Her worst fears were founded as Tansy thrust a hand in her purse and pulled out a shilling. "I 'aven't
any pound notes with me. Won't ya let me buy ya a nice meat pie?"
Emily stared at the gleaming coin. The warm, yeasty aroma of a nearby bakery wafted to her nostrils.
She couldn't live on charity again. Not even Tansy's.
She put her hands behind her back to ease the temptation. "Oh, no. I'm quite full, thank you. I just ate
at a friend's house, you see, and had a splendid helping of roast pheasant. And gravy. A whole tureen
of gravy." She started to walk backward. "Tarts, too. Those charming ones you douse in brandy and set aflame. I ate half a tray of those, then polished them off with a pitcher of cream. You know how I love cream." She clasped her hands over her stomach. "Why, my little belly is so stuffed, I feel like a Christmas turkey!"
The jostling crowd was beginning to come between them. She caught a glimpse of Tansy perched like a bewildered canary among her scattered packages.
"Em, wait! Don't go!" she cried.
Emily lifted her hand in a cheery wave. "I'm glad you're happy in your new situation. Perhaps we can meet for tea soon."
A cloaked man tipped his hat to Tansy, offering his assistance in retrieving her packages. Emily took advantage of her divided attention to slip into a merry throng of carolers and be swept away on a tide
of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."
As she dodged around a corner, the carolers went on, their laughter ringing on the crisp air. An emptiness worse than hunger seized her heart. She had learned all she needed to know of Christmas as Justin read
to a circle of rapt Maori in his resonant voice.
Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square.
The lamplighters had come out to coax the gas lamps to flickering life above her head. Her feet moved of their own accord, although even exertion wasn't enough to stave off the deepening chill. The bells of St. Paul's began to chime. She wondered if Penfeld was curled up somewhere before a cozy fire, savoring their sweet refrain and sipping a cup of hot tea.
Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square.
The cacophony of the city streets faded to a muted hush. She stood in the falling darkness at the neck
of a broad street lined by wrought-iron fences and towering oaks. Their naked branches brushed stark fingers against the sky. Even the snow was clean here, laid in a milky blanket over rolling lawns and terra-cotta fountains. Emily felt like an intruder from another land.
Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square.
Did she really think she could abide in the same city, walk the same streets without even trying to steal
a glimpse of him? Did he sit sad and alone in a deserted house with only his regrets for company? Did
he wander a cold, snowy garden, dreaming of her?
There was only one way to find out.
The sky began to spit snow. Sighing, Emily pulled her shawl up over her hair and hastened through the deepening dusk.
Chapter 17
Only the promise of a brighter tomorrow
for the both of us could have dragged me away
from you….
Justin stood at the window and watched the fat snowflakes drift down to fur the lawn. Despite his
longing for sunlight and sea, the snow still captivated him with its purity, its eternal promise of fresh hope.
"Justin, oh, Justin, my darling, where are you?"
He blew out a breath of frustration, fogging the cold windowpane. Even the heavy damask of the drapes wasn't enough to deter his mother. She swept them aside, smothering him in the cloying fog of her perfume.
"There you are! I was beginning to think you were hiding under the bed as you used to do when you
were little."
"Fat lot of good that would have done me. You would have just sent the butler to drag me out by my heels."
She slapped his arm with her fan. "Don't be a bad boy. You promised to be civil to my guests, not spend the evening lurking behind the drapes. It was heartless of you to deny me my annual Christmas ball. The least you can do is grace my modest fete with your presence."
Justin sighed. The duchess's idea of a modest fete was cramming a hundred guests into the octagonal drawing room. "I warned you I wouldn't be good company, Mother. I have more pressing matters on
my mind than playing Simile with a bevy of sotted swells."
"I suppose you mean that infernal child. You must stop this ridiculous fretting. You've got the finest men in the business on it. They'll find the little lad soon enough."
"It's a girl," he explained for the hundredth time. "A girl."
"Speaking of girls," his mother said, rescuing a perfumed handkerchief from the bodice of her dress, "there's that charming du Pardieu woman I told you about. You simply must meet her daughter. Quite
a bewitching little creature. Fresh out of seminary." She fluttered the hanky in the air like a flag of surrender, calling out, "Over here, dear."
Justin jerked her arm down, cringing at her shrill titter. Now that she'd regained one rightful Winthrop heir, her primary mission in life seemed to be to ensure he produced another one. "I don't want to meet the charming du Pardieu woman and I don't want to meet her daughter. If Queen Victoria is here, I don't want to meet her either. I wish to be left alone."
The duchess's iron-gray ringlets quivered in indignation. "Very well, then. Perhaps I'll let them think you
a savage."
She sailed away, her formidable bosom jutting out like the prow of some mighty ship. The staring guests milled in her wake. Justin shook his head, understanding for the first time why his father, in his own besotted youth, had ordered a figurehead carved in her honor.
He turned away from the window, tugging irritably at his starched collar. Perhaps he should make more of an effort to be pleasant. He might want to bring Emily back here someday after they were wed, and
he didn't want her reputation besmirched by his.
He wandered through the crowd, managing a smile here, a friendly nod there. The diplomacy of his years with the Maori seemed to have deserted him. He felt stiff and awkward, beset by the painful shyness that had troubled him as a child.
His sister Edith was pounding out "Joy to the World" on the grand piano. He winced, his heart aching for the poor beleaguered instrument. Her husband Harold had thrown back his head and was baying along with her. Or was it Herbert? Justin frowned. He still could not keep his sisters' husbands straight.
He angled toward a punch bowl ringed with glossy leaves of holly, hoping to find a safe haven in its rum-soaked depths.
A gloved hand caught his arm in a velvety vise. "Hello, Justin. Haven't you a moment to spare for an old friend?" The familiar voice had the huskiness of mellow brandy ignited by flame.
"Suzanne," he said, turning to greet his former fiancée and lover.