“And your niece Amelia’s brood?”
“Maria says they are all scratching and complaining, which certainly trumps the fever and vacant stare,” he told her. He sat back in the chair and stared into the flames.
Now or never, she thought. “Lord Trevor, is there something the matter?”
He looked up quickly from his contemplation of the flames. “No, of course not.” He smiled, but the smile didn’t even approach his eyes. “Thanks to your help, I think my nieces and nephew will be charting a more even course.”
Chilled by the bleakness on his face, she tried to make light of the moment: anything to see the same animation in his face that had been there when she arrived only a few days ago, or even just that morning. “We can really thank Sir Lysander and his fastidious parents.”
“Oh? What? Oh, yes, I’m certain you are right,” he said.
She might as well not have been in the room at all. His mind was miles away, oceans distant. “Well, I think it is time for me to go strangle four or five chickens,” she said softly. “And then I will rob the mail coach in my shimmy.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, all affability. “Good night, Miss Ambrose.”
She was a long time getting to sleep that night.
The next day, Christmas Eve, was the same. She woke, feeling decidedly unrested, and sat up on her cot in the dressing room, where the girls had cajoled her to return. Certainly it was better than the book room, and the reasons for avoiding the dressing room seemed to have vanished. Quietly she went into the girls’ chamber and looked out the window. Although it was nearly eight o’clock, the sky was only beginning to lighten. The workers from York, who were saying at an inn in the village, were starting to arrive, their wagons and gigs lit with lanterns.
I wonder how much work is left to do there, she thought. If the marquis and marchioness are to return tomorrow, then they must be in a pelter to finish. She stood at the window until her bare feet were cold, then turned toward the dressing room. She moved as quietly as she could, but Janet sat up. “Good morning, Miss Ambrose,” she said as she yawned. “Do you want to help Lucinda and me in the kitchen? Mrs. Grey has said we may make however many Christmas treats we want. Think what a welcome that will be for my parents.”
Cecilia sat down on the bed beside her, and Janet obligingly shifted her legs. “You’ll be glad to see them, won’t you, my dear?” Cecilia asked.
“Oh, yes!” Janet touched her arm. “I can only wish they had been here for all of the season, but Amelia needed them.” She sighed. “This is my last Christmas at Chase Hall, you know.”
Cecilia smiled. “You’ll be returning with a husband this time next year.”
Janet drew up her legs and rested her chin on her knees. When Lucinda moved, she smoothed the coverlet over her sister’s back. “Oh, I know that,” she whispered, “but it is never the same, is it?”
“No, it is not,” Cecilia agreed. “When my parents return from India, I wonder how we all will have changed.”
“Does it make you sad, even a little?”
Cecilia was not certain she had ever considered the matter in that light. “I suppose it does, Lady Janet,” she replied after a moment’s thought. “Perhaps this is a lesson to us both: not to dwell in the past and wish for those times again, but to move on and change.”
“It’s a sobering consideration,” Janet said. “Do you ever wish you could do something over?”
“Not really. I like to look ahead.” She stood up. “My goodness, you have so much to look forward to!”
“Yes, indeed,” Janet said, and Cecilia could hear the amusement in her voice. “Shortbread, drop cakes, and wafers below stairs!”
They smiled at each other with perfect understanding. “Lady Janet, you are going to make Sir Lysander a happy man,” she said, keeping her voice low.
“I intend to,” Janet replied, “even if he is not as brave as I would like. I love him.” She said it softly, with so much tenderness that Cecilia almost felt her breath leave her body. Unable to meet Janet’s eyes, because her own were filling with tears, she looked at Lucinda, sleeping so peacefully beside her sister. You are all so fine, she thought. Lord Trevor has no need of a prosy scold; nothing is broken here, not really. He was so wrong.
“Lady Janet,” she began carefully, not even sure what she wanted to ask. “Do you . . . has Lord Trevor ever kept Christmas here with you?”
Janet thought a moment, a frown on her face. “Not that I recall. No. Never. I wonder what it is that he does?”