Snowbound Wedding Wishes: An Earl Beneath the Mistletoe / Twelfth Night Proposal / Christmas at Oakhurst Manor. Louise Allen
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‘No, I am quite all right. But I never oversleep.’
He shrugged, halfway through the door now, in full retreat. She realised what she was doing and left the covers as they were.
‘Perhaps you felt more secure with a man sleeping downstairs. More relaxed. We’re fine,’ she heard him say as the door closed. ‘I’ll start breakfast.’
Breakfast? Emilia threw back the blankets and almost fell out of bed. The chill of the room was more than enough to banish hazy dreams of tall, blue-eyed men. What on earth did he mean, relaxed? That she never slept properly because she always had one ear open for danger, for the boys, for the animals?
Perhaps he was right, she conceded reluctantly, as she splashed cold water on to her shivering body and scrambled into her warmest clothes. But she had never been aware of fear, of being braced for trouble. It was just that it was all her responsibility now, hers alone.
By now there was probably carnage in the kitchen. She bundled her hair into a net as she ran downstairs and then stopped dead, her hands still lifted to tuck in stray locks. The table was laid, the boys were dressed, their hair ruthlessly brushed, and the aroma of frying bacon was wafting appetisingly on the warm air.
‘Four eggs,’ Joseph said in triumph as he set the basket down on the table. ‘One each.’
‘Excellent.’ Hugo glanced up from the vast skillet he was wielding expertly. The intensity she had seen—imag-ined?—in his eyes in the bedchamber was replaced by nothing more disturbing than concentration. ‘Pass me those slices of stale bread, Nathan, and we’ll fry those in the bacon fat. We men will need some solid ballast inside us today. Joseph, pour your mama some tea.’
‘You are making breakfast.’ Emilia sat down on one end of the bench and smiled rather blankly at her son as he passed her the tea. Order, unburned food, quiet boys. The man was a miracle worker. Or a very good officer.
‘Of course. Soldiers cook. It was that or starve half the time when the baggage train got left behind. There, we’re ready. Plates, boys.’
Four plates were produced, loaded and conveyed somewhat unsteadily to the table. Tea and milk were poured. Hugo began to slice bread. ‘I can’t make bread, though,’ he said, passing a slice over to her.
‘No. I don’t expect you have felt the need.’
‘I have, frequently. It is just that it always turns out like boot leather.’ Perhaps that strange episode last night when she was so irritable with him had been the dream, because he showed no signs of recalling it. Best not to mention it, she would only get bogged down trying to explain something she did not understand herself.
‘I have checked the stable and the boys say they’ll feed the animals while I dig the pigsty out. Then I had best clear the way to the log pile and we can stock up on fuel inside before you tell me which neighbours I should be digging towards. You said last night there were some elderly ones?’
Oh, dear, it had not been a dream after all. She really had come downstairs in that frightful robe and lectured him on neighbourliness. And then she had slept in and he had felt it necessary to check on her and she had rubbed her cheek against his hand. It was all coming back in blush-making detail. No wonder he had retreated into brisk practicality.
‘There’s the Widow Cooke and then beyond her, old John Janes. I expect the other villagers will be out digging as well, so you’ll all meet up and we can work out if anyone is still cut off.’
‘And who would be doing the digging from here if I had not happened by?’
‘We would, the boys and I. It would take us a long time, though.’ And if she did not have to worry about the old people then she could get on with clearing the waste mash from the tubs. Emilia chewed on a mouthful of bacon, all the more delicious because she had not had to cook it, and gradually became aware that Hugo was frowning again.
He really did not approve of her working with her hands, that was obvious. What had possessed her to confirm his suspicions that she was gentry-born? Although the way she spoke and the fact that the boys were being educated in the classics were clues enough, she supposed. Did he think the labour was beneath her because of her birth or that he simply did not like to see a woman working hard? He was unobservant if he had never noticed just how tough life was for anyone outside the charmed circle of privilege.
‘I would warn the boys that the wind might change and they would be set with their faces in a scowl for ever,’ Emilia said lightly and his frown vanished.
‘Was I scowling? I am sorry. I think I have the kind of face that always looks serious in repose.’ He smiled. ‘Is that better?’
Do not do that! Having a large male, in his prime, wandering about the house was bad enough, but even when scowling Hugo was a good-looking man with his strong bones and firm chin and those deep-blue eyes. When he smiled right at her like that he took her breath away.
‘Infinitely,’ Emilia said and smiled back with determined friendliness. ‘Boys, you may leave the dishes this morning. Wrap up warmly and help the major with the wood and the animals.’
Emilia braced herself for the usual tussle of getting the twins into what she considered sufficient warm clothing, finding missing mittens, lost scarves and untangling bootlaces. Hugo simply stood up, said, ‘Anyone who is not ready in five minutes will stay and do housework’, and a miracle happened. He had no sooner pulled on his boots and put on his scarlet uniform jacket under the battered leather jerkin than both boys were standing to attention, every button done up, boots laced, scarves tied.
‘Right, forward march.’ He ushered them towards the door and turned at the last moment. ‘Let us know when you want us back, General.’ and he winked, reducing himself to the same age as the twins with one cheeky gesture.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Emilia grumbled at herself as she dumped dishes in the stone sink and lifted the kettle from its hook over the fire. Hugo Travers was not a boy, he was a hardened soldier, probably with a woman in every town across three countries. She was certainly not going to feel maternal about him and she definitely could not afford to feel anything else, except possibly sisterly.
It was foolish to feel sorry for him, just because his childhood had been devoid of family love. Hers had been full of it—and look what happened the moment she strayed from what was expected of her: rejection. She had thought the well of love was bottomless, that she could give her heart to a man and her parents would forgive her, but she had been wrong, or, perhaps, simply unworthy. Hugo obviously had no parents or siblings to disappoint, but he seemed to have acquired incredibly high expectations of himself from somewhere.
Emilia realised she was standing with a kettle of cooling water in her hand and poured it over the dishes. Life had to go on, even when it consisted of dealing with every dish in the kitchen. Hugo might be a good cook, but he seemed to have no idea about the washing up he produced. Servants, of course, on the battlefield or in the home, would whisk away the debris that the master created. She rolled up her sleeves and attacked the washing-up, planning her day in her head as she worked.
The bite of the shovel into the snow, the contraction of his shoulder muscles as he lifted and swung the load to one side, the neatness of the path he was cutting through thigh-high snow were all a simple, satisfying physical effort which most effectively stilled any restlessness his unruly body was feeling. The trouble was, it left his brain free to run in circles like a dog in a turnspit wheel, analysing and speculating. Wanting.
Behind him the boys scurried to and fro with armloads of wood and buckets for the animals. The pig was complaining loudly that it wanted more food, across the frozen valley the sound from the church bells of the main village came clear on the cold air and close to hand Emilia’s neighbours called to each other as they negotiated the drifts. He had waved, called that Mrs Weston had directed him to the Cooke and Janes cottages and the other men had stared, but waved back in acknowledgement.
They would all come and investigate once pathways were open, he