Page 4 of A Duke's Christmas Carol
“You would love this,” she murmured, gazing out at the snow as she held the warm cup of tea, feeling rather cozy. “A castle in the snow. Oh yes, you would adore this.”
Her heart squirmed with an uneasy guilt, that she had left her younger siblings behind in London. Cecil and Nora, ten and eight respectively, had given their blessing for her journey northward, and had been the only ones to wave her off. Still, they had never really known any motherly figure but her, and she worried for how they would fare without her.
“I am sorry, my sweetlings,” she murmured.
The children cherished this season more than any other, each morning peeking out of the window to see if it had snowed and, better yet, if it had stuck. And though the family never had anywhere to go for the festive season, no invitations to spend Christmas at one country estate or another, Valerie had always made it a special occasion. A time that the children delighted in, and looked forward to each year.
This year, however, she didn’t know if she would return to Gramfield in time. It all depended on how her journey to Scotland went.
But this is pleasant,she told herself, marveling at the fat, fluffy flakes that silently descended, a sea of icy blossoms to blanket the lawns and trees.
Was there anything more comforting than being in the warmth while it snowed, a roaring fire crackling merrily, with the promise of hearty soup to thaw the last bit of frost from one’s bones?
She stayed there for a long time, watching the darkened world turn whiter, enjoying the peace of it all. When she finished a cup of tea, she returned to the pot for more and wandered back to the window to take in that magical sight.
Indeed, it was only when a trickle poured out of the teapot, stone cold, that she realized how long it had been since the butler left. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece confirmed it: Mr. Jarvis had been gone for over an hour.
“He said he would be back momentarily,” she mumbled, frowning at the clock to ensure her eyes were not playing tricks.
Has something happened to him?She moved to the door that had been left ajar and listened through the crack for any telling sounds. All was silent.What if he has injured himself in the kitchens, and there is no one around to help? What if he is unconscious and cannot call for help… and all because I agreed to some soup?
The dreadful possibility took her out of the drawing room door in an instant, throwing aside the promise she had made not to leave. Surely, in the case of the butler being in some difficulty or danger, she could be forgiven for breaking the rule. What else was she supposed to do when he had assured her that he would be back soon, and had not returned?
The drawing room was tucked away down an unlit corridor, which led her to assume it was not the main drawing room but a secondary, barely used one. Keeping her hand to the wall to orient herself, she advanced upon the faint glow of the entrance hall.
There, in the low glow of a sparsely populated chandelier, a blank-eyed stag stared at her judgmentally from the far side of the foyer, as did the grim-faced old men in the portraits that did anything but brighten up the place. To her right, two stone staircases curved out of sight, presumably leading to opposite wings.
“Now, if I were a castle kitchen, where would I be?” she whispered, the dead silence of the castle too oppressive to bear.
Across from her gaped the mouth of another hallway, a few lanterns hanging off hooks at lengthy intervals. But they were alight, where the rest of the castle—what she could see of it, anyway—was not. To her mind, that meant she was on the right path.
She tiptoed to that eerie archway and crossed the threshold, feeling a strange sensation of ‘no turning back now.’ The same feeling that had pushed her onward through the tunnel of leaning oaks instead of immediately racing back to the broken carriage, the moment her lantern had shattered.
Removing a lantern from the wall, she held it out in front of her and, trying to remember to breathe, she proceeded into the gloom.
“Mr. Jarvis?” she whispered as she went, pausing at each door that jumped out of the darkness between lanterns. “Mr. Jarvis, are you there? Did you fall asleep? Are you hurt?”
She repeated the same words over and over as the hallway stretched endlessly ahead of her, until she began to wonder if she had misunderstood the way a castle was designed. She was assuming it was the same as a manor, each door belonging to a room, but what if there were more hallways and passages behind those doors? Countless passageways? A whole labyrinth that she could not hope to explore without getting lost?
To test her theory, she stopped at the next door she came to, hand shaking a little as she grabbed the iron ring that served as a handle. She turned it, wincing as the grate of hinges sent a piercing shriek down the hallway.
Her heart almost stopped as a matching reply echoed back, another door opening somewhere along the corridor.
She turned and held up her lantern, praying it would be Mr. Jarvis.
He will understand if I explain that I was afraid for his welfare.
“Who are you?” a booming voice thundered toward her, so deep it seemed to rattle the walls; not at all the shy, anxious, but decidedly friendly voice of the butler. No, this was a growling accusation. “And what are you doing in my home?”
She held her breath as a shadow moved down the hallway, so imposing in height and breadth that it blotted out the glow of each lantern it passed.Hepassed.
The door in front of her, open slightly, seemed to plead with her to dart into the safety of whatever lay beyond. Slam the door behind her and lock it, before this unknown man could reach her.
But her hand was immobile on the handle, her feet rooted to the flagstones, her attention incapable of drawing away from the approaching figure. She had always assumed that if she wereever in terrible danger, she would be the sort of woman who ran for her life, but it appeared she was mistaken; she was the rabbit, frozen stiff in fright, while the poacher fired their rifle.
With each lantern he passed, she caught flashes of the man’s face: a glinting, dark-eyed glare; the shine of jagged scars; the twist of a snarling mouth; the face of a devil who had come to punish her for her sins.
Her heart pounded wildly, every breath a struggle as she willed herself to do something to save her own skin. Whoever this man was, he was not pleased to see her, and as no one but the driver knew where she was, it was not the most comfortable situation she had ever been in.
