Christmas Roses: Love Blooms in Winter Read online

  Last night we dined with a young literary gentleman, a Mr. Glades. He is something of a radical, for he teased me about being Lady Falconer. He's very clever —almost as much so as you— but his mind is less open, I think.

  I know you must be terribly busy, but if you found time to scribble a note to tell me how you are, I would much appreciate it. Of course, soon I'll be home myself, so you needn't go to any special bother.

  Your loving wife,

  Ariel

  Belleterre

  November 20th

  My dear Ariel,

  No need to rush back. I'm very busy doing a survey of improvements needed on the tenant farms. My regards to your amiable host and hostess.

  Falconer

  Talbott House, Hampstead

  December 1st

  Dear James,

  Last week, to amuse the girls, I made some sketches illustrating the story of Dick Whittington's cat. Without my knowing, Mr. Talbott showed them to a publisher friend of his, a Mr. Howard, and now the fellow wants me to illustrate a children's book for him! He says my drawings are "magical," which sounds very nice, though I don't know quite what he means by it. While I'm flattered by his offer, I don't know whether I should accept. Would you object to having your wife involved in a commercial venture? If you don't like the idea, of course I shan't do it.

  Almost time for tea. I'll add to this later tonight. I miss you very much.

  Your loving wife, Ariel

  Belleterre

  December 3rd

  My dear Ariel,

  Of course I don't object to you selling your work.

  Very proper of Mr. Howard to appreciate your talent.

  In fact, perhaps you should purchase a house in Hampstead since you've made so many friends there. It will be convenient if you decide to illustrate more children's books. Find a house you really like—cost is no object.

  Falconer

  Talbott House, Hampstead

  December 4th

  Dear James,

  While I like Hampstead, I'm not sure we need a second house, and I certainly can't buy one unless you see it. We can discuss the matter when I come home.

  Also, I want to ask your opinion of the financial arrangements Mr. Howard has suggested. I don't particularly care about the money, for your generosity gives me far more than I need, but I don't want to be silly about it, either. Later this evening I'll copy out the details of his proposal, then post this letter in the morning. I look forward to your reply.

  Your loving wife,

  Ariel

  Belleterre

  December 6th

  My dear Ariel,

  Mr. Howard's contract seems fair. However, I can't recommend that you return to Kent just now, for the weather has been very gray and dismal. Far better to stay with your friends, since Hampstead and London will be more amusing than the country. Besides, from what you've said, I gather that all of the Talbotts grieve when you talk about leaving. And what of the literary Mr. Glades? You said he claims you are his muse. Surely you don't wish to leave the chap inspirationless.

  Falconer

  Talbott House, Hampstead

  December 7th

  Dear James,

  When I mentioned your letter to Anna, she suggested that you might like to come to Hampstead and we could spend Christmas with the Talbotts. She says there is much jolliness and celebration. Perhaps too much — I'm not sure that it would be the sort of thing you'd like. Also, as much as I love Anna and her family, I would rather my first Christmas with you was a quiet one, just the two of us. And Cerberus and Tripod, of course. Has Tripod forgiven me for going away? Cats being what they are, she has probably expunged me from her memory for my desertion.

  Eagerly awaiting your reply,

  Your loving wife,

  Ariel

  P.S. The only inspiration Mr. Glades cares for or needs is the sound of his own voice.

  Falconer finished the letter, then closed his eyes in pain.

  He could hear her voice in every line, see her vibrant image in his mind. It was torture to read her letters, and she wrote faithfully every day, with only rare, faint reproaches for his almost total lack of response.

  Yet what could he write back? I am dying for love of you, beloved, come home, come home! Not the sort of letter one could write to a woman who had been horrified to see his face.

  Drearily he got to his feet and stared out the library window. The fitful weather had produced a brief bit of sunshine, but it was winter in his heart. Loyal child that she was, Ariel would come home if he let her, but to what? Her life in Hampstead was full and happy. What would she have at Belleterre but disgust and loneliness? He could not allow her to return.

  Mr. Glades, the literary gentleman, figured regularly in her letters. Clearly the man was besotted with her, though she never said as much. Perhaps, in her innocence, Ariel did not realize the fact.

  Falconer had had the man investigated and discovered that the Honorable William Glades was handsome, wealthy, and talented, part of a glittering literary circle. He was also considered an honorable young man. A bit full of himself, like clever young chaps often were, but otherwise he was exactly the sort of man Ariel should have married.

  Falconer leaned heavily against the window frame. He'd once read of savages who could will their own deaths. Though he'd been skeptical at the time, now he believed that it was possible to do such a thing. In fact, it would be easy to die ....

  He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to numb his despairing grief. The heart of his spirit was dead, and it would only be a matter of time until his physical heart also stopped.

  The sunshine was gone and the sky had darkened so quickly that he could see his own face faintly reflected in the window glass. He shuddered at the sight, then returned to his desk and lifted his pen.

  Belleterre December 8th

  My dear Ariel,

  I never celebrate Christmas; it's a foolish combination of sentimentality, exaggerated piety, and paganism. But I don't wish to deprive you of the festivities, so I think you should stay with the Talbotts for the holidays.

  Falconer

  AFTER reading her husband's latest letter, Ariel lay down on her bed and curled up like a hurt child. She did not cry, for in the previous two months she had shed so many tears that now she had none left to mourn this ultimate rejection. Though James was too courteous to say so outright, it was obvious that he didn't want her to ever to return to Belleterre. She still believed that he had once cared for her, at least a little, but plainly his feelings had died that night in the library.

  She forced herself to face her future. Though she loved her husband, he would never love her; he couldn't even bear to have her under his roof. Therefore she might as well take his suggestion and buy a house in Hampstead. There was a charming old cottage for sale only five minutes' walk from the Talbotts. It had a lovely view over Hampstead Heath and was just the right size for a woman and a servant. Though James would have to pay for it, she vowed to work hard at illustration so that eventually she would no longer need his money to survive.

  Supporting herself now seemed possible. It would be far harder to make the rest of her life worth living.

  Christmas

  "Did you have a nice walk?" Anna called.

  "Splendid." Ariel knelt and helped little Jane Talbott from her cocoon of coat, bonnet, scarf, and muff. "Even in winter the heath is full of wonderful, subtle colors. I never tire of it."

  The older girl, Libby, said, "Hurry, Janie, for we can't help decorate the tree until we've had tea!"

  Anna, a tall woman with nut brown hair, entered the front hall. ''Thank you for taking the girls for a walk to wear down their high spirits." She smiled indulgently as the children scampered off to the nursery. ''They're so excited that I'm afraid they'll vibrate to pieces between now and Christmas. And if they don't, I will!"

  "Courage! Only two more days to go." Ariel removed her own coat and bonnet. "Did anything come in the post for
me?"

  ''This package arrived from Mr. Howard." Anna lifted it from the hall table and handed it over.

  "Nothing from Belleterre?"

  "No, dear," Anna said quietly.

  Ariel glanced up and made herself smile. "Don't look so sorry for me, Anna. I daresay this is all for the best."

  Her friend's eyes were compassionate, but she was too wise to offer sympathy when Ariel's emotions were so fragile. Instead she said, "Everyone in Talbott House will be in raptures if you buy Dove Cottage. You'll never get Jane and Libby out from under your feet."

  "I love having them around," Ariel said. "Libby has real drawing talent. It's a pleasure to teach her."

  Glancing at the package from the publisher, she continued, "If you'll excuse me, I'll go up to my room. Mr. Howard said he was going to send another story for me to consider."

  As Ariel climbed the stairs, she gave thanks for Anna's understanding. The Talbotts had been wonderful. Ariel didn't know how she would have survived the last two months without their warmth and liveliness.

  As a Christmas present to the family, she'd painted an oil portrait of the four of them together. It was one of the best pieces of work she'd ever done; sorrow must be honing her artistic skills.

  As she expected, the package contained the project that Mr. Howard wanted her to do next. He had been so pleased with Puss in Boots that he was now talking of doing an entire series of classic fairy tales, all to be illustrated by Ariel.

  With a stir of interest she saw that he had sent her two different Beauty and the Beast books. Though Ariel had a vague knowledge of the story, she had never read one of the many versions of the old folk tale. Lifting the larger of the volumes, she began to read and soon discovered that it was a much more powerful story than Puss in Boots. Moreover, the visual possibilities were enticing.

  Ariel was halfway through when the back of her neck began to prickle. In an odd way the tale resembled her own life, though reality was sadder and more sordid. At the end it was a relief to learn that Beauty and her Beast lived happily ever after. Ariel supposed that was why people read such fanciful tales: because real life couldn't be trusted to end as well. But as she set the story aside, she was haunted by the image of the Beast, who had almost died of sorrow when Beauty left him.

  The rest of the day was taken up with festivities. She helped the Talbotts decorate the tree. After the girls were sent giggling to bed, the adults went to a nearby house where they shared hot mulled wine and conversation with a dozen other neighbors. The small party helped distract Ariel from her misery. As she went to bed, she gave thanks that the next few days would be so busy. By the beginning of the New Year, she might be prepared to face her new life.

  But the old life was not done with her, for she fell asleep and dreamed of Beauty and the Beast. She herself was Beauty, young and confused, first fearing the Beast who held her captive, then learning to love him. What turned the dream into nightmare was the fact that her captor was not a leonine monster but James. He was a haunted, noble creature who was dying for lack of love, and as life ebbed from him, he called out to her.

  She awoke with an agonized cry. How could she have left him? How could she have let him send her away? Even awake, she heard his voice in her mind, the deep, desolate tones echoing across the miles that separated them. She slid out of her bed, determined to leave instantly for Belleterre.

  As soon as her feet hit the icy floor, she realized the foolishness of her impulse. It was three in the morning and she couldn't leave for hours yet. But she could pack her belongings so that she would be ready first thing. She threw herself into the task with frantic haste and was done in half an hour.

  The thought of the hours still to wait made her want to shriek with frustration. Then inspiration struck. She settled down at her desk with drawing paper, pen, and ink.

  Feeling as if another hand guided her own, she drew a series of pictures with feverish, slashing strokes. She had not bought a Christmas gift for her husband since he had been so firmly opposed to celebrating the holiday. Now she was creating a gift so vivid that it might as well have been drawn with her heart's blood rather than India ink.

  As she wept over the last drawing, she prayed that he would accept it in the spirit offered.

  THE footman opened the front door of Belleterre and blinked in surprise. "Lady Falconer?"

  "None other," Ariel said crisply as she swept past him into the front hall. "Is my husband in the house?"

  "No, my lady. I believe he intended to be out on the estate all day."

  "Very well." She surveyed her surroundings, unsurprised to see that there wasn't a trace of holiday decoration. "Please ask Mrs. Wilcox to join me in the morning room immediately. Then have my things taken to my room. Be particularly careful of the drawing portfolio."

  As the footman hastened to obey, Ariel went to the morning room, which was the smallest and friendliest of the public rooms. While she waited for the housekeeper, Tripod came skipping into the room. The cat was halfway to Ariel before she remembered her grievance. With ostentatious disdain, Tripod sat down, her back turned to the mistress of the house who had dared to go away for so long. Only the twitching tip of her tail betrayed her mood.

  "We'll have none of that, Tripod!" Ariel scooped the cat into her arms and began scratching around the feline ears. Within a minute, the cat started to purr and stretch her neck so that her chin could be scratched. Ariel hoped wryly that her husband would be as easy to bring around.

  Soon Mrs. Wilcox joined her. Always dignified, today the housekeeper was positively arctic. In a voice that was only just within the bounds of politeness, she said, "Since your arrival was unexpected, your ladyship, it will take a few minutes to freshen your rooms."

  Ignoring the comment, Ariel said, "How is my husband?" When the housekeeper hesitated, Ariel prompted, "Speak freely."

  Mrs. Wilcox needed no more encouragement. "Very poorly, my lady, and it's all your fault! The master seems to have aged a hundred years since you left. How could you go away for so long, after all he's done for you?"

  How bad was "very poorly"? Though she ached, Ariel kept her voice even. She was mistress of Belleterre, and she intended to fill the position properly. "I left because he sent me away," she said calmly. "It was very bad of me to obey him. It shan't happen again."

  She set down the cat and stripped off her gloves. "I want every servant in the house put to work decorating Belleterre for the holidays. Greens, ribbons, wreaths, candles ... everything! Send a man to cut a tree for the morning room, and have the cook prepare a Christmas Eve feast. I realize that time is limited, but I'm sure Cook will do a fine job with what is available. Oh, whenever the table is set in the future, always put my place next to my husband's rather than at the far end."

  Mrs. Wilcox's' jaw dropped. Ariel added, "When doing the decorating and cooking, don't stint on the servants' quarters. I want this to be a holiday Belleterre will never forget. Now off with you! There's much to be done."

  "Yes, my lady," the housekeeper said, her eyes beginning to shine. She paused just before leaving the room. "You won't leave again, will you? He needs you something fierce."

  "Wild horses won't get me away unless he comes, too," Ariel promised. She needed her husband something fierce herself.

  Christmas Eve

  The thought of going back to the empty house was almost more than Falconer could bear. He was so weary in spirit that he didn't notice how brightly lit the house was, but when he entered the front hall he was struck by the scent of pine and holly.

  He stopped, blinking at the sight that met his eyes. The hall was wreathed in garlands of greenery accented by scarlet berries and bows and a footman stood on a ladder, tucking shiny holly leaves behind a wall mirror for the final decorative touch.

  Falconer demanded, "By whose order was this done?"

  As the nervous footman fumbled for a reply, a clear, light voice said, "Mine, James."

  He would recognize her voice anywhere,
yet it was so unexpected that he couldn't believe she was really here. Even when he turned and saw his wife walking down the hall toward him, he was sure he must be hallucinating. Exquisite in a scarlet-trimmed gown, her flaxen tresses tied back simply with a black velvet bow, she had to be an illusion born of his despairing dreams.

  But she certainly looked real. Stopping in front of him, Ariel said, "Come and see the tree before you go up to bathe and change for dinner."

  Bemused, he followed her into the morning room, which was scented by tangy evergreens and sweet-burning apple wood logs. Ariel gestured at the tall fir that had been set up in one corner. "Patterson chose the tree. Lovely, isn't it?"

  Hoarsely he said, "Ariel, why did you come back?"

  "I am your wife and Belleterre is my home," she said mildly. "Where else would I be at Christmas?"

  "I told you to spend the holiday with your friends!"

  She linked her fingers together in front of her, the knuckles showing white. "When we married, you offered me a home. Are you withdrawing that offer?"

  "You don't belong here." Anguish lanced through him, as if a knife was being turned in his heart. He had thought that she understood and accepted that their lives should lie apart, but apparently not. Now he must go through the agony of saying the words out loud as he sent her away again. "You mustn't blight your life through misplaced loyalty, Ariel. Our marriage is one of convenience only. I'm almost twice your age. You're scarcely more than a child."