“A toast to Kippers…” Jonathan tossed back a draught of eggnog. “Well, how relieved I am! It seemed a mad notion, but I just had a feeling…”
“Mad indeed,” Miss Harris confided to Elizabeth in a carrying whisper. “Who wants to look at a heap of rotting fish?”
Ignoring her, Claire gazed upon her painting fondly. “I admit I might not have picked it out of a gallery, having no eye for such things myself. But I cannot look at it without smiling, just as you said.” Turning to Jonathan, she skimmed back the lock of his hair that was forever falling forward. “You know me better than I know myself.”
“I don’t know about that.” Lowering his voice, Jonathan touched her hand. “But I mean never to disappoint you again.”
“Oh, dear!” Though wearing a smile, she shook her head. “That will not do, my love. I’m afraid we shall disappoint each other many times over the years. Better to vow we’ll never doubt each other again. That, I think, we can carry off splendidly.”
Transfixed by her sparkling eyes and not trusting himself to speak, he settled for raising her hand to his lips. Though he would have liked to say—and do—much more, he would have to wait for privacy.
Her mere nearness was so enchanting, even this small liberty was a risk. For though he’d have sworn his heart was already full, each day he spent with her seemed to increase his love tenfold. The dam was overtaxed, and should it give way, he feared the bounds of propriety insufficient to stem the tide.
So he settled for kissing her hand—a kiss of silent promise—and relinquished it for the time being, banishing such feelings to the recesses of his mind. Then, taking a deep breath, he called for more eggnog to get him through the latest round of gifts.
And for the first time in his life, wished Christmas would come to a very speedy end.
Nineteen
Twineham Park
Saturday, 1st January 1820
2 o’clock in the afternoon. — Deepest apologies for the long absence, Diary! I confess I’ve been too busy and happy to write. And I fear this is to be my final entry in your pages, for my New Year’s gift from Jonathan was a new diary to replace the one I ‘thrashed’ (his word). It’s exquisite, all of marbled, gold-edged Venetian paper he purchased abroad, and lately had bound and stamped with my new moniker (C.R. for Claire Rathborne). I cannot wait to write in it!
Oh, but never think you shall be eclipsed, my cherished friend! As promised, I’ve made you a little jacket of green silk, embroidered with a lovely frieze of mistletoe and oranges. I plan to wrap you up all splendid and snug, and keep you in a place of honor on my mantle, as a happy reminder of Jonathan’s and my first Christmas together (for, of course, the previous one is to be entirely forgotten).
But before you’re put away, I’ve something of a very striking nature to confide in you! I’ve been itching to do so ever since the episode occurred, but alas, I simply have not had a moment to myself. It’s all been a whirl of celebrating, packing, unpacking, receiving visitors—and that was before my siblings came to stay!
Thankfully, my ever-gallant husband (husband!) has today contrived for me a couple hours of peace. After luncheon he announced himself desirous of a nice, long walk now that the snow has melted, and proposed to tour our guests all round his finest woods. Elizabeth, of course, leapt at the idea; and while he prevailed upon the others to join—even Rachael in her delicate condition—with a covert wink I was encouraged to stay behind and “rest.”
The dear, clever man! I cannot remember making mention of my wish for solitude, yet somehow, he just knew. He understands me on a level so profound, so unerring, I could almost swear he sees directly into my very sou
Half past. — Well. I may have slightly overestimated my husband’s perceptiveness.
Hmph.
It would appear Jonathan did not, in fact, look into my soul, nor did he devise an elaborate scheme to grant my secret wish, nor indeed, had he any notion of said wish’s existence. All of this was made clear to me on his bursting into my dressing room, not ten minutes after having vacated the house, with a certain gleam in his eye…
When I asked what on earth he was doing here, he responded with amazement. Regarding me as though I were the thick one, he explained that after delivering our guests into the capable hands of his gamekeeper, he’d dashed back to me so we could take advantage of the empty house to?—
La, I cannot write it without blushing! You know.
At any rate, he was taken aback to find me neither aware nor enamored of this project. And when I divulged the fact of my having quite a different project in mind, he answered blithely that we should have ample time for both, could I but spare him twenty minutes.
Naturally, I looked askance! I was sure I’d mistaken him, for it wasn’t possible to confine such activities to so short a window—was it?
He insisted it was. Though skeptical, I allowed him a chance to prove his theory...which he did, to marvelous effect! Here I sit, just twenty minutes later—eighteen, if truth be told—in a glow of marital bliss and ready to resume my work. Will wonders never cease?
And in the daytime, no less! Having already been married a whole week, why am I just now learning of this option?
I suppose lack of opportunity may well account for it. When the Greystone party broke up on the morning after our wedding, we removed to Twineham Park at once. The bulk of that day was spent in the enclosed chaise, which some might reckon as a fit venue for romance—but anybody who’s shared such a vehicle with their cat would attest otherwise. And since arriving, a constant stream of morning callers and evening engagements have kept us on the hop.
Not that I’m complaining! Setting up house has been rather a joy, for at Greystone I was expected to carry on Rachael’s ways, while here I may run things just as I please.
It is a lot of work, of course, what with everything being so much larger and grander: the house, the lovely park, and the army of staff we must hire to maintain them. Some of the old servants have returned, but many found other jobs or (rumor has it) defected to the dowager’s residence. I imagine replacing them all will take some weeks, and until then we’ll just have to muddle through.
Even so, I adore the house! It’s a Palladian mansion full of well-proportioned rooms and Chippendale furniture, and already I grow too fond of lofty ceilings and modern conveniences to ever go back to a castle. The chimneys don’t smoke! The windows go up and down! We have three water closets with the new flush toilets, and—if you can believe it!—even one of Feetham’s Patent ShowerBaths (though I do wish it weren’t so cold).
