Page 9 of Marie’s Merry Gentleman (The Bookshop Belles #2)
CHAPTER 8
Good Moods and Bad
G uilt swirled through Marie and she didn’t know where to look. She’d really thought Renwick was out of the house at the time, or surely he’d have heard the noise and come to see what they were doing.
She picked up her dropped fork, her mouth dry. “You heard me playing?”
He nodded, his face stern. “And singing, with the boys.”
Her heart sank. The playing must have reminded him of his late wife, and stirred up so many difficult emotions. “I was teaching them some French as well, I promise you it wasn’t all frivolity. And it is nearly Christmas and the songs were most suitable for them, I assure you. I am sorry the noise carried so far. Please allow me to keep playing, though, it’s a beautiful instrument and the boys are so looking forward to putting on a…” she suddenly stopped herself. While she’d thought they wouldn’t be able to keep the secret for long, she hadn’t planned to reveal it so soon herself!
One of his eyebrows rose and she could have kicked herself for letting the boys’ secret out.
“I already know about the concert,” he said, the corner of his lip curling up in the smallest hint of pleasure.
“Oh!” Her racing heart slowed a little. He’s not angry . “Oh dear… it’s meant to be a surprise and I’ve ruined it.”
His face softened with a full smile that sent a jolt of warmth into her system. “You can relax. The music was delightful, by the way. And no, you didn’t ruin it. I overheard the boys talking about performing. Nevertheless, I shall play along and be surprised and delighted when they announce their secret plan.”
Marie pressed her lips together to stop a laugh escaping. How kind of him, to humour the boys in such a way!
He gave her a mocking frown and said, “I am rather looking forward to it, so don’t you give anything away.”
“Oh, I shan’t,” she said, and this time a laugh did escape. It was one of relief, that she was not in trouble and had not caused problems with her enthusiasm on the pianoforte. Renwick could be stern but she was also learning he could be rather adorable. To think she’d called him the Earl of Demanding for so many months as they’d exchanged letters, yet just a few days in his company and she was witnessing a completely different man. Not an ogre hoarding his vast book treasure, but a determined man who cared deeply for his family and even his staff.
A little later on in their meal, Marie said, “The pianoforte is a lovely instrument, and I’m glad you’ve kept it in tune.”
His face fell a little and she instantly thought she’d said the wrong thing.
“It is a good instrument. My late wife enjoyed it, though it was always her companions who actually played while she sang.”
The phrase, “You must miss her,” was on Marie’s lips. But she didn’t say it. Of course, he must miss his late wife. Grief had no time limits. If the portrait was even a little true to life, the former countess was an extraordinary beauty and the boys had clearly adored her too. The staff were no doubt still mourning her loss as well, as she’d noticed they wanted to keep changing the subject when Marie asked about her. Although, now she gave it some thought, Mrs Ellwood hadn’t seemed so keen… perhaps just a clash between a long-serving housekeeper, who had been here since before Renwick’s birth, and a very young new mistress?
She shouldn’t add to Renwick’s burden, so she changed the subject to something far more pleasant.
“Would you tell me about your Christmas traditions?” she requested. “The household seems enthused about the season, all of a sudden!”
He put his knife and fork down and thought for a moment, his stern expression giving way to a smile. “My mother was fond of wrapping the bannister in great swags of ribbon to brighten the hall, and Mr Martin says he knows where that ribbon might be stored. We have many spruce and holly trees we can harvest for greenery so we shall bring that in on Christmas Eve and make a great mess of it for the boys, of course. Then there’s the Yule log.”
Marie felt heat on her face at the mention of the Yule log. She’d seen him in action earlier that day. The image of Lord Renwick chopping wood, his shirt stuck to his perspiring frame, was seared into her memory. She should not have been looking. But the noise of the men outside had her pushing her chair towards the window in the music room. She had thought it might be staff cutting firewood, and not in her wildest dreams did she think she’d see the lord of the manor performing manual labour. Yet there he’d been, ruffled and red-faced, his perspiring hair sticking to his neck as his strong arms thwacked into the dead wood. Then the three of them had toiled valiantly with the enormous log to drag it into the stables. They’d put on a marvelous show. She was sure nobody had seen her looking.
The display had transfixed her to the spot. Even if she hadn’t been in her awkward wheeled chair and had retained full use of her limbs she doubted she would have been able to turn away from the incredible sight of him.
“I was out with the grooms chopping it,” Renwick held his palms up with a look of pride, “I think I even gave myself a blister!”
Marie burned internally at the memory of watching his athletic prowess.
He continued, “You know, I don’t think we’ve had a Yule log since my mother passed. It’s drying in the stables, and we’ll bring it in on Christmas Eve.”
Would they be chopping anything else? Marie might need to check out the window more often to see him perspiring like Hercules performing one of his feats.
He was looking at her, his gaze searing into her soul.
Heat stole over her face and she felt so guilty for ogling him she simply had to confess, “I’m sorry, I watched you carry the log to the stables and I shouldn’t have been spying but I couldn’t help it.”
He grinned, “You watched me?”
Marie covered her burning face, “I should not have. It was improper of me to stare like that.”
“You stared ?”
If she wasn’t in this chair, if she hadn’t sprained her ankle, she’d flee the room and hide from the deep embarrassment flooding her system. But she was stuck here at the table and had no way to flee.
He made a low chuckle and said, “As long as I put on a good show and didn’t disgrace myself.”
She could not speak, could not look at him. Drawing a slow breath, she had to remain at the table and keep breathing through her mild humiliation.
They had often sat together in silence before, but at this moment she needed to talk about something. “Did you know Yule logs are also a French tradition? Mama said they would take logs from fruit bearing trees like almond or olive, but oaks are very good too.”
He creased his brows for a moment in thought until he said, “Of course, the acorns would be the fruit of the oak tree. Unlikely to be an almond or an olive up here though, I’m sure it’s far too cold to grow those kinds of trees this far north. I think this one was an ash.”
Relief spread through Marie that they’d been able to change the topic from her ogling this man as he swung his axe. “It snows in Hatfield, of course, but I’ve never experienced anything as cold as this.”
“In that case, may this be your most memorable Christmas,” he said, holding his glass of wine aloft to salute her.
She returned the salute with her glass, knowing it already was. When else would she ever get a chance to spend Christmas with a real live earl, in a real castle? She was going to enjoy it to the full, sore ankle or not!
As the days passed, Marie found herself settling into a comfortable routine at Alston Castle. Morag would bring her breakfast in her room and help her dress, and then Mrs Ellwood would usually stop by for a cup of tea and a chat. Marie was beginning to think of the kindly housekeeper as a dear friend; they would talk about anything and everything, Mrs Ellwood sharing lots of details about life at the castle and even asking for Marie’s advice on some points. She asked too if Marie had any favourite dishes, and promised to have Cook make them.
“You’re far too kind, Mrs Ellwood. You needn’t put Cook to the trouble.”
Mrs Ellwood disagreed. “The menu could always use a little more variety. That soup sounds delicious.”
They discussed Christmas traditions too, and Marie thought of a few French dishes her Mama used to make. Some of them would be too difficult to obtain this far from London, like lobster and oysters, but others might be done. Marie described her mother’s recipe as best she could remember. Butter and flour to form the roux, then the chopped leeks, a few ladles of stock from the pot, then the potatoes. Toward the end, stir in cream.
Mrs Ellwood wrote the recipe down precisely, asking for clarification on quantities and cooking times, and then asked if Marie had any other recipes she might suggest.
“There’s gratin Dauphinoise,” she said. “That was always one of my favourites, if you have garlic. Potatoes sliced thinly and cooked with cream and garlic, seasoned with pepper and nutmeg.”
“Sounds quite delicious, that will go well as a side to the roast goose!” Mrs Ellwood beamed and made a note in the journal she carried everywhere with her. “All the special things we requested from Carlisle came up on the cart yesterday. I know there was garlic in there, and we have pepper and nutmeg already, of course.”
“We could have flan Parisien too. That’s a custard tart, basically…” Marie wrote the recipe down and handed it to the housekeeper as well.
“Wonderful, Miss Baxter, I shall take these to Cook. Well, I’d best be about it.” The housekeeper rose, gathering up the tea tray. “You have a pleasant day, now!”
“I shall, and you also.” Marie smiled warmly as Mrs Ellwood left.
She pulled the writing desk closer to her body and wrote to her sisters again, apologising for not being home and missing them so very much. Once she’d finished her letter, she folded it and got up from the chaise, moving carefully over to her wheeled chair. After almost three weeks, she could now put a little weight on her foot, very cautiously. It was getting easier to transfer herself about from her wheeled chair to the chaise or the bed, but she did not want to press her recovery and put too much weight on her bad ankle.
Settling herself in the wheeled chair and putting her left leg on the rest, she was about to head in the direction of the music-room when movement outside the window caught her eye, and she paused to look.
The snow was thick on the ground still; there had been no thaw and it had snowed on several occasions since she arrived. Sebastian had mentioned that the drifts were as tall as a man in places, but he still ventured out of doors every morning, saying that he enjoyed the exercise.
She swallowed with anticipation as she wondered if he were about to chop more wood and begin to perspire.
To her shock, she found she was actually salivating in anticipation.
When had she become so debauched?
Was it the time she’d watched him riding his big bay horse, Caesar, into Alston? Or the other time he’d ridden Caesar across the moorland area and down to the edge of the woods. She’d craned her neck to follow his progress but lost sight of him.
It wasn’t Caesar that Sebastian was leading across the snowy landscape now, however, but a heavy draught horse, dragging a… was that a sleigh? Intrigued, Marie pushed herself closer to the window and peered out. She’d seen drawings of sleighs before, but had never seen a real one! Whatever was he doing?
There were two grooms accompanying Sebastian, and as she watched, they stopped by a pair of holly trees and began to cut branches.
Of course, Marie realised. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, when the house would be decorated with greenery! They must be cutting it today so it would have time to dry a little, before bringing it into the house.
Leaving the holly, the three men took the horse and sleigh and made their way to the edge of the woods, where they began cutting fir and spruce branches and piling them high on the seat. Marie watched, fascinated, and more than half-hoping Sebastian might grow over-warm and take his coat off again. The memory of his strong shoulders surging beneath his thin shirt had disturbed her dreams on several occasions in the last weeks.
“Miss Baxter!” a knock at the door startled her, and Marie winced, hastily dragging her gaze from the view outside.
Whatever was she doing? Ogling the earl?
“Miss Baxter?”
“Yes, Mr Martin, please do come in,” she said, recognising the butler’s voice.
He entered, offered a respectful bow, and held out a silver tray. “A letter arrived for you, miss. His lordship asked me to bring it to you once you and Mrs Ellwood had finished your conversation.”
“Oh!” she reached eagerly for the letter, overjoyed to recognise Louise’s beautiful script on the outside. “Oh, it’s from my sisters! How wonderful.” She had hers to send back, but would most likely add more to it in reply to their letter.
“The letter you’ve been waiting for, hm.” Mr Martin gave her a benevolent smile before discreetly withdrawing, and Marie returned to the window, cracking the seal on the letter hastily. She’d begun to fear that her own letter to them had somehow gone astray, it had taken so long for a response to come. As she read it, that fear was quickly alleviated, because Louise and Bernadette had obviously received her missive.
Don’t worry about a thing, Marie, everything is well in hand at the bookshop. Another crate of books from Father arrived - he must be doing very well in Tours! - we enclose a list just in case the Earl of Demanding would be interested in some of the volumes.
Marie choked back a little laugh. It had been quite some time since she’d thought of Renwick as the Earl of Demanding, but of course her sisters didn’t know him the way she had come to. She would add an explanation about that in her reply!
The writing changed then from Louise’s to Bernadette’s, commiserating about Marie’s ankle and suggesting some herbal remedies she might try, if she had access to them, but otherwise rest and elevation were the best cures.
I hope they are taking good care of you at Alston, Bernadette concluded. From your sketch it looks a very grand place, and those two boys quite charming… and the Earl of Demanding far more handsome than I think any of us imagined!
Marie smiled, her gaze drifting back towards the window. The sleigh was piled high with greenery now, and Sebastian had tossed the axe in on top before going to the horse’s head and turning the animal back towards the stables. She watched him striding through the snow, quite transfixed, until a sound from the music-room made her jump.
“Miss Baxter, are you there?” a youthful voice asked, and George poked his head around the door. “Father is outside and we’re ready for practice!”
“I’ll be right along. I’m just reading a letter from my sisters!” She held it up. “I’m almost finished, though.”
There were only a few more lines to the letter, in Louise’s hand.
We received the funds from Lord Renwick’s solicitor, so we are quite flush. Do not worry about us, and enjoy your Christmas, dearest! All love,
Louise and Bernadette .
With a happy smile, Marie folded the letter and the attached list of books, and put them in her pocket. She couldn’t show anyone the letter - she would pass away from mortification if anyone at Alston ever found out she and her sisters had nicknamed Renwick the Earl of Demanding - but she could certainly tell him about it, and show him the separate list.
“Ready for practice?” She wheeled herself towards the music-room. “We only have two days left to get this absolutely perfect!”
She and the boys sang and played songs in English and French, and their voices harmonised so well. Morag joined them but Mr Charles had stayed away today, much to the maid’s obvious annoyance. After each song, they would listen out for the sound of the Earl’s return, then proceed with the next song. Marie also felt her playing had improved with the repetition of practise, although her voice simply could not compete with Morag’s hauntingly beautiful voice. She truly had the sound of a fallen angel, the notes were clear and high, but somehow there was a deep sadness within. Marie sincerely hoped Morag would one day find a suitable husband, who would enjoy her singing and bring happiness to her life.