Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three

The road from Carrington to Finchley was always a hazard this time of year. Standing pools of melted snow led to water freezing over, which meant ice. And a carriage hitting a patch of ice at too fast a speed meant accidents. Which is how Charles found himself arriving back to Finchley well over three hours later than anticipated.

He’d been in Carrington all morning, assisting the curate there, Mr. Hoxley, with distributing food packages to the fire victims. On his return journey, a slick patch of ice had spelled disaster for a hired coach carrying a family of six north for the Christmas holiday. The carriage toppled and two of the horses were injured. Charles found himself doubling back to Carrington to help find the poor family an alternative means of transportation.

By the time the soft lights of Finchley came into view, it was full dark, and Charles was exhausted. He couldn’t wait to return to the parsonage and soak his aching bones in the big brass tub.

Memories of the previous night flashed through his mind, distracting him from the wind and cold. When he woke to find both Warren and Madeline gone, he’d been disoriented. It wasn’t long before Warren returned, having taken her back to the great house. Charles couldn’t believe he’d been so foolish as to fall asleep. Thank god for Warren.

He pursed his lips, giving his old mare another tap with his crop. She grunted at him, reluctantly picking up her pace.

His thoughts were in turmoil. What passed between them all had been…what was the proper word for something that so shook the foundations of your being that you felt unmade and remade into something entirely new? Revolutionary? Cataclysmic?

When Warren returned, he’d merely sat at the end of his narrow bed, looking down at Charles. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Charles could tell Warren was just as changed by it all.

And now it all fell to him, this next choice. There was the life he was expected to want that led down a sunlit path with absolutely no pitfalls or dangers. It was the path he was already on, and the destination was the vicarage at Bredbury.

Or there was a new path, an uncharted path that led through a dark and mysterious forest. And Charles would not be alone on this path. He would become responsible for the lives of two people who were looking to him to provide them all a way out. This path was mired in obstacles—slick patches of ice, ruts, sudden turns. And all the while, there would be people lying in wait, watching them, ready to throw rocks and sticks at every turn.

Charles was as adventurous as the next young person, but to march down this second path didn’t feel adventurous so much as dangerous, reckless even. If only he could be assured that there was indeed a way through. If only he knew such a path had been followed by others before and actually led to happiness for the merry adventurers.

Because there was nothing more daunting in his mind than the idea of taking Madeline and Warren and breaking them, ruining their lives through loving him. If that happened, he felt sure he’d never forgive himself.

He left the borrowed mare at the smithy and crossed the high street towards the parsonage. The village was quiet at this time of night, all the busy workers tucked away, eagerly enjoying dinnertime around warm fires. He too wanted nothing more than a glass of brandy and a quiet fire, for he had much to think about.

He passed through the front gate of the parsonage and stilled. Something was wrong. He could see shadows moving in the windows and was that…music? Hurrying his footsteps, he opened the front door to a surprising display.

The coat tree was hung with half a dozen hats and coats. Inside, the house smelled like…Christmas. There was no other word to describe the tapestry of scents that conjured up for Charles fond memories of Christmas feasts eaten in this house—roasted venison, sizzling pork, the savory notes of rosemary and thyme, baked fruit pies spiced with nutmeg and clove.

And then there was the music. From the modest drawing room came the cheery sounds of a piano and violin playing Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Deep laughter echoed out over the music.

Charles hurriedly took of his outwear, his back turned, when Molly cried out, “Oh, gracious! Master Charles, home at last. We were about to send out a search party to search the roads for your frozen corpse! I was that sure you must have taken a tumble.” She bustled forward, her hand full of a tray of festive drinks. “You naughty boy, where have you been then?”

“I—”

“Never mind, come in, come in! And be sure to thank Mr. Burke for his overwhelming generosity.”

Charles paused. “Mr. Burke?”

“Yes, yes, come,” she huffed, the tray rattling in her grip. She turned the corner into the drawing room with a shrill call of, “He’s heere!”

The music stopped as he turned the corner, standing in the doorway to see a wholly unexpected sight. The room had been decorated top to bottom with Christmas decorations—colorful paper garlands were strung down the walls and the mantle was festooned with pine boughs and ribbons. And the room was full to the brim with…well…everyone.

The duchess herself sat at the piano, a wide smile of welcome on her face. Behind her stood Madeline, holding the violin. Uncle Selby was bundled up warm in his favorite chair by the fire, James at his side. Other prominent townspeople dotted the narrow room—Doctor Rivers, the milliner Mr. Ford and his wife, Sir and Lady Havens, Mrs. Jane Pilcock, owner of the Blue Lady Inn. Nearest to him was Mr. Burke, standing with a glass of mulled wine in hand. He stood with Warren and Mr. Trammel, who ran the post office.

“Surprise!”

“Merry Christmas, Charles!”

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Bray!”

The group welcomed him warmly and he glanced around wide-eyed, as Molly bustled forward and shoved a glass of mulled wine in his hand.

“Is this not ever a good surprise, Master Charles? Mr. Burke arranged everything,” she cooed, her eyes filled with so much love for the man that Charles was sure she was picking out curtains in her mind. It was a comical thought, seeing as Molly Evans had always been of a firm mind that Horatio Burke was an irredeemable scoundrel.

“Molly exaggerates,” Burke replied. “The nugget of the idea may have been mine, but the execution was all Rosalie and Madeline. And I would have told you, but you’ve been slippery as an eel these past few days.”

The duchess stepped up at his side. “Well, we had to cancel our grand Christmas do, and when Burke mentioned his fear that Mr. Selby may not be well enough to attend our family dinner, we knew we had to bring Christmas to him. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Bray,” she added with a hand on his arm.

“I don’t mind, Your Grace,” he murmured.

In fact, Charles was touched beyond anything to see the way his uncle sat so peacefully by the fire, surrounded by all the townspeople who knew and loved him best. He glanced over and his breath caught in his throat.

Madeline knelt beside Uncle Selby, offering him a fresh cup of tea. Her hair was up tonight, her golden curls a halo around her face. She and the duchess sported festive holly berry garlands on their heads like crowns. She wore a dress of emerald silk, with long white gloves. A single strand of pearls sat at her throat.

Uncle Selby leaned down, his weathered face cracked into an enchanted smile as she adjusted the blanket on his lap, murmuring something that had him and James sharing a laugh. She gave his knee an affectionate pat before rising, her back still turned to him.

“He’s smitten, I think,” the duchess murmured, still standing with her hand on his arm. “She’s been most attentive to him.”

He glanced over at the duchess, whose lips were pursed into a knowing smile. “I thank you for your kindness,” he replied, taking a sip of the mulled wine in his hand.

“There is no thanks needed, Mr. Bray,” she replied. “You are family to us—you and Mr. Selby—and we take care of our own.” She gave his hand a squeeze and walked away, calling out to the room what carol they should like to hear next.

Burke shifted away too, following Mr. Trammel into the dining room, where all the delicious food had apparently been set. That left Charles alone in the corner with Warren.

“Burke made me come,” he muttered, clearly the least comfortable person in the room.

“As well you should,” Charles replied. “It’s Christmas, John.”

“Selby doesn’t want me here.” His dark eyes darted across the room towards the curate.

With a sigh, Charles grabbed his elbow, dragging him out of the corner towards the two empty chairs by Uncle Selby and the duke.

“Charles, you’re home safe,” Uncle Selby called. “I’m ever so relieved.”

“Sorry, uncle. The roads were quite icy. I had to aid an overturned carriage,” he replied, taking the first empty seat.

Warren sat stiffly in the second.

“You remember Warren, surely, uncle,” he added.

“Of course, I remember our dashing Mr. Warren,” Uncle Selby replied. “He all but lived in my back garden for half a decade. Sit yourself down, sir. Sit down there.”

“He’s been indispensable in providing help to the Carrington fire victims,” Charles went on. “Without him, they wouldn’t be so happily situated with game enough to see them through the new year.”

“Oh?” was his uncle’s reply, his gaze darting between them with a knowing look.

Charles could let himself feel awkward about it, but he was too tired to do so tonight. Let Uncle Selby think whatever he wanted. Charles was weary and anxious, and he wanted Warren close at hand.

“Warren is one of the best gamekeepers I have,” James added.

Warren stiffened, unused to being the center of attention. “It’s all just a lot of point and shoot,” he muttered.

“He was always such a charismatic young man,” Uncle Selby sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Ah, Charles, and you must remember this delightful angel. Lady Madeline surprised the duke and duchess with a visit. Just in time for Christmas too. She’s been here half the afternoon preparing everything with Molly. I made her pause for tea, and she obliged me to a sporting round of chess.”

“And did you win, sir?” asked James.

“Stuff and nonsense, Norland,” Uncle Selby said with a wheezing laugh. “The lady is a shark. She bested me in under twenty moves.”

Charles glanced over his shoulder to see Madeline standing there, one hand on the back of his chair. “Good evening, Madeline,” he said on a breath, for she’d taken all of his air.

“Good evening, sir. Happy Christmas,” she replied with a soft smile.

“I may have made an unforgivable transgression, nephew,” said Uncle Selby.

Charles pulled his eyes from Madeline, looking back at his uncle. “Oh? How so, sir?”

“Lady Madeline distracted me whilst playing. She wanted to hear stories about you and David as boys,” he replied. “I may have told her the one about the box of bees.”

Charles groaned, as the others laughed, even Warren.

“He still doesn’t care much for honey,” Warren muttered, taking a sip of his wine.

“I believe somewhere in my repressed memories is a similar story,” teased the duke. “Only mine involves Tom Renley wielding a cricket bat.”

They all laughed again, Charles joining in, while Warren shifted out of his seat. “Here, my lady.” He gestured to the chair.

“Oh, no. I am happy to stand,” she replied with a wave of her gloved hand.

“Sit,” he urged, stepping in behind her.

She flushed, murmuring her thanks before taking his offered seat at Charles’s side.

“Can you believe this beauty is yet unmarried?” said Uncle Selby, stirring a lump of sugar into his tea with a shaky hand. “I asked some questions of my own whilst she beat the stuffing out of me with her roving rooks. She speaks Italian and German, Charles. And she plays violin.”

Charles cleared his throat, unable to meet her eye. Was his uncle really daring to play matchmaker with Warren and the duke watching?

“She’s a voracious reader too,” added the duke. “I’m told she’s borrowed all manner of books during her short stay with us. She burns through them faster than the candle waxes.”

“And she rides prodigiously well,” Warren muttered, his eyes on his drink.

Charles stilled, his mind flashing with images of her speared on Warren’s cock, his own mouth trying to devour them both as she bounced, those perfect tits glowing in the firelight—

Fucking hell. He sucked in a breath, knowing Madeline was thinking the same by the set of her shoulders and the red blooming in her apple cheeks. It was all Charles could do not to lean over and take a bite.

“You are too generous,” she murmured.

“No such thing,” the duke replied with a wave of his hand. “You are the height of accomplishment, Madeline. Accept the compliments.”

“Come you lot!” Mr. Burke called from the doorway. “James! Bray, come! It’s time to play Snapdragon!”

A few of the other guests cooed with delight. Charles stood, offering an arm to Madeline. She took it, flashing him a soft smile. Warren held his arm out to Uncle Selby, but the man buffeted him away with a wave and a laugh.

“You young people go and play your game. I’m perfectly happy here by my fire with Doctor Rivers for company.”

The doctor was already crossing over, a plate of mince meat pies in hand.

With a curt nod, Warren followed behind Charles and Madeline.

They crossed the narrow hall into the dark dining room. All the candles had been removed and the hearth was little more than hot coals. The feast was set up like a buffet, with the long table turned and pressed against the back wall beneath the windows. In the middle of the room, the smaller table from the drawing room had been set with six chairs around it.

The duchess was already seated in one chair, her hands folded over her stomach. Burke plopped into the chair next to her and the duke took the one on her right. Charles pulled out the chair next to the duke, helping Madeline to sit. Before he could claim the chair next to her, Warren was sitting. That left one chair open next to Burke. Some of the other guests filtered in behind, standing around them.

“Here we are then,” called Molly, sweeping in with a tray.

“I haven’t played this in ages,” said the duchess with a laugh, helping Molly center the shallow bowl in the middle of the table.

“We used to play it every year, eh James?” said Burke, tossing the raisins into the bowl. “Though our games usually devolved into just drinking the brandy.”

James and a few of the other men laughed.

Molly poured a measure of warm brand into the bowl and handed the duke a taper. “Do us the honors, Your Grace.”

James lit the taper’s end on the nearest candle while a very red-faced Jane Pilcock threw an arm around Lady Havens and the pair started singing a warbled version of Here We Come a Wassailing.

The group at the table drummed their fingers while the others cheered, and then James set the taper to the surface of the warm brandy. The room burst with an eerie light as the brandy burned bright blue.

The ladies all cooed, watching the flames. Across from Charles, James and Madeline’s faces were bathed in the curious blue light.

“You first then, Rosalie,” said Burke.

The duchess leaned over, eyes bright, and snatched for a raisin. “Oh—I missed—”

“Quick,” Burke laughed.

“Move fast, or you’ll singe your silk,” added James.

“Got it,” she crowed, popping the little morsel in her mouth to the cheers of the room.

“Well done, Your Grace!”

“Now Madeline,” said Burke. “Careful there.”

Madeline leaned forward, looking not at all like her usual, nervous self. She looked happy, at peace. He could only pray he had something to do with it. Too short to reach while seated, she stood, one hand on Warren’s shoulder as she bent over the table, snatching out a flaming raisin with nimble fingers. She popped it in her mouth to the cheers of the room and Charles found himself wishing he was that raisin.

Burke was already on the move, snatching a raisin for himself. “Get in here, Bray. Lady Havens, you’re next!”

The crowd was shifting as those who had tasted a raisin moved back to make room for the others. Charles left his chair, gesturing a grinning Molly forward.

“Imagine my surprise,” called a deep voice. “Returning home after a twelve-month, only to find that my home is empty!”

Every head in the room turned with gasps of surprise. Standing in the doorway, looking as dashing as ever, was none other than Captain Tom Renley.