Turned inside out? James’s eyes widened, and without a murmur he took the purse and returned to the chaise to speak to the indignant postilion.
“A wise decision,” Charles observed, then continued into the red-and-white tiled entrance hall, where the same family portraits were arrayed in the same places on the oak-paneled walls, and the grand staircase was as seasonally garlanded as always. A Yule log crackled in the hearth of the handsome carved-stone fireplace, and the sounds of merriment and music from the adjacent great parlor were loud. Every December the house bulged at the very seams with family and friends, and an excellent time was had by all. Evergreens were everywhere, confirming Charles in the long-held belief that every year Lady Marchwell denuded the woodland on the boundary of her land. No hostess decorated her home more lavishly for Christmas, or celebrated more generously; and no invitation here was ever willingly declined.
Another footman, who did not know him, requested his name and then took Charles’s top hat and gloves and laid them carefully by the copper bowl of holly on the carved oak table in the center of the hall. As he was divested of his coat, Charles detected the delicious smell of hot spiced wine and mince pies coming from the kitchens. The same Christmas fare had been in preparation during the agonizing moments when his deceit had been laid bare to Juliet. He had been standing in this very spot, having just returned from Sally in London, when Juliet came downstairs to greet him. Then Jack the magpie’s mischief had intervened, and suddenly a marriage had lain in ruins.
The footman interrupted Charles’s thoughts. “If you will wait in the library, sir, I will go to her ladyship.”
The library, directly across the hall from the great parlor, was a suitably private place where raised voices and harsh recriminations could not be overheard. As the footman hurried away into the grand parlor to find Lady Marchwell, Charles paused for a moment, toying with the shirt frill protruding from the cuff of his tight-fitting dark blue coat. After the more casual attire he’d adopted in Madras, these fashionable English togs were damned uncomfortable. What with a starched neckcloth, close-cut waistcoat, and pantaloons that might have been painted on his person, he felt like a Christmas capon trussed, stuffed, and glazed in readiness for roasting.
His glance moved to the heavily carved door of the library. “And there, if I’m not mistaken, is the oven,” he said as he crossed toward it.
2
As Charles proceeded in trepidation to the library at Marchwell Park, his estranged wife Juliet lay on a cushioned wickerwork sofa in front of a roaring fire where fresh pinecones hissed and spat among the leaping flames. Her handsome green eyes reflected the flames, her pale complexion was blushed to pink, and she was sipping hot chocolate from a bone china Wedgwood cup painted with a river scene. She was twenty-five years old and attractive, with even features, a slightly retroussé nose, and a generous mouth. Her sparkling character, neat figure, and natural grace had once made her the belle of many a ball, but she did not sparkle much now, and much preferred a quiet life at home.
Light brown curls tumbled loosely around the shoulders of her fern-colored merino robe, beneath which she wore a nightgown, because Christmas Eve or not, she had decided to retire early. There was no reason not to, for she had dismissed the servants to their families and celebrations, and was alone in the house without any plans to do anything except perhaps read a little in bed before putting out the candle.
The cozy room she was in was called the drawing room, but did not really warrant such a grand description, being intimate, quaintly rural, and brightly furnished. It had blue wickerwork chairs and sofas with white convolvulus embroidered on the sky blue cushions, and latticed paper twined with painted creepers that covered not only the walls but the ceiling as well. Alternating with the wallpaper were mirrored panels set in rough elm frames, and the Axminster carpet, woven especially for the room, suggested a bluebell wood in spring. Diamond-paned windows, arched and elegant, reached down to the floor and were adorned with borders of stained glass. In summer they were flung open to the grounds, the notion being that nature was invited into the house, making it difficult to tell where the one ended and the other began. It was meant to conjure the picturesque country home of a gamekeeper or farm laborer, but was far too luxurious and fashionable to be convincingly rustic.
Summer was far away now, however, and the winter wind drew down the chimney, making the pinecones twinkle and the red-ribbon decorations on the mantel lift gently. The scent of conifer drifted from the sprays Juliet had gathered that day, and like everything else associated with Christmas—mulled wine, mince pies, chestnuts, roast goose—it brought thoughts of Charles. From time to time the memories were so keen that her finger still seemed enclosed by the wedding ring she had discarded on discovering the extent of his unfaithfulness. She was aware of weakly permitting the past to still dominate her life, but at this time of the year her resistance seemed to fade away completely, exposing pain that was as fresh and hurtful as if those events of 1813 had only happened recently.