Weak sunshine greeted the inhabitants of Little Moseley when they woke the next morning. Snow had piled inches thick and was topped by a crisp, crunchy crust that had the children, once rugged up, leaping around the front lawn, squealing with delight while they and Therese waited for the gig to be brought around.

Over breakfast, they had discussed their quest to track down the missing geese and had decided that a concerted effort to question all the villagers was a sensible next step. As Jamie had pointed out, it was difficult to believe that an entire flock of geese had vanished with nary a squawk or a fallen feather, and the villagers had now had time since learning of the geese’s disappearance to cast their eyes around their own domains.

John Simms led the mare and the gig onto the sweep of drive before the house. Therese left the porch and carefully picked her way across the snowy gravel. “Come, children!”

The three came running, their cheeks and noses rosy red, their faces alight, their eyes shining.

John patiently held the mare steady while the trio clambered up. Therese followed, then John handed her the reins. He tipped his head at the mare. “She should find her way well enough. The drive’s mostly clear, and the snow in the lane isn’t deep. Just be wary of any drifts or deeper sections.”

“Thank you, John. I will.” Therese settled on the seat, cast a swift glance over the children, then set the mare trotting slowly down the drive.

Adhering to their prearranged plan of campaign, they drove all the way up the High Street to where Tooks Farm lay at the northern end, just before the lane joined the road to Romsey. As had happened previously, Tooks was in his yard when they drove up and came to the gate to speak with them.

Even before they asked, Tooks shook his head. “Not a single sign of those blasted birds, begging your pardon, your ladyship. It’s a right worry and all.”

“No suggestions from anyone?” Therese asked.

“Not a squawk.” Tooks looked glum.

Therese glanced at the children. “Well, we’re on the hunt, Tooks, so don’t despair. I have no idea if we’ll find your birds before Christmas Day, but we’re certainly going to try.”

The three children cheered and managed to raise a smile from Tooks.

From there, they turned the gig around and returned to the lane, this time rolling south. They didn’t bother diverting to Fulsom Hall, reasoning that if anyone there had any news of the flock, Eugenia would send word.

“Those fields”—Therese tipped her head toward the cleared expanse glimpsed through the woods to their left—“belong to Witcherly Farm, but our Tilly who works in the kitchen with Mrs. Haggerty comes from Witcherly—her parents run the farm, and she lives there and comes to the manor every day. I think we can be sure that if anyone at Witcherly knew anything about the geese, we would have heard.” Therese consulted her mental map of the village. “And we checked with the Swindons the other day, so if they find anything, they’ll let us know. The only other farm in that direction is Crossley Farm.”

“And your Ned, the gardener, lives there, doesn’t he?” Jamie asked.

“Indeed, he does, so we don’t need to venture out that way, either.” Therese looked ahead. “We can safely leave the church and vicarage to Mrs. Colebatch—she’ll report if their staff find anything or the reverend hears anything from his parishioners. As for all the cottages, there’s too many to call at, but everyone uses the shops and the inn—we can ask there.”

They tied the mare to the hitching post outside Mountjoy’s General Store and walked across the lane to Bilson’s, the butcher. Donald Bilson was the main butcher, assisted by his son, Daniel; Daniel’s wife, Greta, was behind the counter when Therese led her troop of investigators into the shop.

“Aye,” Greta said at mention of the geese. “Even though we’re getting the extra orders, it’s still a shame. We like our goose as well as anyone, and I can’t think what Tooks will do, not having all those birds to sell. All but a handful spoken for, I hear.”

“I take it none of your family have seen any sign of the geese?” Therese inquired.

“No, my lady. Not a feather. And my Daniel and his mates were out hunting rabbits in the woods north of Tooks’s place night before last, out along the lane to West Wellow, and he said they all kept a good lookout, but they didn’t see any sign the flock had gone that way.”

“Thank you. We can but keep looking.” With a nod, Therese ushered her troops out of the door and back into the lane.

They asked at Mountjoy’s Store, which was also the local post office and therefore a hub of village life. Cyril Mountjoy, the owner, was behind the counter when they walked in, and as luck would have it, Flora Milsom, the farmwife from Milsom Farm that lay south of the village beyond Dutton Grange, had dropped in to buy some flour.

Flora had heard all about the missing geese and assured Therese and her helpers that none of her brood had seen any hint of the birds in their fields or coppices. “Mind you, seems like they’d have to come through the Grange to reach us, and Johnson, who works for his lordship, told me they hadn’t had any sightings, either.”

Mr. Mountjoy added that he’d asked everyone who had darkened the shop’s door since he’d heard the birds had vanished. “But seems no one has any inkling as to where the geese have gone.” He paused, then added, “Odd, really. I can understand Tooks losing one or two, even a handful, but the whole blinking flock—begging your pardon, my lady, but that’s a lot of birds to go missing.”

Therese thanked Mr. Mountjoy and Mrs. Milsom, and Therese and the children continued on their way—to Butts Bakery, where the children were each rewarded with a fruit scone fresh from the oven by Peggy Butts, who was, in fact, the baker and also sister to Flora Milsom.

When Therese inquired as to the geese, Peggy shook her head. “I’ve not the slightest clue, my lady. None of us have.”

Therese stifled a sigh. Tempted by the aromas wafting about the shop, she put in an order for a fruitcake for the New Year. “One can never have too much of your fruitcake, Mrs. Butts.”

Peggy preened and said she would have her daughter, Fiona, deliver the cake to the manor three days after Christmas. “For you’ll be wanting it fresh baked, and I won’t be stoking up the ovens again until the morning after Boxing Day.”

With smiles and farewells, they departed the bakery and walked on to the Cockspur Arms. At that hour, the taproom was filling with workers from the nearby farms, coming in for their lunch and a pint with which to wash it down. Therese led her small band into the room opposite the tap—a small parlor reserved for ladies and private parties. After claiming the empty table by the window, she ordered a pot of tea, three glasses of milk, and a plate of scones with jam.

The public house was owned and operated by the Whitesheaf family. It was the daughter, Enid, better known as Ginger, a pleasant lass of seventeen summers with a fine mane of carroty hair, who had taken their order. In less than five minutes, she bore a tray to their table, a bright smile on her face. She set out the pot of tea and the cup and saucer, then carefully put down the three glasses of milk, and at the very last, moving even more slowly, she placed the plate of scones and the pot of jam on the table—and laughed as the children, who had waited with bated breath, fell on the scones and jam.

Smiling broadly, Ginger shook her head and met Therese’s eyes. “They all do it, my lady. You’d think they was starving waifs.”

“Indeed.” Therese directed a mock-severe glance at her grandchildren, but they simply smiled and continued to munch their way through the scones, smearing jam over their cheeks in the process. She blinked, then said, “Strange to say, I recall their mother behaving in much the same way.”

That elicited even wider grins all around.

Therese looked up at Ginger. “I take it your family has heard about the missing geese?”

“Oh yes, my lady. And we—whichever of us is at the bar or the counter—have been asking everyone who’s come through the door, but there’s been not so much as a distant sighting of poor Tooks’s birds.”

Therese sighed. “That is becoming a depressingly familiar refrain.” When Ginger looked faintly puzzled, Therese explained, “No one’s heard or seen anything.”

“Not even a feather or droppings,” George volunteered.

Ginger commiserated, then left them to serve two new customers.

Jamie had been looking out of the window. The village green lay across the lane, a snow-spattered, grassed, gently rising expanse stretching up to the low ridge that hid the village lake from view. Jamie swallowed the last of his scone and turned to Therese. “I’ve noticed that the village boys play on the green in the afternoons. There are some girls, too, although they sit around and talk. I thought perhaps we”—he glanced at George—“might go there this afternoon and see if any of the children have noticed anything. Adults often forget to ask the children.”

Slowly, Therese nodded. “That’s an entirely valid observation. If you promise to come home before it gets dark and to take care of Lottie, too—she can ask the girls—then yes, you can go questing on the green this afternoon.”

The sun was shining from what was now a cloudless sky, and the wind had dropped.

After she’d finished her tea and the scones had vanished to the last crumb and the jam was but a memory, they fetched the gig and returned to the manor, disappointed but not defeated.

Later, after luncheon, through the drawing room window, Therese watched the three children, Jamie in charge and George holding Lottie’s hand, set off for the village green.

They returned two hours later, the boys sporting numerous wet splotches, indeterminate stains, and a skinned knee each, with plenty to say about whom they had played with and asked about the geese, but with not a single clue to alleviate the dearth of evidence of the geese having even existed.

Lottie, who had returned unscathed and as neat as when they’d ventured forth, summed up the considered opinion of the village children. “It’s as if the flock have vanished—poof!—into thin air. Perhaps a witch or a warlock has got them.”

Before Jamie could scoff, Therese tactfully suggested that was unlikely, there being no witch or warlock living close enough to have known of Tooks’s flock.

The three children looked at her, and she looked back at them. Then she sighed. “Unfortunately, my dears, we are no further forward than we were this morning—or, indeed, since we first heard of the geese being lost.”

Jamie frowned. “With respect, Grandmama, that’s not quite right. We know quite a lot about where the geese aren’t and haven’t been.”

Therese had to smile. She reached out and ruffled Jamie’s hair—an action he still allowed, although she knew all too soon he would duck away. “Sadly, my boy, that doesn’t get us any further with the vital question we need to answer. Namely…” She paused to draw breath, and the children chorused with her, “Where on earth have those wretched geese gone?”

* * *

That evening, clad in a fashionable winter evening gown of heavy purple silk, Therese was sitting in her drawing room, in a wing chair angled before a roaring fire, when Crimmins showed Christian Longfellow into the room.

“Welcome, my lord.” With a smile, Therese rose and extended her hand. As he took it and bowed, she continued with patent sincerity, “I am pleased to see you at Hartington Manor. Tell me—is this your first visit, or did my aunt entertain you here?”

Straightening, Christian met her eyes. “I was here once before, with my parents and brother and several others for another dinner.” He glanced around. “I appear to be somewhat early.”

“The Colebatches will be along shortly.” She waved him to the chair opposite hers. “Please, take a seat.”

He did, lowering himself carefully into the other armchair. As she resumed her seat, Therese noted he’d eschewed his cane for the evening. Despite that minor sign of social engagement, his expression remained hard, almost stern.

She was perfectly certain that if given the choice, he wouldn’t have come. But she’d worded her invitation very carefully—at least her invitation to him. She’d phrased her request for his company in such a way that refusing would have been an outright insult. Further, she’d described her proposed dinner party as “intimate” and had mentioned only the Colebatches as fellow guests.

She’d seen no reason to make him take fright.

Or even flight, although she judged his responsibility to his estate and his people would keep him chained to Hampshire, at least for the foreseeable future.

He was clearly uncomfortable in the even light cast by the lamps dotted about her drawing room, as if unsure which way he wished to hold his face. Oddly, it was only then—when she noticed his discomfiture—that she registered the scarring, although of course she’d seen it the instant she’d laid eyes on him.

She regarded him steadily and wondered whether she ought to tell him that the scarring made him look not older but his age. Like a stamp, it marked him as the man he truly was—the experienced officer of dragoons who had ridden through death and glory on the battlefield and had survived. There was steel in him now that wouldn’t have been there when he’d graced the village in his unmarred state.

He had not only been younger then; he had also been untried. Unforged.

The doorbell pealed, and noise in the hall heralded the Colebatches. They came in on a gust of frigid air, clapping their hands and stamping their feet. “We walked,” the reverend explained as he crossed the room to bow over Therese’s hand.

Straightening, Jeremy Colebatch turned to where Christian waited—as if hanging back in shadows that weren’t there. “Lord Longfellow!” Jeremy smiled warmly and gripped Christian’s hand. He shook it enthusiastically. “Very happy to see you home again, my lord.”

Christian scanned the minister’s face, but detected not a hint of pity, nor of any real reaction to his disfigurement; Therese had known she could count on Jeremy to look straight past the scars. “Thank you, sir. But please, just Christian. That was the name you used to call me all those years ago.”

“Indeed, indeed!” Jeremy shifted to include his wife. “I daresay you remember Mrs. Colebatch. Henrietta, my dear—here’s Lord Longfellow at last.”

Again Christian tensed; again he was disarmed. Henrietta beamed up at him. “Your lordship, it’s a pleasure.”

Christian bowed over her fingers. “Christian, remember.”

“Oh, I do remember—you were always such a scamp.”

“But a fine voice,” Jeremy said. “You were in the choir when you were younger, weren’t you, my lord?”

To Therese’s great satisfaction, Christian was actually smiling when her next guests were announced—Major and Mrs. Swindon. Christian shot Therese a look, but she pretended not to notice.

The major—who had seen action in the earlier years of the Peninsula campaigns—was a bluff, good-hearted soul. He wrung Christian’s hand, then nodded openly at his scarred face. “Badge of honor, what?” With a buffet to Christian’s shoulder, he said, “It’s good to see you hale and whole. The village needs a firm hand at the Grange. Lopsided in leadership without it, you see. Especially with no man at the Hall. Miss Fitzgibbon and I have done our poor best, but the whole village is glad to have you back and taking up the reins at the Grange.”

Mrs. Swindon, a warm, generous, and shrewd matron, shooed her husband aside so she could exchange greetings with Christian. She, too, pondered his ravaged face for an instant, then squarely met his eyes. “Men—badge of honor, indeed. For my money, your injuries are a badge of courage, and no one will make me think otherwise.” Then Mrs. Swindon smiled warmly. She pressed Christian’s hands. “We truly are delighted to have you back with us, my dear.”

Noting that Christian looked faintly stunned, Therese intervened to wave everyone to seats. “I’m disappointed to have to tell you that we—my young troops and I—are no further forward in solving the mystery of the missing geese.”

Major Swindon reported that he’d had a word with the gypsies who, with his permission, used his far field en route to Salisbury Downs. “He—the fellow in charge—agreed that none of their people would have taken the whole flock. Too dangerous for them—inviting the backlash.”

Christian asked if they saw many itinerants in the area, and the exchange veered into a discussion of local affairs.

Then the bell pealed again. Watching Christian, Therese was pleased to note that he didn’t immediately tense, but then the voices in the hall reached his ears, and tension flashed through him, and he looked at the door.

It opened to admit Mrs. Woolsey. Her expression vague, a somewhat silly smile wreathing her faded face, she fluttered into the room. She was gowned in a concoction of gauzy draperies that to Therese’s eye was quite unsuitable for a chilly December evening, but her face radiated serenity as she greeted Therese, then acknowledged the Colebatches and the Swindons before reaching Christian.

Halting before him, she smiled into his face.

Then she did something not even Therese would have dared and raised a hand and gently patted Christian’s damaged cheek. “Such a pity in one way, yet it makes you more human, and to all the other young gentlemen’s chagrin, you indubitably still rank as the most handsome man in the area.”

With that airy pronouncement, Mrs. Woolsey turned and busied herself settling onto the sofa beside Mrs. Swindon.

For a fraction of an instant, her words held everyone else in stasis—while their simple honesty sank in.

Therese had invited the vaporous female only because she was Eugenia’s chaperon, but she was now very glad she had. Who would have thought she had such insight in her?

With a stern reminder to herself not to judge books by their covers, not even in the country, Therese smiled as her last guest, having consigned her thick coat and scarf into Crimmins’s care, walked into the room.

Christian—perhaps predictably—frowned.

But standing beside him, Therese sensed not even a hint of his walls going up—not even the vaguest suggestion of retreat. He was irritated and annoyed at Eugenia, and if the swift sidelong look he cast Therese was any indication, he was also irritated with her for having jockeyed him into meeting Eugenia socially.

Therese wasn’t the sort to work in concealment, not when she didn’t see any reason to. It would be perfectly obvious—certainly to the ladies present—that she was, if not precisely matchmaking, then at least, as she’d explained to Lottie, facilitating Cupid.

Eugenia was on her mettle and refused to allow Christian’s frown to impinge on her composure in any way. She greeted the Colebatches and the Swindons, then reached Therese and curtsied.

“Thank you for the invitation, my lady.” She straightened and glanced at Christian. “It’s been some time since this company enjoyed a dinner together. Not since the previous Lord Longfellow was alive.”

Smoothly, Eugenia moved to Christian and extended her hand. “My lord. It’s a pleasure to see you here.”

That, of course, was sheer provocation, and for an instant, Christian transparently debated whether to convert his frown into a scowl. But then—no doubt to confound Eugenia—he banished the frown, grasped her hand, and executed a commendably elegant bow. “Miss Fitzgibbon. The pleasure is all mine. And I daresay you will be pleased to hear that the gate we discussed earlier is completely restored.”

Eugenia’s smile almost slipped. “How…wonderful. I will inform Henry, of course.”

Therese hid a grin as Eugenia retrieved her hand—which Christian had forgotten to release—and moved to sit beside Mrs. Colebatch on the love seat.

The evening was going even better than Therese had planned.

The conversation reverted to news of the locality, to which Therese and Christian—both recently returned to the area—listened with unfeigned interest.

They posed several questions, seeking enlightenment, which the company was happy to provide.

Under cover of the exchanges, Christian studied Eugenia Fitzgibbon. Despite her outwardly polite greeting, there’d been a touch of wild color on her cheekbones and a certain glint in her eyes when they’d met his; it seemed she was not best pleased with him—which was ludicrous. If either of them had a right to feel aggrieved with the other, surely it was he. She’d smothered his house—at least the downstairs rooms—in fir and holly, for heaven’s sake. He’d got rid of the mistletoe—all except the smallest bunch, and he still didn’t know what malignant impulse had made him put that in his pocket—but when he’d frowned at the fir and holly wreathing the mantelpieces, Hendricks and Jiggs, and even Mrs. Wright, had narrowed their eyes at him.

As one who had commanded men in the field, he knew better than to issue orders his troops might refuse to obey.

So his house now smelt of fir, insidiously evoking memories of Christmases long past.

He was dwelling on Miss Fitzgibbon’s iniquities when her ladyship’s butler entered the room. At an inquiring look from Lady Osbaldestone, the butler intoned, “Dinner is served, my lady.”

“Thank you, Crimmins.” Her ladyship rose, as did her guests, Christian most slowly—most carefully—of all. He could manage without his cane, but only for so long; Jiggs had driven him in the carriage from the Grange. He’d originally intended to walk, but his staff apparently had very clear ideas of what was due his dignity. Still, Jiggs’s and the others’ insistence meant he hadn’t needed to bring his cane.

Lady Osbaldestone had busily paired up her guests. Christian wasn’t the least surprised when she finally turned to him and, with a glib, hostessly air, directed, “If you would be so kind as to give Miss Fitzgibbon your arm, my lord, I believe we can proceed.”

No actual question, of course. Resolutely strangling the irritation that leapt and pricked beneath his skin whenever Eugenia Fitzgibbon was close, he courteously offered her his arm.

With a small inclination of her head, she placed her hand on his sleeve, and together, they turned to follow the other couples—Mrs. Colebatch on the major’s arm, and Mrs. Swindon with the reverend—from the room.

The dining room was just down the hall. As he paced with Eugenia by his side, a flash of white on the half landing caught his eye. The three children were sitting behind the balustrade, watching them. From the corner of his eye, Christian saw Lady Osbaldestone, bringing up the rear with Mrs. Woolsey, wave imperiously, directing the trio to their beds.

Christian hid a grin. When he’d been their age, he could remember doing the same thing with his brother when their parents had entertained.

He steered Eugenia into the dining room. A huge fire burned in the hearth there, too, and the table—its length adjusted to suit the size of the company—had been laid with the season in mind. Sprigs of holly, splashed red with berries, had been plaited with small branchlets of fir, and the resulting long chain snaked down the table’s center, circling the foot of a low crystal vase sporting a profusion of the hellebore blooms commonly referred to as Christmas roses.

Those blooms had been one of Christian’s mother’s favorites. The sight made him wonder if there were any plants still surviving in the greenhouses; he hadn’t noticed any when he and her ladyship had walked through.

The couples had milled before the fireplace, behind the head of the table.

“I’ll sit at the foot, of course.” Lady Osbaldestone continued, “Henrietta, my dear, if you would take the place on my right, and Mrs. Woolsey, if you would sit opposite, then the reverend can be next to you, with Sally beside him and the major opposite. Christian, if you will take the carver at the head, and please seat Miss Fitzgibbon on your left, and that, I believe, will be perfect.”

Christian inclined his head and obeyed, as did all the others, although the word he would have used to describe the arrangement definitely wouldn’t have been “perfect.” He would quite happily have sat next to Mrs. Woolsey…then again, that strangely vague lady had already rattled him once.

After seeing Eugenia to her chair, then sliding into the heavy carver that her ladyship’s butler held for him, Christian decided that perhaps he’d been hasty. Given he and Eugenia were the only representatives of their generation, in the interests of furthering absorbing conversation, Lady Osbaldestone might have a point.

The meal commenced with a rich lobster bisque, followed by a remove of poached salmon.

At first, contrary to Christian’s expectations, the conversation remained general, something their hostess encouraged. Their relatively small number meant it was easy to listen to whomever was speaking, and not having to restrict oneself to addressing one’s neighbors meant a much wider range of subjects were explored.

Inevitably, the talk turned to the Peninsula campaign. Christian tensed, but to his relief, no one asked about his service or even commented on battles past. The major led the way; although long retired, he had friends in the hierarchy and was well informed as to Wellington’s intentions. Lady Osbaldestone, too, was surprisingly knowledgeable, especially as to political strategy. Despite himself, Christian was drawn into the exchanges, and the company as one turned to him for his insights into the enemy’s likely next moves.

Like the major, although he’d sold out, it hadn’t proved possible to cut himself off from the arena in which he’d spent the past decade. Moreover, he still had friends among the officers fighting for king and country.

As the company progressed through the courses and the conversations swirled, he found himself—entirely unexpectedly—relaxing. Other than Mrs. Woolsey, he’d known everyone there since childhood, and as they’d all…not overlooked but either ignored or dismissed his injuries, he discovered to his amazement that he had no difficulty interacting with them in a perfectly normal way.

It was the first such event he’d attended since being hauled half dead from the field at Talavera.

The first time he’d found himself completely ignoring his injuries, too; in the Hartington Manor dining room, they seemed of no account.

When the main course—a large roast duck and a side of venison—was laid before them, the talk turned to farm management. Christian wasn’t surprised to be included very much as a matter of course. What did make him blink was that the young lady seated on his left was equally included—if anything, more so.

From her answers, it became obvious that, at present, she was critically involved—indeed, the lynchpin—in the management of the Fulsom Hall estate.

Inwardly frowning, Christian tried to recall what the situation with her family was, but simple ignorance defeated him. He assumed her parents had died, and he knew she had a younger brother, Henry, and, courtesy of the smashed gate, that he was old enough to drive a curricle, but Christian had never known the boy’s age.

Finally, in the lull before the dessert course, he turned to Eugenia and, lowering his voice, asked, “I gather you oversee your brother’s holdings. How old is he?”

Briefly, she met his eyes. “Nineteen. Old enough to drive a curricle, but not yet old enough to have acquired any great degree of circumspection.”

“He’s what—at university?”

She nodded. “Oxford.” She looked down the table. “That’s where the four friends staying at the Hall hail from. It’s my belief they’re all much the same and egg each other on.”

“As youths of that age are wont to do,” he drily stated. After a moment, his voice low, he added, “I can remember some of my own exploits at that age, and they weren’t episodes to be proud of.” He glanced at her as she looked down at the empty sweet dish the butler set before her. Christian hesitated, then, in a nonchalant tone, offered, “If you have any trouble managing the group, I’ll be happy to speak with them.”

She chuckled and looked up, meeting his eyes. “Thank you, but Lady Osbaldestone met them. She claimed to have their mothers on her correspondence list. I don’t know if she truly has or not, but the implied threat worked wonders.”

He grinned. “I can imagine. At that age, just the thought of one’s mother being informed of one’s misdemeanors is guaranteed to induce a high level of caution in any young gentleman.”

She nodded. “That’s precisely what has happened. Since they encountered Lady Osbaldestone, they’ve been exceedingly careful. I haven’t heard a peep of complaint from our staff, where previously there’d been a litany every day.”

The tension between them had faded sufficiently that he felt able to say, “From all I’ve heard, you’ve been managing the estate for quite a few years, yet you can’t be that old yourself.”

Her lips twitched. “No, indeed. I’m only five years older than Henry, but when his mother—my stepmother—died, our father encouraged me to take over the household, which I did. I was fourteen at the time, and as the years passed, Papa allowed me to become his right hand in running the estate as well. Whether he realized he wouldn’t live to see Henry reach his majority, I don’t know, but as Papa died three years ago, his foresight proved wise. Our solicitor, Mr. Mablethorpe, has his chambers in Southampton, but he was a longtime friend of Papa and knows us well. Under his aegis, I’ve continued to run the estate.”

Although she didn’t quite sigh, Christian sensed her present state did not meet with her unqualified approval. After a moment, he asked, “Have you started involving Henry in managing the estate’s reins? Even in small ways?”

Now, she sighed, and her shoulders slumped. “I would dearly love to involve him in the day-to-day decisions, at least while he’s at home, but he keeps putting it off. And given that he does, I have to ask myself whether he’s yet ready to take on the responsibility.” Briefly, she met Christian’s eyes. “If he isn’t yet ready to take up the mantle, I suspect forcing the responsibility on him would be a grave misstep.”

He thought of his father’s attempts to train his brother, Cedric. After a moment, he said, “You’re right. If the weight falls on shoulders not yet willing or prepared to support it, the risk of collapse, in one way or another, is very real.”

That was what had happened with Cedric. He’d fought against what he’d seen as a yoke—and ended in a ditch with a broken neck.

She’d turned her head and was studying him. When he glanced her way and arched a brow, she hesitated, then quietly asked, “I wondered if you…resented the responsibility of the Grange falling on your shoulders. You couldn’t have expected it.”

He held her gaze while he considered the question; he hadn’t actually thought of it before and had to look inward to seek the answer… He blinked, somewhat surprised by what he saw. “You’re correct in that I hadn’t anticipated inheriting the estate. But when I heard of Cedric’s death and realized it would fall to me, I discovered I was…ready.” He met her eyes again. “I hadn’t been, earlier, but by the time I inherited, I knew I had all the right training and abilities to make a success of it.”

He paused, looking inward and back, and in a tone of quiet understanding, said, “When I was wounded and recuperating, through all the long days and nights, the Grange—the role of Lord Longfellow of Dutton Grange—shone like a beacon. I knew it would be here, waiting for me, when I…got through the worst.”

That—knowing he had work to do, that people needed him—had played a large part in saving his sanity.

Looking around the table, he added, “My only regret is that it took me so long to get home.”

Mrs. Swindon, on his right, heard his last comment. She patted his arm. “Well, you’re home now, dear, and one of us again.”

The rest of the table had, it seemed, been discussing the possibility of putting on some sort of theatrical show to coincide with the village fair. Mrs. Swindon looked at Eugenia and asked for her thoughts on the notion.

Christian watched, amused, as Eugenia glibly sidestepped the issue, endeavoring not to become embroiled in the pending organization.

The conversational ball rolled on down the table.

Christian continued to listen and learn. After a little while, he realized he was smiling.

He hadn’t smiled like that, relaxed and at peace—his old quietly arrogant, confident, and easygoing nature surfacing—for…a very long time.

Again, he looked inward. He could all but see the prickly walls he’d built to protect himself dissolving, thinning and fading away.

He felt…as if he’d come home.

As he’d imagined he one day would, hale and whole and able.

The feeling was so tempting—so attractive, so addictive—he instinctively drew back, reminding himself that although the company around the table were those with whom he would interact most frequently, they were only a small fraction of the village community.

From the other end of the table, Therese watched her latest project unfold. She was entirely content with the way the evening had gone, and as the company rose from the table and ambled back to the drawing room—no port and brandy for the men in this group—she smiled approvingly at Eugenia and deftly stepped in to divert Mrs. Woolsey, who had seemed to be drifting back to her charge’s side. Eugenia could take care of herself, and better she should do so within Christian’s orbit.

Back in the drawing room, the major, Christian, and Eugenia gathered in a group, discussing the impact of the weather on their fields and the outlook for the next year’s crops. Meanwhile, the Colebatches, Sally Swindon, Therese, and Mrs. Woolsey continued their discussion of possible plays that might prove suitable for the village players, with Mrs. Woolsey once again surprising them all by revealing a decidedly thespian bent.

By the time Crimmins wheeled in the tea trolley, they had almost settled on Goldsmith’s She Stoops to Conquer as the most appropriate selection. “An old play, true enough,” Mrs. Swindon stated, “but quite unexceptionable, and it does tend to satisfy the audience.”

“It also doesn’t require too many players.” Mrs. Colebatch accepted a cup and saucer. “In a village this size, that’s a real consideration.”

“If we can pull it off,” Lady Osbaldestone said, “I daresay we’ll have a goodly crowd, especially given we intend to run it on the evening of the fair.” She looked at Reverend Colebatch. “Does the fair still draw people from as far afield as Romsey?”

The reverend allowed that it did. “I expect we’ll have to beg the use of the Witcherly Farm barn to accommodate the crowd.”

Soon after, the Swindons declared they must away, and the company broke ranks. Therese stood in the front hall and saw her guests off. Mrs. Woolsey and Eugenia prepared to leave on the Swindons’ heels. In the doorway, Therese lightly gripped Eugenia’s sleeve and, smiling, caught the younger woman’s eye. “Good work. I daresay I’ll see you at the carol service tomorrow.”

Eugenia admitted she would be there. “I have no idea if Henry and his friends will attend—I suspect the verdict will be that such bucolic entertainment is beneath their notice.”

Therese gave her a commiserating look. “Young men, sadly, are still men.”

Eugenia laughed and left with a wave. Their coachman drew their carriage up before the steps, and Eugenia helped Mrs. Woolsey in, then followed.

Therese turned back into the hall, to the Colebatches, who were rugging themselves up. Christian was assisting Mrs. Colebatch, who had tangled herself in a very long knitted scarf.

“If I didn’t know the pair of you enjoy plodding through the winter night,” Therese said, “I would have my carriage brought around for you. Are you sure you won’t avail yourself of it?”

“Or of mine,” Christian said. “It will be the work of a minute to drop the pair of you off at the vicarage.”

“No, no.” The reverend held up his hand. “We wouldn’t hear of it—it’s out of your way—but regardless, as her ladyship says, Henrietta and I do enjoy our solitary walks in the moonlight.” This last was said with a fond smile at his wife, who returned the gesture.

“Oh—but wait.” The reverend turned back to Christian. “I meant to ask for your help in another way. It’s the carol service tomorrow, and I was hoping I could persuade you to attend. We’re rather thin of male voices, you see—not much strength to anchor the sopranos and altos—and I remembered you have an excellent voice.” The reverend suddenly looked uncertain. “Or at least you did.”

Therese leveled her gaze on Christian; she could almost see him debating whether to seize the excuse Reverend Colebatch had left dangling. When Christian continued to hesitate, she bluntly stated, “I’ve heard you roar. I cannot believe your injuries have affected your vocal cords in the slightest.”

Smoothly, Christian inclined his head. “What vocal abilities I was born with I still possess.”

“Excellent!” Reverend Colebatch was no slouch himself. “So you will come, won’t you? It’s only for an hour, and it would make such a difference to the end result.”

Christian knew when he was outgunned. He inclined his head again, this time to the reverend. “I’ll come and do what I can to assist.”

“Wonderful.” Henrietta Colebatch beamed at him. “Six o’clock. We’ll see you there.”

Christian resigned himself to the inevitable. He could hide in the shadows—the church had plenty of those—and still contribute to the singing.

The Colebatches headed out of the front door. Lady Osbaldestone saw them off, then turned at last to him.

She eyed him with far too much understanding for his comfort. “I thought the evening went rather well.”

There was a question buried in that statement. He wasn’t keen on answering it, yet somewhat to his surprise, heard himself admit, “I enjoyed the evening.” He paused, sensing that truth resonate within him, then bowed and quietly said, “Thank you for inviting me.”

She smiled, evidently delighted. “It was a pleasure, dear boy.” As he straightened, she turned to the partially open door as wheels crunched on the gravel. “And here’s your carriage.”

Her butler opened the door wider.

Lady Osbaldestone stood back on the other side.

As with a final nod, Christian moved past her, she murmured, “I do hope you now recognize that there’s no need at all to hide away from the village—from those who’ve known you all your life. They don’t see the scars—they just see you.”

Christian halted on the porch. He sensed that she was closing the door. When he finally glanced back, it was shut.

He stared at the panel for several moments, then he turned and went down the steps to where Jiggs and his carriage were waiting.