Christmas Roses: Love Blooms in Winter Page 9
Mairead came toward them, her white robe trailing, her small hands clasped around a thick, flaming candle. The light pierced the shadows in the dimly lit hall as she held the flame high. She lifted her face to the golden light, and her eyes, blind and seeing, glittered like pale jewels.
"Twelfth Night is the last night of the Yule season," Catriona murmured. "It is the day of hope, the day when we truly see all the blessings of the year to come."
"There will be many years full of blessings for us, love."
"Is it so?" she asked, her tone light.
"I pledge that it will be so," Kenneth whispered. "Here. This belongs to you." He lifted his hand and pinned the snow rose brooch to the shoulder of her plaid. Then he kissed her, while the child circled the light of promise and hope around them.
Oatmeal Brose Recipe (also known as Atholl Brose):
Measure out about ½ cup of oatmeal and twice that in boiling water; soak the oats in the water until you can extract the liquid, or the brose (oat broth). In the hot brose, dissolve 1 tablespoon honey (preferably heather honey!), and add 4 tablespoons heavy cream and 6 tablespoons or so of your favorite Scottish whiskey. Blend together, chill, pour into glasses, sprinkle with some cinnamon and nutmeg, and enjoy!
Introduction to The Black Beast of Belleterre
Mary Jo Putney
"The Black Beast of Belleterre" was my miracle novella. In an excess of enthusiasm for writing Christmas stories, which I love, I committed to doing them for two different holiday anthologies the same year.
As always, things take longer than they take, and all of sudden I was up against a drop dead delivery date: my editor needed the story delivered in less that two weeks. In nine days I was booked for a conference in Savannah, and I hadn't started the story.
So I did the only thing I could: sat down at my computer and started to work. Then came the miracle. Each day for the next eight days, I wrote ten pages. At the end, I had eighty pages and the story was done. I have never written with that kind of speed and regular pacing!
And the miracle didn't end there. "The Black Beast of Belleterre" is one of my very favorite novellas. Well, it's a beauty and the beast story, and that's a surefire winner. Plus, it was a Victorian setting, which gave me fun elements to play with that wouldn't fit into my usual Regency story.
But most of all, Ariel and Falconer were a gift. I loved writing about them, and when I reread this story for inclusion in this anthology, I loved them still. I hope you do also.
Happy reading,
Mary Jo Putney
To Binnie Braunstein, who has more Beauties and Beasties than anyone I know!
The Black Beast of Belleterre
By
By Mary Jo Putney
HE was ugly, very ugly. He hadn't known that when he was young and had a mother who loved him in spite of his face. When people had looked at him oddly, he had assumed it was because he was the son of a lord. Since there were a few children who were willing to be friends with him, he thought no more about it.
It was only later, when his mother had died and accident had augmented his natural ugliness, that James Markland realized how different he was. People stared, or if they were polite, quickly looked away.
His own father would not look directly at him on the rare occasions when they met. The sixth Baron Falconer had been a very handsome man; James didn't blame him for despising a son who was so clearly unworthy of the ancient, noble name they both bore.
Nonetheless James was the heir, so Lord Falconer had handled the distasteful matter with consummate, aristocratic grace. He installed the boy at a small, remote estate, seen that competent tutors were hired, and thought no more about him.
The chief tutor, Mr. Grice, was a harsh and pious man, generous both with beatings and with lectures on the inescapable evil of human nature. On his more jovial days, Mr. Grice would tell his student how fortunate the boy was to be beastly in a way that all the world could see; most men carried their ugliness in their souls, where they could too easily forget their basic wickedness. James should feel grateful that he had been granted such a signal opportunity to be humble.
James was not grateful, but he was resigned. His life could have been worse. The servants were paid enough to tolerate the boy they served, and one of the grooms was even friendly. So James had a friend, a library, and a horse. He was content, most of the time.
When the sixth lord died—in a gentlemanly fashion, while playing whist—James had become the seventh Baron Falconer. In the twenty-one years of his life, he had spent a total of perhaps ten nights under the same roof as his late father.
He had felt very little at his father's death—not grief, not triumph, not guilt. Perhaps there had been regret, but only a little. It was hard to regret not being better acquainted with a man who had chosen to be a stranger to his only son.
As soon as his father died, James had taken two trusted servants and flown into a wider world, like the soaring bird of the family crest. Egypt, Africa, India, Australia; he had seen them all during his years of travel. He discovered that the life of an eccentric English lord suited him, and developed habits that enabled him to keep the world at a safe distance. Seeing the monks in a monastery in Cyprus had given him the idea of wearing a heavily cowled robe that would conceal him from casual curiosity. Ever after, he wore a similar robe or hood when he had to go among strangers.
Because he was young and unable to repress his shameful lusts, he had also taken advantage of his wealth and distance from home to educate himself about the sins of the flesh. For the right price, it was easy to engage deft, experienced women who would not only lie with him, but would even pretend they didn't care how he looked.
One or two, the best actresses of the lot, had been almost convincing when they claimed to enjoy his company, and his touch. He did not resent their lies; the world was a hard place, and if lying might earn a girl more money, one couldn't expect her to tell the truth. Nonetheless, his pleasure was tainted by the bitter awareness that only his wealth made him acceptable.
He returned to England at the age of twenty-six, stronger for having seen the world beyond the borders of his homeland. Strong enough to accept the limits of his life. He would never have a wife, for no gently bred girl would marry him if she had a choice, and hence he would never have a child.
Nor would he have a mistress, no matter how much his body yearned for the brief, joyous forgetting that only a woman could provide. Though he was philosophical by nature and had decided very early that he would not allow self-pity, there were limits to philosophy. The only reasons why a woman would submit to his embraces were for money or from pity. Neither reason was endurable. Though he could bear his ugliness and isolation, he could not have borne the knowledge that he was pathetic.
Rather than dwell in bitterness, he was grateful for the wealth that buffered him from the world. Unlike ugly men who were poor, Falconer was in a position to create his own world, and he did.
What made his life worth living was the fact that when he returned to England, he had fallen in love. Not with a person, of course, but with a place. Belleterre, in the lush southeastern county of Kent, was the principal Markland family estate. As a boy James had never gone there, for his father had not wished to see him. Instead, James had been raised at a small family property in the industrial Midlands. He had not minded, for it was the only home he had ever known and not without its own austere charm.
Yet when he returned from his tour of the world after his father's death and first saw Belleterre, for a brief moment he had hated his father for keeping him away from his heritage. Belleterre meant "beautiful land" and never was a name more appropriate. The rich fields and woods, the ancient, castle-like stone manor house, were a worthy object for the love he yearned to express. It became his life's work to see that Belleterre was cared for as tenderly as a child.
Ten years had passed since he had come to Belleterre, and he had the satisfaction of seeing the land and people prosper
under his stewardship. If he was lonely, it was no more than he expected. Books had been invented to salve human loneliness, and they were friends without peer, friends who never sneered or flinched or laughed behind a man's back. Books revealed their treasures to all who took the effort to seek.
Belleterre, books, and his animals—he needed nothing more.
Spring
SOMETIMES, regrettably, it was necessary for Falconer to leave Belleterre, and today was such a day. The air was warm and full of the scents and songs of spring. He enjoyed the ten-mile ride, though he was not looking forward to the interview that would take place when he reached his destination.
He frowned when he reined in his horse at the main gate of Gardsley Manor, for the ironwork was rusty and the mortar crumbling between the bricks of the pillars that bracketed the entrance. When he rang the bell to summon the gatekeeper, five minutes passed before a sullen, badly dressed man appeared.
Crisply he said, "I'm Falconer. Sir Edwin is expecting me."
The gatekeeper stiffened and quickly opened the gate, keeping his gaze away from the cloaked figure that rode past. Falconer was unsurprised by the man's reaction; doubtless the country folk told many stories about the mysterious hooded lord of Belleterre. What kind of stories, Falconer neither knew nor cared.
Before meeting Sir Edwin, Falconer knew that he must ascertain the condition of the property. That was his reason for visiting Gardsley in person rather than summoning the baronet to Belleterre. Once he was out of sight of the gatekeeper, he turned from the main road onto a track that swung west, roughly paralleling the edge of the estate.
On the side of a beech-crowned hill, he tethered his mount and pulled a pair of field glasses from his saddlebag, then climbed to the summit. Since there was no one in sight, he pushed his hood back, enjoying the feel of the balmy spring breeze against his face and head.
As he had hoped, the hill gave a clear view of the rolling Kentish countryside. In the distance he could even see steam from a Dover-bound train. But what he saw closer did not please him. The field glasses showed Gardsley in regrettable detail, from crumbling fences to overgrown fields to poor quality stock. The more he saw, the more his mouth tightened, for the property had clearly been neglected for years.
Five years earlier, Sir Edwin Hawthorne had come to Falconer and asked for a loan to help him improve his estate. Though Falconer had not much liked the baronet, he had been impressed and amused by the man's sheer audacity in asking a complete stranger for money.
Probably Hawthorne had been inspired by stories of Falconer's generosity to charity and had decided that he had nothing to lose by requesting a loan. Sir Edwin had been very eloquent, speaking emotionally of his wife's expensive illness and recent death, of his only daughter, and how the property that had been in his family for generations desperately needed investment to become prosperous again.
Though Falconer knew he was being foolish, he had given in to impulse and lent the baronet the ten thousand pounds requested. It was a sizable fortune, but Falconer could well afford it, and if Hawthorne really cared that much about his estate, he deserved an opportunity to save it.
But wherever the ten thousand pounds had gone, it hadn't been into Gardsley. The loan had come due a year earlier, and Falconer had granted a twelve-month extension. Now that grace period was over, the money had not been repaid, and Falconer must decide what to do.
If there had been any sign that the baronet cared for his land, Falconer would have been willing to extend the loan indefinitely. But this ... ! Hawthorne deserved to be flogged and turned out on the road as a beggar for his neglect of his responsibilities.
Falconer was about to descend to his horse when he caught a flash of blue on the opposite side of the hill. Thinking it might be a kingfisher, he raised his field glasses again and scanned the lower slope until he found the color he was seeking.
He caught his breath when he saw that it was not a kingfisher but a girl. She sat cross-legged beneath a flowering apple tree and sketched with charcoal on a tablet laid across her lap. As he watched, she made a face and ripped away her current drawing. Then she crumpled the paper and dropped it on a pile of similarly rejected work.
His first impression was that she was a child, for she was small and her silver-gilt tresses spilled loosely over her shoulders rather than being pinned up. But when he adjusted the focus of the field glasses, the increased clarity showed that her figure and face were those of a woman, albeit a young one. She was eighteen, perhaps twenty at the outside, and graceful even when seated on the ground.
In spite of the simplicity of her blue dress, she must be Hawthorne's daughter, for she was no farm girl. But she did not resemble her florid father. Instead, she had a quality of bright sweetness that riveted Falconer's attention. His view was from the side and her pure profile reminded him of the image of a goddess on a Greek coin. If his old tutor, Mr. Grice, could have seen this girl under the apple tree, even that old curmudgeon might have wondered if all humans were inherently sinful.
She was so lovely that Falconer's heart hurt. He did not know if his pain was derived from sadness that he would never know her, or joy that such beauty could exist in the world. Both emotions, perhaps.
Unconsciously he raised one hand and pulled the dark hood over his head, so that if by chance she looked his way, she would be unable to see him. He would rather die than cause that sweet face to show fear or disgust.
When he had made his plea for money five years earlier, Sir Edwin had mentioned his daughter's name. It was something fanciful that had made Falconer think her mother must have loved Shakespeare. Titania, the fairy queen? No, not that. Ophelia or Desdemona? No, neither of those.
Ariel. Her name was Ariel. Now that Falconer saw the girl, he realized that her name was perfect, for she seemed not quite mortal, a creature of air and sunshine.
Though he knew it was wrong to spy on her, he could not bring himself to look away. From the way her glance went up and down, he saw she was sketching the old oak tree in front of her. She had the deft quickness of hand of a true artist who races time to capture a private vision of the world. He was sure that she saw more deeply than mere bark and spring leaves.
A puff of breeze blew across the hillside, lifting strands of her bright hair, driving one of her crumpled drawings across the grass, and loosening blossoms from the tree. Pink, sun-struck petals showered over the girl as if even nature felt compelled to celebrate her beauty. As the scent of apples drifted up the hill, Falconer knew he would never forget the image that she made, gilded by sunshine and haunted by flowers.
He was about to turn away when the girl stood and brushed the petals from her gown. After gathering her discarded drawings, she turned and walked down the opposite side of the hill, away from him. Her strides were as graceful as he had known they would be and her hair was a shimmering, silver-gilt mantle. But she had overlooked the drawing that had blown away.
After the girl was gone from view, Falconer went down and retrieved the crumpled sheet from the tuft of cow parsley where it had lodged. Then he flattened the paper, careful not to smudge the charcoal.
As he had guessed, the girl's drawing of the gnarled oak went far beyond mere illustration. In a handful of strong, spare lines, she implied harsh winters and fertile, acorn rich summers; sun and rain and drought; the long history of a tree that had first sprouted generations before the girl was born and should survive for centuries more. That slight, golden child was a true artist.
Since she had not wanted the drawing, surely there was no harm in keeping it. Knowing himself for a sentimental fool, he also plucked a few strands of the grass that had been crushed beneath her when she worked.
He watched for the girl as he completed his ride to the manor house, but without success. If not for the evidence of the drawing in his saddlebag, he might have wondered if he had imagined her.
Sir Edwin Hawthorne greeted his guest nervously, gushing welcomes and excuses. He had been a handsome m
an, but lines of dissolution marred his face and sweat shone on his brow.
As Falconer expected, the baronet was unable to repay the loan. "The last two years have been difficult, my lord," he said, his eyes darting around the room, anything to avoid looking at the cowled figure who sat motionless in his study. "Lazy tenants, disease among the sheep. You know how hard it is to make a profit on farming."
Falconer knew no such thing; his own estate was amazingly profitable, for it flourished under loving hands. Not just the hands of its master, but those of his tenants and employees, for he would have no one at Belleterre who did not love the land. Quietly he said, "I've already given you a year beyond the term of the original loan. Can you make partial payment?"
"Not today, my lord, but very soon," Sir Edwin said. "Within the next month or two, I should be in a position to repay at least half the sum."
Under his concealing hood, Falconer's mouth twisted. ''Are you a gamester, Sir Edwin? The turn of a card or the speed of a horse is unlikely to save you from ruin."
The baronet twitched at his guest's comment, but it was the shock of guilt, not surprise. "All gentlemen gamble a bit, of course, but I'm no gamester. I assure you, if you will give me just a little more time ... "
Falconer remembered the neglected fields, the shabby laborers' cottages, and almost refused. Then he thought of the girl. What would become of Ariel if her father's property was sold to pay his debts? She should be in London now, fluttering through the Season with the rest of the bright, wellborn butterflies. She should have a husband who would cherish her and give her children.
But a London debut was expensive, and likely any money her father managed to beg or borrow went on his own vices. In spite of the isolation of his life, Falconer was not naive about his fellow man. He was surely not Hawthorne's only creditor. The man had probably borrowed money in every direction and had debts that could not be repaid even if Gardsley was sold.