They were rocking along the Hall’s drive when Henry, who had spent the short journey until then with his gaze locked on his sister’s pale face, raised his head and looked at Christian. “Will she live, do you think?”

Christian found it curious that he hadn’t thought to ask the same question himself. He considered why, then said, “She held to consciousness until she was free of the hole. If she hadn’t…I might not have been able to get her out. She’s a fighter—she won’t give up.” And at some unfathomable level, he felt sure she wouldn’t leave. “Once she’s warm and dry, she’ll wake up.”

He sensed that in his soul. Fear…seemed to have lost its hold on him. At least in the here and now.

As the hall came into sight, he wondered if he should tell Henry that it was his friends’ thoughtless actions that had caused the ice to break, then the dray slowed, and he decided that piece of news could wait until later. It seemed much less important than seeing Eugenia open her eyes again.

The instant the dray drew up before the front steps, the door flew open, and Mrs. Woolsey, trailing draperies, fluttered out at the head of a small army of Hall staff; the household must have been alerted by someone sent running from the lake.

Hendricks and Jiggs hopped down from the dray and helped Christian alight. As he straightened and the Hall staff, paying no attention whatever to Mrs. Woolsey’s disjointed and often contradictory instructions, pushed past to lift their mistress and carry her inside, the staccato clop of horses’ hooves had him turning to look down the drive.

Three carriages came bowling up. The first, the vicarage gig driven by Reverend Colebatch, carried Lady Osbaldestone and her very correct maid, both looking exceedingly determined. The second gig was driven by Major Swindon. While Colebatch halted his horse and Jiggs, summoned by an imperious wave, went to help Lady Osbaldestone down, Swindon drew up across the front of the dray. The major leant over and called, “I say, shall I go and fetch Dr. Berry?”

Dr. Berry was the current medical man for the area and lived in East Wellow, several miles away.

Henry, to whom the major had addressed the question, still looked blank—too shocked to respond.

Seeing that, Mrs. Woolsey attempted an answer. “Possibly. That is—well, it might be just a swoon, do you think? It seems wrong to get the doctor until we know…”

“Yes.” Across the dray, Christian caught the major’s eyes. “If you would, Major. There’s no sense risking an inflammation of the lungs.”

“Just so.” With a nod and a salute, Major Swindon backed his horse, then turned and drove quickly away.

The third carriage had been the cart the Hall staff who had gone to the skating party had used to drive as far as the green; it had bypassed the forecourt and driven on toward the rear of the house and the stable.

Mrs. Woolsey was still flittering about Henry as he slowly and somewhat stiffly descended from the dray; the front of his clothing was sodden from cradling Eugenia.

The Hall staff had already whisked Eugenia inside, and Lady Osbaldestone was disappearing in her wake.

With a nod to Rory Whitesheaf, Christian left Henry to deal with Mrs. Woolsey—she’d finally got to asking what had happened—and, flanked by Hendricks and Jiggs, made his way carefully into the house.

He hadn’t been inside Fulsom Hall for a very long time, but little had changed.

He halted in the front hall; he could hear Lady Osbaldestone giving orders upstairs and Mrs. Fitts agreeing and embellishing further. A patter of footsteps drew his attention to a line of maids and footmen carrying pails of hot water along the upstairs corridor.

Then Lady Osbaldestone appeared at the gallery railing. Looking down into the front hall, she spotted him. “There you are, my lord. Please come upstairs. We have a bath awaiting you. While you’re bathing, the staff will dry your clothes. Come along now.”

He went. Not only did he suspect resistance would be futile, but also he was so cold, he wasn’t sure he was thinking clearly.

Hendricks and Jiggs flanked him up the stairs, no doubt in case he stumbled and fell. He appreciated the thought; his legs still felt weak.

The room a footman led him to had been Henry’s father’s. With heavy, dark furniture, it was large and accommodating. A huge tin bath had been set before a roaring fire and filled with steaming water.

With Hendricks’s help, Christian stripped, stepped into the tub, and lowered himself into the water with a heartfelt sigh. Warmth permeated his skin and sank into his frigid muscles, and finally, the frozen tension that had gripped him started to ease.

An hour later, warmed all the way through, his hair mostly dry, and dressed in clothes that had been dried and ironed, together with Hendricks, he descended the main stairs to find Jiggs waiting in the front hall.

Jiggs straightened from his slouch and handed Christian his cane. “The doctor’s with Miss Eugenia. He hasn’t said anything yet, but apparently she woke when she got warmed up and said she’s well enough, just tired.”

Christian felt a weight he hadn’t known was there lift from about his heart. He nodded. “Thank you. That’s good to know.” He paused, then asked, “And the little girl? Has anyone heard?”

“Danny Bilson sent a message. Seems she’s taken a bad fright, as anyone would have, but she’s otherwise right as rain. They got her out of her wet clothes right quick and rubbed her dry, and seems she’s taken no lasting harm.” Jiggs nodded down the hall to a closed door. “Mr. Henry asked if you’d stop by the library when you came down.” Jiggs glanced questioningly at Christian. “I’m thinking I should go and fetch the carriage before it gets darker. You won’t want to be walking home in the pitch dark.”

Christian glanced at the windows on either side of the front door and realized the short winter twilight had fallen. He nodded. “Yes, go—and Hendricks.” Christian turned to meet his majordomo’s eyes. “Thank you for your help.” He glanced at Jiggs. “Both of you. But I’m capable enough of sitting in Henry’s library without aid, so both of you can return to the Grange. Jiggs can drive back and fetch me.”

Hendricks studied his face, then nodded. “Aye, then we’ll both go.”

Jiggs tipped his head toward the library. “Quite a crowd in there, waiting on the doctor’s verdict.”

Thus warned, after watching his men depart, then allowing the footman to show him to the library, Christian wasn’t surprised to find Major and Mrs. Swindon, along with the Colebatches, sitting with Henry. He was, however, somewhat taken aback to find Jamie, George, and Lottie beside Mrs. Colebatch on the chaise, and quite half the village, and even some from the nearby farms, dotted about the room, propping up bookshelves or leaning against the desks or the backs of chairs.

Henry waved vaguely. “Everyone wanted to know how you and Eugenia are.” He smiled faintly. “I told them they could stay and find out.”

Christian felt his lips twitch. He glanced around at the eyes trained on him. “As you can see, I wasn’t hurt—just made a trifle damp, a minor inconvenience from which I am now fully recovered.”

That raised a few strained smiles.

It was Jamie who informed him, “The doctor is with Miss Eugenia right now.”

Christian smiled and crossed to the armchair beside the sofa. It had been left empty, he assumed for him. “So I heard.” He sat and leant his cane against the side of the chair. He hadn’t been using it all that much; it was fast becoming a mere fashion accessory.

Bilson, the butcher, the grandfather of the little girl, pushed away from the bookshelves, lumbered to Christian’s side, and with his old cap in his hands, bowed. “We—my family—want to thank you, my lord. My son and his missus would have been gutted to lose their girl, and if it hadn’t been for Miss Eugenia and you, they’d be attending a corpse at this very moment.”

Christian met Bilson’s eyes. “I was there and knew what had to be done. I’m glad to have been able to help.” He directed an easy look around the room. “And we wouldn’t want one of our most cherished village Christmas traditions to be touched by tragedy.”

“No, indeed” and “Right enough” came from all around the room.

Bilson bobbed again and retreated.

The door opened, and Lady Osbaldestone walked in. She glanced around, nodded regally in a general fashion, then went to sit in the corner of the chaise beside Lottie.

Henry sat up, his gaze on her ladyship’s face, and asked the question on all their minds, “Any news of Eugenia?”

Having settled herself, Lady Osbaldestone regarded him calmly. “Dr. Berry’s still with her, but I believe we’re all satisfied that she has taken no harm but is merely—and it’s hardly to be wondered at—drained to the point of exhaustion.” She glanced at Christian. “She was in the icy water for as long as she could bear. It was providential that she was rescued in time.”

Christian inclined his head fractionally in response.

Deciding that he would most likely not welcome further expostulations of gratitude, and it wasn’t really her place to offer such anyway, Therese glanced around at the assembled company. “What I would like to know is why little Annie Bilson didn’t hear all of us calling her.”

She brought her gaze to rest on old Donald Bilson, the only member of his family present.

Bilson shuffled, then offered, “I don’t rightly know the way of it, but they—the twins, her and her brother—got mumps early in the year. Billy threw the illness off and was right as rain in days, but little Annie got a fever and all, but eventually she came good again. But ever after, we’ve been wondering if she can hear as good as she ought. Apparently, that can happen with mumps—that it dulls the hearing.”

Therese nodded. “That’s true.”

“Annie can’t hear if she’s not looking.” It was Lottie who made the pronouncement. Everyone stared at her, but she looked solemnly up at Therese and said, “I noticed when we played. If she looks at me and I talk, she knows exactly what I say, but if I speak from behind her or when she’s not looking at me, it’s as if she can’t hear me at all.”

Therese took that in, then glanced at Donald Bilson. “Annie’s deaf, but she can understand well enough. That’s something the whole village needs to know—so we can make sure to speak to her face.”

“And so we can keep an eye out for her if she has her back to some danger.” Christian glanced at Bilson. “I know men who lost their hearing through the war. There’s no reason they—or in this case, Annie—can’t live a full life if those around them know.”

Slowly, Bilson nodded. “I’ll tell Daniel and his missus. And the boy.”

Henry glanced around the room. “And I’m sure all those here will spread the word around the village.”

Nods and murmurs of agreement came from all around the room.

A heavy footstep in the corridor drew all eyes to the door. A second later, it opened, and Dr. Berry, a large-framed, bluff, no-nonsense practitioner, walked in. He halted and blinked at the crowd.

Henry rose and waved at the company. “Everyone wants to know how Eugenia is, sir. Will she recover?”

Berry humphed. “As to that…” He broke off to acknowledge Christian, Lady Osbaldestone, the Colebatches, and the Swindons with bows and nods, then resumed, “I would say she’s more or less recovered already, thanks to the prompt actions of all those involved. That said, strenuous physical exertion while immersed in ice water is a massive drain on anyone’s reserves—she needs to regroup. To that end, I’ve given her a sleeping draft—she’ll sleep until morning, which is the best thing for her. After that, I envisage no further complications, but I’ll return tomorrow to check, just to make sure.”

Henry went forward to shake Berry’s hand. The doctor confirmed he had nothing to worry about regarding Eugenia, then turned his professional eye on Christian, who rose and exchanged greetings.

“I heard you were involved in the rescue, my lord.” Berry gripped Christian’s hand. “Miss Fitzgibbon inquired how you were. Lady Osbaldestone said you’d merely got a trifle wet and were in no danger of succumbing to anything at all. Is that correct?”

“Entirely correct,” Christian assured him. “After the rigors of campaigning, a little water, iced or not, isn’t liable to have much effect on me.”

Berry studied his face, then nodded. “Your color’s good, your eyes are clear, and your grip’s firm.” He smiled and released Christian’s hand. “You’ll do.”

With that, Berry took his leave. Henry saw him to the door and into the care of the footman who was waiting in the corridor.

As Henry turned back to the room, Gordon Whitesheaf, the proprietor of the Cockspur Arms, said, “What I want to know is why the ice cracked. Thanks to his lordship, we had warning enough to get all the nippers off ’cept for little Annie, but it coulda been much worse. If his lordship hadn’t been coming down to the party late and hadn’t looked and seen what was happening, half the danged village would have gone in, and that lake’s plenty deep. A grand tragedy it woulda been and no mistake.”

There were murmurs all around.

Dick Mountjoy, his usually rosy cheeks pale, stepped forward from his position at one side of the hearth. He held his cap in his hands and started turning it around and around. “I checked as I always do—like me granddad taught me, and his father afore that. The ice was sound. It shouldn’t’ve cracked. I’d take me oath on it.”

For a minute, silence reigned, then Reverend Colebatch cleared his throat. “Perhaps we need to…er, revise how we test the lake?”

“We need to be sure,” Major Swindon put in, “that it truly is going to be safe to skate. Virtually the whole village gets on the ice at some point. Can’t risk this happening again.”

“No blame to you, Dick.” Peggy Butts, her heavily muscled baker’s arms crossed beneath her impressive bosom, eyed him sympathetically. “But there’s too many kiddies sneak away to skate at any old time, and we need to be sure they’re safe.”

Christian let the discussion run, listening to both the words and their tone. Concern over the safety of skating on the lake continued to escalate, although only a few asked the critical question of why the ice had cracked today.

He’d reached the point of speaking up and giving them the answer to that question—he couldn’t allow Dick Mountjoy to shoulder so much guilt even though no one was blaming him, nor allow the rising tide of anxiety to spur the adults into trying to keep the village brats from skating—when across the library, he met Jamie’s eyes. The boy’s gaze held his steadily, then Christian nodded fractionally. He opened his mouth—and was forestalled by a tap on the door.

Before any response could be uttered, the door opened, and Henry’s four friends filed in.

Christian scanned the young gentlemen’s faces, then shut his lips and waited.

All four looked even more upset than the villagers. Led by Viscount Dagenham, they lined up across the end of the room, facing the assembled villagers and Henry and Christian.

Dagenham inclined his head with a wary courtesy far removed from his usual arrogance. “Our apologies for interrupting, but…” Dagenham glanced at Kilburn, Carnaby, and Wiley, all of whom looked back at him, then Dagenham squared his shoulders, looked up the room at Henry, and said, “We’ve come to apologize. It was us who broke the ice. We didn’t mean to—we had no idea the stuff wasn’t thick enough to hold our combined weights.”

Christian glanced at Henry. His already pale face had set at his friend’s words. He stared at the four men. “You? It was you who were responsible for my sister falling into the lake and nearly freezing to death?”

He might as well have struck them—all four flinched.

Seeing from the darkening faces all around that the exchange might get out of hand, Christian spoke up. “How, exactly, did you break the ice? I saw you leaping about at the northern end of the lake.”

Kilburn nodded and, as if glad to have been asked—glad to be able to say something—rushed to explain, “We were horsing around, then I piled onto Dags”—he glanced at Dagenham and amended—“Dagenham, and then Roger and George piled on top of me. And then the ice cracked.”

“Right beneath our feet,” George Wiley said. “Well, under Dagenham to be precise. We’d had no idea it might.”

“We’d heard it was safe,” Roger Carnaby added. “Then when it happened”—he gestured weakly—“we panicked.”

“We didn’t know what to do.” Thomas Kilburn looked embarrassed and ashamed, as did the other three. “We…er, scrambled off the ice.”

When Kilburn fell silent and didn’t go on, Dagenham drew in a tight breath and said, “The cracks were spreading by then, but we had no idea—didn’t dream—they’d continue to spread across the lake.” His face was grim but resolute as he admitted, “We’d got wet, so we came back to the Hall to change.”

“If we’d known the danger,” Kilburn added in a quieter voice, “we would have raised the alarm. But we didn’t, so we just came away.” He glanced around the faces. “You have to believe us. We wouldn’t have knowingly left people to drown.”

Christian, for one, believed them; he appreciated what it said of them that having eventually learned what had happened, they’d come to face the music of their own accord.

The four weren’t bad, they were simply immature. Or they had been.

Christian glanced at Henry’s face. He had aged years in the past hours.

Once again, Dagenham raised his head and spoke for all four. “We are truly sorry and offer you”—he nodded to Henry—“and the village”—with his gaze, he swept the room—“our unqualified apologies.”

Murmurs of various sorts greeted those words, but Christian was ready to accept them at face value. He steepled his fingers before his face, studied the four—all pale and somewhat trepidatious; he noted Lady Osbaldestone was studying them through narrowed eyes, much as he was, yet hers would be a distinctly more uncomfortable scrutiny, he felt sure. Finally, over the rumblings and grumblings, he raised his voice and said, “You are here as Henry’s guests, yet in this instance, he couldn’t be with you but instead was doing his duty by the village and his sister, as he should have been.”

The room had fallen silent, everyone listening to see where he intended steering the exchange. Evenly, he continued, “You are all strangers to the locality and couldn’t have known that the northern end of the lake is the deepest spot, and because the stream feeds in at that point, the ice is always weakest there, so it could well crack, especially if the weight of the four of you was applied at one point. It’s clear today’s near-tragedy was an accident, albeit one initiated by you. However, regardless of how belatedly, you have by your admissions and apologies demonstrated an understanding of the responsibilities that accrue to the position in society you hold.”

He paused. All four young gentlemen had listened closely; if the faint color rising in their cheeks was any guide, all four had understood his oblique reference to growing up and acting as adults and as befitted their stations in life. He met their eyes, one after another, then nodded. “I believe I can speak for the village in saying we accept your apology. I will add that I hope you will learn from the incident the lessons inherent within it.”

Christian glanced around at all the others. “Has anyone anything to add?”

Most of the villagers shook their heads. The major had listened with approval and indicated he had nothing to say. The reverend shook his head. Lady Osbaldestone had raised her brows and—to the four young men’s intense discomfort—had deployed her quizzing glass, but she said nothing to Christian’s prompt.

Finally, Christian turned to their host. “Henry?”

Henry had been staring at his friends. Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I have nothing to add.”

For a second, an awkward silence held sway, then Dagenham came to everyone’s rescue. He bowed, and the other three followed suit. “Thank you. We’ll take ourselves off.” Dagenham looked up the room. “Henry—we’ll speak with you later.”

After a second’s hesitation, Henry somewhat stiffly nodded.

The four left the room.

On a soft tide of murmurs and comments, the villagers came to bid Henry, and then Christian, farewell, and, with nods and bows to the other landowners, to take their leave.

Henry, to Christian’s eyes, seemed to have shed a skin and become his father’s son. He spoke to each villager, acknowledging their help at the lake and thanking them for coming and showing their support.

Christian had merely to add his tuppence-worth at the end.

Finally, Henry went to see the villagers out.

The Swindons and Colebatches trailed behind, hanging back no doubt to make their farewells and assure Henry of any support he or Eugenia might need. Christian waited while Lady Osbaldestone gathered her three grandchildren, then fell in beside her as they quit the library and followed the others into the front hall.

They halted by the foot of the stairs. Lady Osbaldestone glanced up the long flight, then looked at Christian. “I’ve a mind to check on Eugenia.” She studied him for a moment, then turned to her grandchildren. “Orneby said she would walk home and send John with the carriage—no doubt it will be waiting in the forecourt. Jamie and George, please go with Lottie, get in, and wait for me—tell John I won’t be long.”

“Yes, Grandmama,” the three chorused. The boys took Lottie’s hands, and the three turned and headed for the door.

Christian hid a smile. “Are they always so obedient?”

“I’m sure I can’t say, but I suspect they generally are even when they’re plotting insurrection.”

He laughed, then sobered as he met her ladyship’s black eyes. “I’m coming, too. To check on Eugenia.”

Lady Osbaldestone’s finely penciled eyebrows rose. “Are you now? Well, I suppose I can’t stop you. This isn’t my house, after all.”

Christian grunted in disbelief. If she’d wanted to deny him… But of course, she wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure he could level an accusation of matchmaking against her, yet when it came to him and Eugenia, the sense of some éminence grise having pushed a little here, then there, lingered.

He followed her ladyship up the stairs. In the gallery, he glanced over the balustrade. Henry was still at the front door, seeing the last of the villagers out, and the Swindons and Colebatches were waiting in line.

Christian followed Lady Osbaldestone down the corridor. He reviewed the recent events and murmured, “If I hadn’t intended to stay away—and Jamie hadn’t come to winkle me out of the Grange—I wouldn’t have been on that path above the lake at that precise moment in time. I wouldn’t have seen the cracking start and wouldn’t have known to alert everyone to the danger.”

“Hmm.” After a moment, Lady Osbaldestone said, “I have often observed that Fate moves in mysterious ways.”

“One question.” It had been nagging at him. “Jamie loves to skate, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.” Lady Osbaldestone glanced back at him. “Why? Did he tell you he didn’t?”

“He told me he’d grown frightened of skating after a serious fall.”

“Well, if he had, he’s outgrown it.” Her ladyship’s black eyes passed over his face.

Christian was grateful when she said nothing of what she presumably could read there. He’d been frightened, too, but he’d outgrown the emotion. In truth, since Jamie had arrived at the Grange, he hadn’t thought of his damaged face at all. It wasn’t important, not anymore, not within the village, and that was all he cared about.

Lady Osbaldestone paused outside a door. She lowered her voice. “I left Mrs. Woolsey lying down on her bed in her own room. She was quite overcome by the excitement and stress. Incoherent, although I’m not convinced that isn’t her customary state.”

“Let us hope she’s still resting,” Christian murmured back.

“Indeed.” Lady Osbaldestone opened the door and quietly walked into the room.

Christian followed and silently shut the door behind him.

The curtains had been closed. A small lamp with its wick turned low had been left on a table near the window; it shed a soft glow across the room, enough for him to see Eugenia lying fast asleep in the pretty tester bed.

The honey-gold mass of her hair was spread across the white pillow. Her complexion was pale, but not unnaturally so, with the promise of roses blooming in her cheeks. Her features were relaxed, serene in sleep, her brown lashes, tipped with gold, forming gilded crescents above her cheekbones, and her lips, plump and rosy, gently curved and tempting.

Christian realized he’d drawn closer to the bed. He halted, straightened, but couldn’t drag his gaze from salvation’s face.

He’d found her, and he wasn’t going to let her go.

He’d recognized that he was finished with fear, that he’d overcome the fears that had dogged him. Yet here was one fear with which he would have to live if he wanted what he desperately desired—a family, a hearth and home, a wife.

This fear, the one that lay before him, was different from the rest. It was a fear one had to embrace—knowingly, willingly—if one wanted the greatest of joys life had to offer.

In that moment, as he looked down at Eugenia’s delicate face, he felt as if he finally understood—fear, and himself, and everything he needed to know about the future.

It was there, lying in front of him, both physically and metaphorically.

Silent and still, Therese watched the thoughts wash over Christian Longfellow’s face. She gave him as long as she dared, then she reached across and tweaked his sleeve. When he looked at her—and pulling away from his absorption took a moment—she tipped her head toward the door.

His lips firmed, and reluctantly, he nodded.

He followed her from the room.

They made their way downstairs, where they found the Colebatches just departing. They joined Henry in waving the couple off, then made their farewells. Therese left Henry with the information that Eugenia was sleeping peacefully and a reminder that she shouldn’t be disturbed until morning.

Christian walked with Therese to her carriage and opened the door. The running lamps had been lit, and inside, the children were lined up like robins perching on the seat, waiting as instructed, with John on the box, holding the reins.

Therese smiled at her three helpers. She glanced to where Jiggs waited with the Grange carriage, then turned to Christian. “That was well done today—and I especially liked your lecture to those four young men.” She trapped Christian’s hazel eyes. “I do hope you’ll take your own words to heart. Little Moseley needs you not just in emergencies, although you are well qualified to take charge of such events, as you proved today. And we don’t need you only to provide a sound baritone in the church choir, to lead a recalcitrant donkey, or even to pull a young lady from a frozen lake—although we’re all very glad you did those things.” Relentlessly, she held his gaze. “The village needs you as a fully functioning part of our community. Without you, we would be less. You have contributions to make—that you should make and need to make—to life in Little Moseley.”

In the flickering light cast by the carriage lamps, he studied her face, then he humphed. “You do realize you said ‘we.’”

She blinked, replayed her words, then slowly nodded. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Several times.” He gave her his hand and, when she grasped it, helped her into the carriage.

The children made space for her between them, and she sat and released Christian’s hand.

He stepped back, closed the door, and saluted her.

John shook the reins, and Therese settled back as the horses plodded across the forecourt and on down the drive.

As the shadows of the avenue closed around them and the children snuggled against her sides, she smiled to herself.

Christian Longfellow hadn’t argued. Her work was—almost—done.