm. “We certainly don’t want our good luck leaving.”

They proceeded up to the ballroom where an informal receiving line formed. Martin enjoyed it, since it gave him the opportunity to catch up on the entire family. Drew’s older sisters and their husbands were doing an admirable job of increasing the size of the family. The two younger brothers were growing into copies of Drew, although the youngest, Paul, seemed to have ambition, an unusual quality for a Dabney. When Beth came by, she acted as if she had not met him in the stables. Martin burned to ask her about the new vicar but continued with the charade of just seeing her.

Oddly, the two people he most wanted to talk with remained on the opposite side of the room. Or, in Drew’s case, he’d been there when Martin last looked. By the time Martin was released by his hosts to wander, Drew had disappeared.

Alice, however, was still there, in earnest conversation with Paul. Martin walked toward them, feeling more relaxed than he had in some time. The potent Scotch whiskey he’d been drinking undoubtedly supported this languor. Wassail cups were large and intended to hold the spicy, ale-based punch. Martin’s cup had now been filled to the brim four or five times with the smoky Scottish brew.

“Miss Caruthers, may I wish you a prosperous New Year and say that you are in good looks.” Martin gave her a bow.

Alice curtsied back. “And may I also wish you the best for 1829. It’s wonderful to see you again after all this time.” Her smile was genuine, but something around her eyes suggested strain. Was she happy with her betrothal? From just looking, there was no way to know.

“I hope I’m not interrupting an important conversation,” Martin said.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Paul was just telling me that he hopes to join an expedition to the Amazon. I’ve been thinking about traveling this year, but Paul’s managed to convince me that South America would not be a destination to my liking.” She smiled at Paul. “Too many crawly things.”

Martin turned toward Paul. “An expedition? What type is it?”

Paul immediately launched into an excited discussion of a journey to study the entomology of the rain forest. Martin laughed as realization hit him. “Ah, the crawly things are insects. Is this your area of study?”

Paul’s lengthy monologue in reply allowed Martin time to examine Alice. If she were to be married, why would she be contemplating traveling? She might be considering a wedding trip. Or perhaps she had said no and simply wanted to see distant locales on her own. His heartbeat sped up with hope. Foolish, foolish heart.

Martin looked closely at her gloved hands, but he was unable to tell if she wore the ring. He would need to hold her hands, both of them, and this was impossible while he held a drink. He upended his cup, quickly finishing the potent liquor. Then, still nodding as if he cared about Paul’s description of jungle ants, he surreptitiously flipped the cup in the direction of a sofa. He braced himself for the sound of pottery hitting the floor and shattering. When this didn’t happen, he breathed a sigh of relief.

He then placed a hand over his mouth and faked a jaw-cracking yawn. Unfortunately, in the middle of it, he discovered he truly was exhausted. “I’m sorry,” he interrupted Paul, “I’ve discovered that I’m almost too tired to stand. The trip here was quite onerous, and then Lord Pennington has been plying me with his finest Scotch whiskey. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me.”

He bowed to Paul, but he grasped both of Alice’s hands and gave them a brief squeeze. With a wide smile splitting his face, he departed, leaving both of his companions looking confused.

He would have to apologize tomorrow morning for his odd behavior, but for now, he’d learned what he needed to know—and was delighted. Alice wasn’t wearing the big emerald ring! He would have felt it when he squeezed her hands. Drew hadn’t given it to her. The fool must have decided he didn’t want to marry Alice Caruthers. To Martin, the idea was incomprehensible.

He hoped Alice hadn’t been hurt by this. But Martin couldn’t regret it. There was hope.