One Mystical Moment: A Laura Landon Novella Page 2

  The major hesitated as he attempted to cut the meat on his plate. He breathed a deep sigh as if it was apparent he couldn’t ignore her question without appearing overtly rude.

  “I met Lord Beckett during my final year at university. I was studying law and was ready to start my own practice. Your uncle happened to be looking for a solicitor to take over after his solicitor retired, and offered me a position.” He punctuated each statement with a wave of his fork, and stabbed it back on his plate, clearly signaling the end of his rather terse response.

  “So you are Uncle’s solicitor?”

  “Yes. I have been in his employ for nearly ten years.”

  “And you also served in Her Majesty’s army?”

  “When the war broke out, I considered enlisting. Your uncle offered to buy me a commission, but I refused. Instead—” The major turned his head and Tillie saw the first hint that there might be a real human beneath Collyard’s marble façade. “I believe your uncle pulled some favors, and I was offered a position in Her Majesty’s legal department.”

  “Uncle has a way of making things happen,” Tillie said. “He’s a remarkable man.”

  “Yes he is,” the major said with something that almost resembled a smile, then returned his attention to the bits of glazed turkey on his plate.

  “Mother mentioned that Uncle John invited you because you would be alone for the holidays.” Tillie made sure she kept her voice quiet enough that no one would overhear their conversation. “Is that the only reason you agreed to join us?”

  The major’s hand paused midway to his mouth.

  “I’ve no idea what you mean, Miss Rowley.”

  Tillie reached for her wine glass and took a sip. She wasn’t sure how to approach the subject of what the major’s real purpose in coming might be. What if her uncle’s reason for inviting him was exactly what he’d written them: that Major Collyard had no family and Uncle John invited him so he wouldn’t have to spend the holidays alone? Or if he was here because Mother had written that she was concerned over Father, and Uncle John had brought the major because he thought he could help? She suddenly realized how foolish her question was.

  Tillie nervously cleared her throat. “Never mind,” she said, setting her wine goblet back on the table. “Please forgive me. I had no real purpose in my question.” She picked up her fork and concentrated again on her food.

  The meal progressed, and when all were finished, her grandfather rose from his place at the head of the table and indicated that the men should adjourn to the study for cigars and Port. The men rose, assisted their ladies, and followed her grandfather from the room, leaving the women to assemble in the drawing room.

  Tillie hung back. For some reason her nerves were all off-kilter. She would have enjoyed the fresh conversation an outsider might bring to the dinner table, but the major had unsettled her. She needed to be by herself for a moment, to regain her composure.

  She slipped to the hall door and walked to the long gallery where portraits of generations of Dennison ancestors hung on the walls. Her hands fisted at her hips as she paced the long hall. She wished she could take back the question she’d asked the major. Why had she mentioned that there might be a reason he was here other than that her uncle didn’t want him to spend Christmas alone? Her question implied that something was wrong. How could she have been so foolish as to share something so personal with a perfect stranger?

  She intended to hide at the far end of the long hall, but a voice stopped her before she’d taken a half dozen steps.

  “Miss Rowley?”

  Tillie turned. “Major Collyard. I didn’t hear you…”

  He walked toward her, his long legs eating up the space that separated them far faster than she could slow her breathing and appear relaxed.

  “I apologize for making conversation difficult at dinner.” He paused and ran a hand through his dark wavy hair. “I… it’s … good of you to have me here, but I feel very much the intruder… ”

  She took in his statement, wondering how he could speak proper words in such an improperly wooden manner.

  Tillie smiled. He was struggling so, his face contorted with both embarrassment and something akin to self-chastisement. Somehow it charmed her.

  “Not at all, major. You are most welcome to engage in conversation when and if the mood strikes you.” She took two steps closer to him, drawing herself into a halo of light.

  The major stopped less than a foot away from her. Though the long room was not brightly lit, a bevy of sconces on either side of the portraits gave her adequate light to see him clearly.

  She should feel a sense of caution, or at the least, a wariness at being alone with such an imposing stranger. Yet she didn’t. There was nothing frightening about him. In fact, everything about him exuded a certain degree of safety. Oddly enough, she felt supremely unhappy to discover it.

  “Would you care to sit?” she asked, indicating a cushioned bench at the end of the room.

  Tillie walked to the bench and sat. He hesitated, clearly startled, then sat uneasily beside her and turned to face her.

  Now, instead of the side glances they’d shared at the dinner table, she was able to look him full in the face. An exceedingly handsome, rugged face. He was as dark as the members of her family were light. His hair was the color of rich coffee, kept neatly trimmed, and Tillie liked the way it waved slightly on the top and sides where it was longer.

  His eyes studied her with an intelligent assessment, as if he was used to evaluating what he saw. She thought perhaps she’d see a hint of humor in his gaze, but was disappointed to see nothing but a serious expression that left no hint of approval. Or even interest.

  Tillie cocked her head in his direction. “Why do I have the feeling that the Christmas season isn’t your favorite time of year?” she asked.

  The second the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to take them back. His reaction indicated that she’d more than hit the mark. She’d opened a wound he was trying to hide.

  “Because it isn’t,” he answered. His words seemed to scrape the darkness. Quiet, but harsh. “Christmas holds no fond memories for me.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I’d prefer not to speak of it,” he answered in a voice that held more pain than Tillie had ever heard. “What I’d rather discuss is why you thought I might be here for a reason other than just to accompany Lord Beckett.”

  Tillie dropped her gaze to her lap. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “But you did. Now I’d like you to elaborate. Is there a reason for which you believe I accompanied your uncle? A problem with which you thought I might be of service?”

  Tillie hesitated for several moments. “There may be. But I cannot discern what it is.”

  “I see,” he answered. “And does this problem have something to do with your father?”

  Tillie lifted her head, thinking what might be an appropriate answer. But he blundered on.

  “Has something been done to him that worries you? Or do you suspect he’s involved in something untoward?”

  Of all the— “I believe I’ve said enough on this subject.” She forced herself to look away from him. Whatever was troubling her father was a private matter. Uncle John would see to it. Not some stranger they’d only just met. And to suggest that her father might be involved in anything unseemly was completely beyond the pale.

  She rose. “I’ve been absent long enough. I must rejoin the family.”

  Frank rose and extended his arm. “You will let me know if I can be of assistance to either you or your father, won’t you?”

  Tillie nodded stiffly. “Thank you. But I’m sure your help won’t be required.”

  Tillie placed her hand on his extended arm. The moment her fingers touched his sleeve, a shiver raced up her arm and traced a path to her heart. Was it shame at her rudeness that she felt? Embarrassment? Or something else entirely?

  She lifted her gaze until her eyes met his. His face had changed
. His features now expressed confusion, and in the confused expression was seated a kindness that caught her off guard. The muscular hardness in his arm flexed. Ready for what? Battle? Dancing? She’d never felt such strength. But instead of frightening her, she found herself oddly grateful for it.

  She walked with him back to where the family was gathered. With each step she told herself she would do well to stay away from the major. His nearness caused her to face too many unsettling emotions—emotions that were entirely unwarranted where this boorish fellow was concerned.

  . . .

  Frank crossed his arms beneath his head and stared at the ceiling in his bedroom. Bloody hell but she was a conundrum. One minute her eyes and voice exuded such excitement it was difficult for him to fight against mirroring it. The next, she was serious, almost calculating and aloof. Somehow he knew it wasn’t her natural state of being. Was she hiding something? Or did he just have a negatively chaotic effect on her?

  That was probably it, and if so, he’d best keep his distance. And yet, try as he might, he found it difficult to fight the connection he felt for her, a connection that caused him to constantly want to be in her presence.

  Even more frightening was the realization that he wasn’t sure he wanted to resist the connection. He’d battled the pain for so long he wasn’t sure he had the will to fight any longer. For the first time since he’d lost everyone he loved, he felt a spark of life flicker inside him. Something about her caused an awakening. Except he wasn’t sure he wanted to experience those feelings again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk his heart again.

  He’d been out of circulation too long to trust his reactions. Oh yes, she was a conundrum, to be sure. One moment she could inject a coolness that warned him he was not welcome to meddle in her father’s dilemma, whatever it may be. And in the next. . .

  Frank closed his eyes, pretending that he might be able to fall asleep, yet knowing he wouldn’t. The sound of her laughter and the excitement in her eyes refused to leave him.

  She was dangerous. She could destroy the barriers he’d erected to protect his heart. She had the ability to insinuate herself into the defenses he’d constructed and thaw them. For as long as he was here, he would be wise to stay as far away from her as he could.

  Chapter 3

  It was Christmas Eve, the night Frank had dreaded since the moment he’d agreed to spend the holidays with the Earl of Beckett’s family. In the smallest recesses of his forlorn heart, he knew it couldn’t be right that this gaiety, this Christmas merriment, could cause a person such pain.

  But it did.

  He’d suffered through the agonizing hours of decorating the tree. Each member of the Rowley family placed the new ornament they’d either made or purchased for this year’s Christmas tree. Then they all gathered around the beautiful fir and placed more ornaments on the swiftly laden branches.

  Because of his height, Frank was in great demand to help the shorter members of the Rowley family decorate the higher branches of the tree. There was laughter. Too much laughter. And gratitude. So much gratitude, as if the simple act of hanging an ornament for them was an immense blessing with which he’d heroically favored them.

  Then, when all the ornaments were hung, Miss Rowley opened a box of gingerbread cookies, each strung with a piece of red thread, and they were hung where the youngest members of the family could reach them. Tillie’s brother George provoked great hilarity by accidentally eating several.

  Although he tried not to stare at Miss Rowley, he found it impossible not to. The lady simply glowed. He’d never seen anyone who enjoyed the holiday season as she seemed to. The smile on her face didn’t fade once, but only seemed to broaden with each ornament she placed on the tree.

  When the decorations were all hung, and ribbons of red and white velvet and lace and satin were draped on the branches, it was time to place an angel on the top of the tree.

  “Are we ready?” Miss Rowley asked. The excitement caused her eyes to sparkle.

  “I believe we are,” Miss Rowley’s sister, Lady Halstead, said while rushing to the door. A few seconds later she re-entered the room with two nursemaids, each with one of the infant twins. The twins were given into waiting arms—one to the Countess of Dennison, and one to Viscountess Dunstan.

  But it wasn’t upon the babes that Frank concentrated. It was on the two other children—a boy of about five, and a girl of about three.

  Frank’s heart ripped apart, stricken by a thousand shards of cruel memory. His blood crashed inside his head and thundered in his ears. Sheets of lightning exploded behind his eyes and the room spun around him. The little boy everyone called Willie, and the girl they called Zoe, were so like his children the last time he’d seen them.

  Frank stumbled to his feet. The floor shifted beneath him, but somehow he managed to stand upright. He staggered to the opposite side of the room, searching for a door, but found only a window frame. He leaned into it, wishing to fade through the glass.

  It was snowing, almost as if Frank’s frozen tears were falling to the ground.

  “I know this is difficult for you,” a voice said from beside him.

  Frank turned to face Lord Beckett. “I thought I could handle it.”

  “You are handling it, Frank.”

  “Ha,” Frank scoffed. “Why did you do this?” he choked. “Why did you ask me to accompany you, my lord? Why have you put me through this?”

  “Because I need you. And you need this.” Beckett indicated the celebration that was going on behind him.

  Frank shook his head. “Yes. I see that. More pain, is that what you prescribe?” He felt childishly petulant hearing the words that tumbled from him.

  Lord Beckett’s hand clasped reassuringly on his shoulder. “You need to step back into the world.”

  Frank couldn’t answer Lord Beckett. Instead, he turned back to watch the gently mounting snow.

  “Stay here as long as you like. Join us again when you can.”

  Frank heard the commotion behind him, then a rousing cheer when the angel was securely settled atop the tree. He took several deep breaths, praying that his heart would not shatter inside his chest.

  Next, he heard the clinking of glasses, and turned to see a servant following Miss Rowley who was handing out mugs of warm cider. She came to him last.

  “Would you care for a mug of cider?”

  “Thank you,” he said, reaching for the cup with a trembling hand.

  Frank took a long sip, then another.

  “Oh!” she cried as she turned to see what he was watching. “Yes! I’m going to do it!” She thrust the tray onto a table and danced a few sideways steps to a nearby glass-paned door. “It’s perfect,” she sighed. “You simply must come out!”

  Frank drained the cider in his cup. “Isn’t it too cold for you?”

  A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Is there anything more perfect on Christmas Eve than walking in winter’s first powdery snowfall?”

  “If you say so,” Frank answered, even though he didn’t feel there was anything perfect about this night. There hadn’t been for eight years.

  “I won’t need a wrap. Come!” She stepped out and looked back to see if he followed. “Now, silly!”

  Frank stepped onto the terrace. He didn’t turn to see if any of her family gave them looks of disapproval. If they did, he might turn around and escort her back into the room. But he didn’t want anything to stop him, because for some reason he failed to comprehend, he wanted to follow her. Into the snow.

  He needed someone tonight like he hadn’t needed anyone in eight years. He needed someone to tether him, lest he drift off into the expanse of white.

  . . .

  Tillie led the way across the terrace. There was a light dusting of snow on the surface of everything and she took Major Collyard’s arm when he offered it. The steps could be treacherous when snow-covered, and her slippers weren’t designed for walking in the snow. She hoped that some remnant of boyish impati
ence would help him understand her eagerness, that it would have taken too much time to change into walking shoes, and the moment would have passed. She’d seen the desperation to escape in the major’s eyes and knew that—cloak or no cloak, shoes or no shoes—she was going to step into that snowy garden with him.

  “Is it too blustery for you, Miss Rowley?”

  “Not at all, major. You will find I quite relish winter weather.”

  Tillie led the way down the central path. In the middle of the garden stood an enclosed summerhouse at the brink of a pond that had not yet frozen over. Tillie and her family skated there when the ice was thick enough, and sought the warmth in the summerhouse and its little coal-burning brazier until they were ready to return to the ice again.

  The major opened the door to the pretty structure and Tillie stepped inside. “This will keep us warm enough for a while. When we come here to skate, the staff lights the brazier and the room is like an oven.”

  Tillie sat on one of the benches that lined the wall. The major didn’t sit, but walked to one of the large glass windows and stared out onto the still pond.

  He didn’t speak for several moments and Tillie didn’t break the silence. It struck her that he needed some time to himself. She wondered if he knew how appealing he looked in that cavalier pose, with the moon lighting his profile. He seemed to gain comfort from the silence, and over the quiet moments she watched his shoulders relax and his breathing settle. At last, he turned to face her. “Is there anything about winter that you don’t like?” he asked.

  Tillie thought a moment. “Now that you mention it, I don’t believe there is. I like everything about winter. Especially Christmas.”

  “And how do you feel about life in general?”

  Tillie smiled. “Why, I suppose I would have to say the same. I find life in general most agreeable.”

  The major rested one hip against the window ledge. “Even when some worthless reprobate comes and ruins your Christmas?”

  “There’s no need to apologize, you know. It’s obvious you’re uncomfortable, and why shouldn’t you be?” Tillie smiled. “My family can be quite enthusiastic in our celebrating.”