“Chak-chak.” The bird shuffled around the table, then quite deliberately pecked at the cup until it fell over. Thankfully the costly Wedgwood didn’t shatter, but Juliet distinctly heard an odd tinkling noise, as if there were something small and metallic inside. Puzzled, she moved the cup, and there, shining in the firelight, was her long-lost wedding ring! Thunderstruck, she was about to pick it up when suddenly it vanished, and so did Jack.
With a gasp Juliet awakened properly. The cup was standing as she’d left it, and she knew the magpie had never been there. She had been dreaming. Tears sprang to her eyes as she realized her wedding ring had not reappeared after all. Oh, eeyot, eeyot . . . Fighting back the tears that were always so close at Christmas, she got up and went to her bedroom.
6
Charles paused before stepping up onto the verandah that encompassed the entire ground floor of the Retreat. What he’d said so bravely to Lady M about staying here was one thing, the qualms of the secret Charles Neville something else entirely. Juliet had seemed to be everywhere from the moment he set foot on the island. She sighed through the trees, trod the grass beside him, or watched from the jetty. Now it was as if she were hiding in the lodge, peeping from a darkened window, dreaming in the bed they had once shared, or perhaps waiting reproachfully behind the door through which he must enter.
Guilt, as immediate and painful as it had ever been, had him in its grip as he made himself go inside. The small lobby was lit only by the faint glow of a fire that had been banked up for the night and protected by a screen. His eyes, already accustomed to darkness, immediately perceived that nothing had been changed since last he was here. Even the Christmas decorations were arranged the same way, bunched and festooned as Juliet had always liked them. The red-tiled floor was scattered with finely woven rush mats, and the whitewashed walls still boasted the same dreamy Thames fishing scenes, the river caught forever at moments of late summer sunset.
His glance returned to the fire, for the fact that it was lit at all suggested to him that Lady Marchwell had not fibbed about guests having been expected. He was relieved, for that meant there was bound to be more to eat than Durand’s cans or bottled fruit. Oh, to enjoy a fine rare beefsteak, a liberal dollop of Tewkesbury mustard, and a chunk of fresh crusty bread, all washed down with a brimming tankard of sharp cider from his family’s Somerset orchards. How he had dreamed of that particular meal, which was what had been set before him at the harvest supper the night when he first realized he was in love with his childhood friend and neighbor, Juliet.
Well, best to alert the servants to his presence, he decided, entering the drawing room where he knew there was a rope-pull that rang a bell in the kitchens. Firelight danced here, the flames for some reason not banked as in the lobby, and as he strode toward the rope that hung beside the mantel he was conscious of the much-loved room around him. There was also a sweet perfume in the air. What was it? Chocolate? Yes, that was it, the delicious fragrance of chocolate recently consumed from the cup on the table by the fireside sofa. How impertinent of Lady M’s servants to not only drink such a costly beverage at her expense, but to do so in the drawing room out of her best Wedgwood!
Reaching the fireplace, he jerked the rope, then held his hands to the fire. He yawned, the long day on the road, to say nothing of the months of travel since quitting Madras, suddenly catching up with him. He removed his greatcoat and tossed it over the back of a nearby chair, then sat on one of the blue-and-white sofas to tug off his boots, there seeming little point in ceremony. That done, he glanced around. His reflection glanced back at him from the mirror panels on the walls, reminding him of how strange it was to be here again, where there had once been such happiness, laughter . . . and love.
He loosened his neckcloth and shirt, and removed the wedding ring on its purple ribbon. The gold shone in the firelight, and the metal was warm from his body. Drawing it to his lips he kissed it gently, vowing that heaven and earth itself would be moved in his efforts to replace the precious band of gold on Juliet’s finger. Still holding the ribbon, he put his head back and closed his eyes. It vaguely occurred to him that the servants were an unconscionably long time answering his summons, but sleep was overcoming him swiftly now. He yawned again, then again, and before long he was in a deep slumber.
He didn’t hear distant church bells greeting midnight, nor did he see the leap of candlelight as a sleepless Juliet came downstairs to make herself a drink of hot milk in the kitchens. She didn’t look into the drawing room as she passed the door, and soon there was no movement in the lodge as the estranged husband and wife slumbered separately. They were as unaware of each other’s close proximity as they were of the storm dying away outside, nor did they see the silver light of the Christmas Day dawn steal across the heavens.