Christmas Wishes Part 1. Elizabeth Rolls

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      Gerald, having finished with his letters, removed his eyeglasses and smeared a vast amount of marmalade on another piece of toast. Helen was gazing thoughtfully at the teapot, clearly considering another cup, and then she gave Ash another worried glance.

      It had occurred to Ash in the past that if he just joined in with whatever passed for normal at any given time, his brother and sister-in-law seemed to worry less. In that spirit he picked up the letter beside his plate and broke the wafer. Accustomed to noticing everything about him, because his life and those of his men might depend on detail, he registered the fact that the wafer had been affixed with a plain seal and the paper was of rather poor quality. On the other hand, the writing was that of an educated...woman, at a guess.

      His gaze flicked to the signature—M. Kirkby—and his pulse skipped a beat. He quelled it, and noted the address—Three Shepherds Inn, Newcastle—which explained the plain seal and cheap paper. It also explained what she’d been doing yesterday while he waited for her. But why the devil hadn’t she just told him whatever it was on the way out to Haydon?

      He began to skim the letter and then, wondering if perhaps he was still asleep and dreaming, went back and started reading again. Slowly. When he’d finished, and was convinced he was actually awake, he read the letter again. Just in case he had missed something. He hadn’t. It said precisely what he’d thought it said, and it certainly made sense that she hadn’t quite liked to broach this subject face-to-face.

      ‘Interesting letter, then, Ash?’ said Gerald.

      That was one way of putting it.... Ash handed the letter over. ‘You tell me.’

      Gerald stared at him, put his eyeglasses back on and glanced at the letter. ‘Madeleine Kirkby? What’s she doing writing to you?’ He began to read. ‘“A business proposition to put to you... Grandfather’s will—” Heard something about that. Rather an awkward business with Montfort being so determined to take the estate back, very poor showing on his part, if you ask me...’ He glanced up, frowning. ‘You didn’t say that you’d seen her at old Blakiston’s yesterday. Or that you’d had a run-in with Montfort. Fellow’s a blister. A complete wart.’

      Ash said nothing and Gerald fell silent again as he read on.

      ‘Good God!’ He looked up, removed his eyeglasses and stared at Ash.

      Ash refilled his own coffee cup and leaned over to top up Gerald’s for good measure. ‘That’s what I thought.’

      ‘About what?’ demanded the duchess.

      Gerald put the letter down, took a sizeable swig of coffee. ‘It’s a proposal.’

      ‘Yes, dear.’ Helen adopted the sort of patient tone that a wife of twenty-five years who wanted to stay sane had to perfect. ‘You mentioned a business proposal. What sort of business does Miss Kirkby have with Ash?’

      ‘Marriage,’ said Ash.

      * * *

      ‘I don’t quite see what’s bothering you about it,’ Gerald said placidly as they rode.

      The day was surprisingly clear, a miracle in early December. Gerald had said the weather would close in later and Ash agreed. But right now a pale sun filtered down, brightening the bleak fells with their dusting of snow.

      ‘What?’ Ash wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard correctly. Gerald had asked if he planned to accept Miss Kirkby’s offer and he’d answered that it probably wasn’t a good idea.

      Apparently Gerald didn’t agree any more than his own unruly body had. The moment he had read Maddy’s marriage proposal his body had proclaimed it an excellent idea.

      Ash was having a hard enough time ignoring his baser instincts and listening to the dictates of honour, which said that he shouldn’t take advantage of Maddy’s situation, without Gerald’s idiocy.

      ‘I’m not fit to marry anyone!’ he snapped.

      The idea of waking up from a nightmare screaming, in bed with Maddy...no. Except Montfort was going to take her home, kick her out... He liked that idea even less. Edward Montfort needed a thrashing at the very least. He’d thought so yesterday. His hands tightened to fists on the reins and his mare tossed her head in annoyance.

      ‘Why the hell not?’ demanded Gerald. ‘You’re well enough off as these things go. Are you dishonest? The sort of blister who’d beat his wife?’ He frowned at Ash’s fidgeting mare. ‘What’s bothering Phaedre?’

      ‘Of course not,’ said Ash, easing his hands. The mare settled at once, and he met Gerald’s calm gaze. Better to have the truth between them. ‘For God’s sake, Gerald! What woman wants a coward to husband?’

      For a moment they rode on in silence, their horses’ hooves ringing on the iron-hard ground.

      ‘Ran away in the teeth of battle, did you?’ asked Gerald at last.

      ‘What?’ Ash stared. ‘No, of course not. But—’

      ‘Oh. You hid in your tent and didn’t even go out to fight?’ Gerald nodded. ‘See what you mean. Very bad form, that.’

      ‘Don’t be a bloody idiot!’

      ‘That would be you,’ said Gerald. ‘And I’ll thank you to stop insulting my brother, whoever you are. If you think a few bad dreams make you a coward, you are an idiot.’

      ‘You don’t—can’t—understand,’ said Ash. He’d been unable to hide the dreams from Gerald, but this was the first time the topic had been mentioned openly.

      Gerald nodded. ‘No. Not fully. You know, when I started learning to ride I had an accident. Only about four, but something spooked the pony and she bolted. Full-scale bolt. I hung on, absolutely terrified, as long as possible—’

      ‘You were a child!’ said Ash. ‘That doesn’t make you a coward!’

      ‘I fell off in the end,’ said Gerald, as if his brother hadn’t spoken. ‘Soft landing. Nothing broken. And they put me right back on, so I rode home. But that night I had nightmares and the next time I was taken out for a lesson I wouldn’t get on. Screamed the place down. Wasn’t so much the fall itself, but the bolt, I think—the fear of falling. Took weeks before I’d get on again. But I did get on in the end.’

      ‘You were a child,’ repeated Ash.

      ‘I was,’ agreed Gerald. ‘And you weren’t much more than a boy when you went out to the Peninsula and—’

      ‘I was twenty-five!’

      ‘That’s what I said—a boy,’ said Gerald, from the vantage point of the twilight side of fifty. ‘And you saw God knows what, but I never heard you bottomed out or failed in your duty in any way. And you finished up at Waterloo.’ He snorted. ‘If you’d told me you hadn’t been frightened I’d think you a damn fool.’ He considered. ‘Or a liar.’

      There was nothing to say to that, and eventually Gerald spoke again, his voice slightly thicker.

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