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Chapter 5
Emma awoke to the unmistakable hush of snowfall and when she glanced out of the window of her room she almost squealed in excitement. Despite being almost twenty four, she retained a childlike fascination with the stuff—especially after the energy-sapping heat of South America.
Determined to take a brisk, invigorating walk in the gardens, she donned her stoutest boots, thick woolen stockings, and her warmest skirt. She’d just finished when a knock sounded at her door.
“Ah, Mrs. Bennington.” She greeted the housekeeper with a warm smile. “Is that tea and toast I spy?”
“It is ma’am.”
“You needn’t have come all this way. I was about to come down.”
“Oh, it’s no bother, but I’m sorry we don’t have a lady’s maid to help you dress. Bess and Sarah have been given the week off to visit with their families, so we’re a little short below stairs.”
“I quite understand. His lordship wasn’t expecting visitors. Rest assured I’m quite capable of seeing to my own needs. Just pretend I’m not here.”
The housekeeper returned her smile. “Yes ma’am.”
As she scoffed down her breakfast, Emma congratulated Kit on being a considerate employer. Many aristocratic houses entertained lavishly at this time of year, and the poor servants barely got a moment to themselves.
The formal gardens proved to be a delight, and she crunched happily through the snow, dodging low-hanging branches. A wilder patch of woodland grew a short distance past the maze, and she headed in that direction, her attention caught by the ball of greenery sprouting halfway along the branch of a sturdy oak tree. Since the oak’s leaves had all fallen away, the puff of mistletoe was easy to spot.
She paused at the foot of the trunk and peered upward, her hands planted on her hips.
As someone who’d spent a great deal of time scampering around the rigging of her father’s ships—her ships now, since the death of both her parents and Andrew—the branches of the stately oak provided little challenge.
Hiking her skirts, she began to climb. She’d just reached the limb where the mistletoe grew when a shout from below broke her concentration.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Emma smiled. Kit was glaring up at her from the bottom of the tree.
“Dear God, woman, are you mad? You’ll fall to your death!”
“I’m perfectly fine, but thank you,” she called back cheerily. “And Merry Christmas. I’m just getting you a bunch of mistletoe for the house. I couldn’t help noticing the lack of it in your festive decorations.”
He winced at her sarcastic reference. Apart from a holly wreath on the front door, his ‘festive decorations’ were practically non-existent. She hid a grin. Teasing him was delightful.
“Andrew told me you were a genius at getting into scrapes,” he growled. “I’m beginning to see what he meant.”
Emma almost lost her footing on the branch. “You and Andrew talked about me?”
“Of course. We spent six months sharing a cell. We shared life stories.” She risked a glance down at him and was alarmed to see a roguish grin cross his face. “He told meallyour most embarrassing childhood tales.”
Mortification brought a flush to her cheeks.
“I loved listening to them,” he admitted. “I never had a sister. He loved you very much.”
Her throat tightened with emotion, and she coughed to cover it, then busied herself snapping a handful of sprigs from the mistletoe. She started to descend, careful not to squash the sticky white berries against her skin.
“Mistletoe and orchids have something in common, you know,” she called down. “They’re both epiphytes.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Parasites,” she laughed. “They both grow on another tree, getting moisture from the rain and feeding on the decomposing leaves of the host.”
“Isn’t that bad for the tree?”
“Not at all. They don’t take anything, or harm it in any way.”
