Elisabeth Fairchild by The Christmas Spirit Read Free Book Online Page B

her stance. It did not befit her station
     to readily fall prey to enticements—the music mistress of Andover must not lose her
     head in the presence of her titled host’s household. She was wise to show restraint.
    Copeland smiled, thought of his lost chance in the stairwell, and determined not to
     repeat it. Brows high in mock amusement, he stepped away from the ladder, fully prepared
     to kiss a pair of evergreen-scented lips.
    Not evergreen!
Frankincense!
Her room smelled of frankincense. Like the chapel. Angels on the ceiling. To his
     astonishment, the pleasure of a sweetly scented kiss was interrupted by bespectacled
     Maddie, who dropped the wreath she fashioned, saying with a laugh, “I will not hesitate,
     my lord, though these silly younger girls do.”
    Cheese. The old woman smelled of yeasty bread and Stilton with a touch of mustard.
    To the accompaniment of hoots and clapping from the staff, he accepted her enthusiastic
     bussing of his cheek, the press of her spectacle rims to his temple. Everyone went
     merrily back to work as he turned to see if Belinda Walcott might be affected by the
     missed potential of a kiss as much as he.
    She was gone. No longer in the room.
    “We need more ivy,” Maddie said.
    “I’ll go,” he volunteered, glad to step into the quiet solitude of the chill, sunlit
     solarium, where bundles of greenery lined the floor, where pots of ivy were grown
     for the occasion, where he might find his guest.
    Two kisses Belinda Walcott owed him now. Two mistletoe kisses from a young woman’s
     lips, and both times she had slipped through his fingers. Was it too much for a dying
     man to ask of life at Christmas?
    “Such a pretty room.”
    He whirled, surprised.
    She stood in the doorway, an unexpected opportunity, just the two of them alone.
    Frankincense. She definitely wore the scent of Christmas that permeated the room.
     He looked about, seeing the solarium with fresh eyes, as she did. It was a pretty
     room, high ceilinged and bright, with mullioned windows overlooking the white wonderland
     of the garden. He had been much struck by this room, by its view, when he first began
     renovations.
    “I claim no credit,” he said. “It stands very much as I found it.”
    “I am glad.” She walked past him, to the wall of windowed arches.
    He swiveled to continue facing her, the room spinning in a Christmas-scented blur.
    “It was my favorite room when I was a child.” She ran her finger along one of the
     frosted glass diamonds, watching the dribble of water that followed her touch. “I
     should hate to see it altered.”
    She never failed to surprise him. “You’ve been here before? I’d no idea.”
    Belinda’s gentle laughter was lost in the sound of rustling leaves as he took up a
     bundle of mistletoe. She came closer, lashes lowered in a pale golden sweep, her hair
     glowing like a halo from the window’s light.
    “Did you know my uncle?” With a pair of garden shears, he sliced open a bundle of
     mistletoe.
Snick. Snick.
    “We met but once,” she said, lips faintly upturned, eyes sad. “Then there was an accident.”
    Breath caught in his throat, his heart ached.
    “A little boy.” So quiet the room, as if the words had not been said, only imagined.
     “No one came to the Hall for Christmas afterward. It has been a lonely place for many
     years.”
    It was true. Uncle Cope had never spent another Christmas at Broomhill. Not since
     James.
    He could see his uncle running toward him, kicking up white spurts, the image dreamlike,
     seen through the fog of pent breath and willful forgetfulness. He shivered, shook
     away the memory, pulse pounding uncomfortably.
    He had inherited a house in complete disrepair, along with the tenant’s houses.
    “Not lonely this year,” he promised, hand to heart, the scissors falling open. “This
     will be the best Christmas ever.” It must be, no matter what. He would make it so.
     He might not have another. Would James be