Regency Christmas Wishes(122)

She mulled over the question, and then spoke carefully. “I think first that he would be furious if he knew I had told you all this.”

“Why did he tell you?” Davy asked.

It was a question she had been asking herself for several days now. She shook her head, and started to say something, when Janet interrupted.

“Because he is in love with Miss Ambrose, you silly nod,” she told her brother, her voice as matter-of-fact as though she asked the time of day.

Cecilia stared at her in amazement. “How on earth . . .”

Janet shrugged, and then looked at Lucinda, as if seeking confirmation. “We both notice how his eyes follow you around the room, and the way he smiles when he looks at you.” She grew serious, but there was still that lurking smile that made her so attractive. “Trust me, Miss Ambrose, I am an expert on these matters.”

Cecilia laughed, in spite of herself. “My goodness.”

“Do you mind the idea?” Lucinda asked, doubt perfectly visible in her eyes.

Did she mind? Cecilia sat down again and considered the matter, putting it to that scrutiny she usually reserved for scholarship. Did she mind being thought well of by a man whose exploits had been known to her for some time, and whom she had admired for several years, without even knowing him? Her face grew warm as she thought of his grip on her waist as they left the smoky manor in the middle of the night. “He doesn’t even know me,” she protested weakly.

“As to that, Miss Ambrose, I have been writing him about you,” Lucinda said.

“You have what?” she asked in amazement.

Her pupil shrugged. “He wanted to know if there was anyone interesting in my school, and I told him about you.” She hesitated. “I even painted him a little picture.”

“Of me?” she asked quietly. Me with my olive skin and slanted eyes, she thought.

“Of you, my most interesting teacher ever,” was Lucinda’s equally dignified reply. “He’s no ordinary man.”

And I am certainly no ordinary English woman, she thought. She reached across the table, took Lucinda’s hand, and squeezed it briefly. “You are the most wonderful children.”

Janet laughed. “No, we’re not! We probably are as selfish and ungrateful as Uncle Trevor imagines. But do you know, we aim to be better.” She grew serious and asked again, “How can we help our uncle?”

“Leave him to me,” Cecilia said. “I know he does not want you to know about Jimmy Daw, or he would have told you long before now, Janet. How can I get time alone with him?”

Davy was on his feet then. “Lucinda, do you remember how fun it was last Christmas to spend it in the stable?”

“What?” Cecilia asked. “You probably needn’t be that drastic!”

“You know, Miss Ambrose,” Janet said. “There is that legend that on the night of Christ’s birth, the animals start to speak.” She nudged her brother. “What did Davy do last year but insist that he be allowed to spend the night in the stable! Mama was shocked, but Papa enjoyed the whole thing.” She looked at her younger brother and sister. “We will be in the stable. The footman can light a good fire, and we have plenty of blankets.”

The other children nodded, and Cecilia could almost touch the relief in the room. Precious ones, she thought, you will do anything to help your uncle, won’t you? No, you most certainly do not require fixing. “Very well,” she said. “Janet . . .” She stopped. “Oh, I should be calling you Lady Janet.”

“I don’t think that matters . . . Cecilia,” the young woman replied. “I will make arrangements with Mrs. Grey, and we will go to the stables after dinner.” She looked at her siblings. “Cecilia, we love him. We hope you can help him because I do believe you love him, too.”

They were all quiet that afternoon, soberly putting Christmas treats and cakes into boxes for delivery to other great houses in the neighborhood on Boxing Day, arranging holly on mantelpieces, and getting ready for their parents’ return on Christmas. After an hour’s fruitless attempt to read in the sitting room, Cecilia went for a walk instead. How sterile the landscape was, with everything shut tight for a long winter. Little snow had fallen yet, but as she started back toward the dower house, it began, small flakes at first and then larger ones. Soon the late afternoon sky was filled with miniature jewels, set to transform the land and send it to sleep under a blanket of white. She stood in the modest driveway of the dower house and watched the workers leave the manor for the final time. Some of them called happy Christmas to her. She looked at the house again, wondering why it was that the most joyous season of the year should cause such pain in some. With a start, she realized that her preoccupation with Lord Trevor and his personal nightmare had quite driven out her own longing for her family in far-off India. “Tonight, I hope I remember all the wonderful things you taught me,” she said out loud. “Especially that God is good and Christmas is more than sweets and gifts.”