Improper Christmas Read online

  “May I come in?”

  “Oh,” she said and hesitated. “Yes.” She stepped back. “Of course.”

  William entered, and before she closed the door, Lillian saw his carriage. Fitzgerald, his driver, sat huddled against the elements. He tipped his hat to her and waved, then returned to looking straight ahead.

  Lillian closed the door and turned to William.

  “I’m afraid it’s overdone,” he said and eyed the basket critically.

  Lillian smiled and laughed, but it turned into a cough. She leaned against the door and bent over, gasping for breath.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Pennington, but I can’t receive you for very long.” She swallowed hard. “You should not be near me, I’m not well. I’m afraid I’ve a bit of a fever.”

  Lillian still leaned against the door, unable to move. She wasn’t even sure she could walk back to the settee, let alone entertain him.

  But he set the basket on a foyer chair and held her about the waist. Shocked at the improperness of his actions, Lillian did not protest as he led her back into the parlor and to her settee.

  He disappeared for a moment and returned with the basket, which he placed on the table.

  Before she had the chance to thank him, he pressed his hand to her cheeks and her forehead. “You are very warm,” he muttered, frowning. “I don’t like the idea of you staying here on your own.”

  She tried to wave him off, but hadn’t the strength to do even that. And his fingers felt cool and gentle on her heated face. “I’ll be fine. I shall rest for a few days, but this will pass.”

  “You’ve no one to see to you, Miss Norwood,” he said, his voice gruff. She squinted up at him but hadn’t the strength to figure out what emotion colored his voice.

  “I know how this sickness progresses,” he continued with that same tone. “It could render you very weak. I can send for someone — will that be acceptable?”

  “Thank you,” she whispered through a closed throat. She didn’t know if it was because William came to visit her or because of her illness. “That is unnecessary. I shall be perfectly fine. I have all I need here.” Lillian nodded in the general direction of the fire and tried to smile. “I’ve even made myself soup. Please, don’t trouble yourself. I might not make the feast, but I know it’ll be a triumph in your hands.”

  He nodded but looked unconvinced. She huddled deeper beneath her blanket and wondered if she should ask him to pile another log on the fire. This was the only fireplace she dared light, could afford to, and it was only December.

  Without a word he crossed to the fireplace and stoked the flames. She sighed in relief and closed her eyes, turning further toward the warmth. He checked the pot, retreated into the kitchen, and returned with a dash of salt and a bowl. He stirred the ingredients and scooped the soup into the bowl.

  “Please do not bother,” she protested. However, she did reach for the bowl.

  “Have some,” he ordered.

  To anyone else, Lillian thought his voice might sound like he returned to the military, but she heard the concern beneath it. If naught else, they were friends. He looked around the room then moved the basket to the side and sat on the edge of the sofa table.

  “I don’t like seeing you so ill,” he continued, watching her carefully, so close now. Lillian dutifully swallowed a mouthful. “This should help you recover,” he added.

  “Mr. Pennington, I’ve had fevers before and have recovered,” she said but softened her words with a smile. The warm broth eased her throat and felt wonderful against the thorns scratching it. “I’m certain this is no different.”

  “Do allow me to worry about you,” he said with a small grin, there and gone in a heartbeat. He leaned forward just slightly. “I’ve grown fond of a certain committee member.”

  “Then I shall most assuredly take good care of myself,” she promised.

  To prove it, she took another sip of the soup and let the warmth slide down her throat. It truly felt heavenly.

  William nodded and stood, his hands loose at his sides. “I shall rely on that,” he said softly. Then he cleared his throat and said in a firmer voice, “I’ll see myself out — do not come near the door.” He nodded again. “Finish your soup.”

  Lillian grinned and held up the bowl. “Yes, Captain.”

  She waited until the front door closed and looked back at the bowl of soup. “Do not read more into this than you should,” she admonished herself.

  Chapter Nine

  William regretted leaving Lillian the moment he exited her small cottage, but knew he’d return as soon as he finished his preparations. She looked so fragile, so wan, and her cough concerned him. She was a woman alone in a cold cottage with not even a scullery maid to see to her well-being.

  As his carriage moved away from Lillian, William impatiently drummed his fingers on his thigh. Even as the carriage plodded along, his mind raced. Lillian needed much to see her through this illness, and he organized a list of all the items he needed to bring.

  His own manor house lay several miles distant from Lillian, and only now did William curse every mile that separated them. She was ill and needed him. It was as simple as that.

  The moment the carriage slowed to a stop, William leaped out. He didn’t bother waiting for a footman to open the door. The frigid December wind cut through him, trying to batter him with its viciousness. He ignored it.

  “Fitzgerald!” he called up to his driver. “Send one of the boys back to Miss Norwood’s with a cart full of wood.”

  William barely waited for an answering nod before he strode into his house. He nodded to Barrows, his butler, and stopped only long enough to shed his coat. He entered his kitchens and looked around the bustling room. It was stifling in here, such a contrast from the cold day outside.

  And from Lillian’s cottage, with its dying fire and closed-off, darkened rooms.

  “Mary,” he barked to the young kitchen maid. “I need a basket of food stuffs for an infirmed friend.”

  “Oh, sir, of course!” Mary exclaimed. She bobbed so quickly, a lock of her light hair slipped from its bun.

  “Why my Aunt Prudence is always talking about how a fever needs to be fed well.” She nodded decisively and moved around the kitchen as she chattered.

  William blinked at her familiarity, but she didn’t seem to notice. None of the other staff spoke up; in fact, they seemed to ignore Mary as she prattled on.

  “The sick could lose all their strength if they do not have good, healthy vittles to rely on.” She nodded decisively again. Mary didn’t take a breath — and didn’t bother to even look to see if he listened to her. “There’s stew left from dinner two nights passed. We would never serve such to you, sir, but if you ask me it tastes mighty better after a few days to stew.”

  She chuckled and looked up at him. William blinked and offered a small grin in reply.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “A good, hearty stew may just be what is required.”

  He very carefully did not use Lillian’s name. He didn’t wish to tarnish her reputation or set even his own household to gossiping. William cared far too much for her to do that. But he did wish Mary hurried; he was anxious to return to Lillian and see how she fared.

  “And bread, sir.” Mary ran across the kitchen, deftly avoiding the other staff, to snatch a long loaf of bread. “If they be queasy, the bread might be all they can stand.”

  William nodded and carefully worded his next query. “And what would Aunt Prudence advise to help a cough?”

  Lillian’s cough sounded deep, but other than a hot compress, he was at a loss as to how to help her. William briefly wondered if bringing Mary along might be better than attempting to help Lillian himself, but instantly dismissed that.

  He wanted to tend to Lillian, wanted to help her recover. It was not duty nor obligation but a deep-seated desire to help her mend. No, more than that, he wanted to care for her.

  “Why honey, of course.” Mary nodded to herself and re-crossed
the kitchen to fetch a linen-covered jar. “A generous spoonful and, if can be, place it over the fire for just a moment to warm. It will feel good as they swallow.”

  William nodded to show he heard, but Mary was busy bustling about. The rest of the kitchen staff, no doubt listening for all they were worth, stayed out of Mary’s way and didn’t look at him as he waited.

  Forcing himself to remain still, William clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. Impatience clawed at him, thrumming through him and demanding he returned to Lillian. Now. However, rushing through her supplies would not help, and he wanted everything gathered in one trip.

  As he waited for Mary, William reviewed his lists. Wood and food, good. Blankets. Lillian had the single one wrapped around her when he arrived, but had she more? He didn’t wish to send Fitzgerald back for anything additional, so he turned to one of the boys hanging about the kitchen.

  “You,” he said and wondered what the boy’s name was. William prided himself on knowing all his staff’s names but couldn’t place this one. “Find one of the maids and see to packing several heavy blankets.”

  The boy blinked and ran off without uttering a word. William frowned after him and vowed to learn who he was. After he saw to Lillian, of course.

  Mary packed the basket with honey, bread, vegetables for a soup, a thick slice of ham wrapped in paper, and a small jar of jam. She lugged it over to him with a broad smile.

  “Here we are, sir.” She nodded again. “We have some wassail ready, sir. Shall I add a small jar as well?”

  “Add a large jar,” William answered.

  “If they have a touch of brandy” — Mary glanced up at him before ladling some of the wassail into the jar — “it might do them well with the wassail.”

  “Do fetch one of my bottles to add to the baskets, Mary,” William ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” Mary set the wassail jar down and ran off to fetch the bottle of brandy.

  He didn’t bother sorting through the basket; Mary seemed to know what she was about. And every minute he wasted here was another before he returned to Lillian. He’d stoked the fire there, ensured she had a bowl of soup, and knew she wrapped the blanket tight around her.

  For the moment, she was fine.

  Still he worried, a nearly palpable feeling in the center of his chest that urged him faster. He wanted to see to her himself. Now.

  Fitzgerald would drive him to the cottage, the only member of his staff who knew William’s destination. If he relied on anyone for discretion, it was Fitzgerald. The man was as silent as the grave.

  Mary returned with the bottle and carefully placed it in the large basket next to the small pot with the stew. “This should all serve ye friend well indeed, sir. And if I may? Might I slip in a few tartlets in as well? The sweet can be comforting as they regain their strength.”

  “Of course, Mary.” With his hands clasped behind his back, William nodded and silently urged her faster. “I shall be staying with my friend for a spell; do slip in an extra for me.”

  He tried to smile so she didn’t grow suspicious, but truly wished she moved faster than her already bustling form moved. It wasn’t Mary’s fault he wanted to return to Lillian posthaste.

  “Heavens, sir!” Mary exclaimed. She stilled and watched him with wide eyes. “Shall I pack another basket with effects to your standard?”

  “No.” William shook his head and stepped forward to take the basket. “This is a very informal affair, but do hurry. I am anxious to depart.”

  Mary slowly nodded, and he wondered if she somehow saw through his anxiousness. He tried to keep his words even, the polite solicitousness of a concerned friend. William suddenly felt as if he utterly failed.

  But his worry for Lillian, his anxious need to move, to leave, to return to her side, thrummed restlessly through him.

  “Yes, yes.” Mary wiped her hands on her apron and gestured for another of the maids to join her. “We shall see this is placed in your carriage, sir. Do you have need of anything else?”

  “This is perfectly fine. Thank you, Mary.”

  William smiled at his staff with a hurried, distant grin as he looked around the kitchens. Turning sharply on his heel, he returned to the foyer. Fitzgerald had brought the carriage round to the kitchens, where he waited on Mary and the baskets.

  As he returned to the foyer, William supposed he could’ve waited there, saving several precious moments by entering the carriage from the kitchens. But that most certainly would’ve set tongues wagging.

  The moment he set foot in the foyer, Barrows appeared with his heavy coat.

  “Sir,” Barrows said in an even tone. “Do you require any further assistance? Young Clyde could be of service with your infirmed friend.”

  It continued to astound him how quickly news of his every move spread through the staff. Even better he did not enter the carriage from the kitchens. No need to show his staff how desperately he wished to return to his friend.

  “No.” William shrugged on his coat and strained to hear the carriage arrive. “I’ll be fine on my own. See that the house does not burn down in my absence, will you, Barrows?”

  Impatient though he was to leave, William grinned at Barrows to show he was joking.

  Barrows’s eyebrow rose, no doubt in insult that such a thing was remotely possible on his watch. William merely grinned. But then he heard the carriage arrive and hurried out the door.

  “It shall remain un-singed, I assure you, sir,” Barrows answered as he held the door open for him.

  William merely nodded and climbed back into the carriage. The scents of warm bread and hearty food assailed him, and William suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten since that morning. He should’ve taken the time he waited in the kitchens to eat himself.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. His own hunger didn’t matter; he’d deal with that later. Right now he needed to focus on Lillian. Nothing else mattered.

  The ride to Lillian’s cottage took much longer than he wanted. Anxious to see her again, William drummed his fingers on his thigh and stared blindly out the window at the December day. Christmas, he realized with a start. Christmas Eve was tomorrow.

  He’d miss the Christmas feast for the soldiers and Lady Washburn’s Christmas Day gathering. It couldn’t be helped. Lillian was far more important. He’d send a note of apology when he had the time.

  Lillian’s cottage finally came into view. Her front door stood open, and Lillian crouched over the wood pile.

  William jerked in his seat. What was she doing up and about? Had the boy Fitzgerald sent not thought to stack wood by the fireplace? He didn’t bother to wait for the carriage to stop. William yanked open the door and leaped out.

  The wind slammed into him like a cold wall, but all he felt was fury — how could she stand outside when she was so sick? Wrapped in the blanket, she straightened and watched him cross the lawn.

  He also planned to have a talk with whatever boy came round with the wood, too. Enlighten the lad as to the courtesy of such a delivery.

  “You shouldn’t be out here, Miss Norwood.” He took the wood from her and all but pushed her inside. “Inside,” he instructed and closed the door tight behind him.

  She coughed in response but obediently returned to the settee. William dropped the wood by the fireplace and shed his coat. He carefully didn’t look at her as he went about stoking the flames until they burned with a cheery warmth.

  He wasn’t angry with her but himself. William should’ve stayed and saw to her. Sent Fitzgerald to the house for food and wood while he remained with Lillian.

  Her eyes were closed, the lashes dark against her pale face. He heard her breathe, each heavy inhalation rattling through her body. She lay huddled in the blanket for another moment but must’ve felt his stare.

  She opened her eyes, the beautiful hazel green of them glassy with her sickness. But she looked straight at him and smiled. Lillian cleared her throat once, sipped from the now-cold soup bowl, an
d breathed shallowly.

  “Mr. Pennington,” she said with a breathlessness that concerned him, “you shouldn’t have sent so generous a gift, but I am grateful. Thank you.”

  She coughed again, and William didn’t know whether to sit with her or keep his distance. He wanted to sit with her and rub her back through the cough. But he held his place by the fire, uncertain as to his reception at so intimate a move.

  “I’m surprised you returned so quickly,” she added after a moment.

  “I was worried,” he admitted softly and crossed to sit beside her. “You would not deny a friend the right to worry, would you?”

  “You need not have worried,” she said softly with a gentle smile. “I shall be fine. And I have little to offer you this eve except” — she waved her hand over the low table, where the soup bowl sat along with the basket he brought over — “a few biscuits and a thin soup.”

  “I have a remedy for that,” he promised, grinning widely.

  He clasped her hand for a moment then stood. She watched him curiously, and moved to stand.

  “No,” he ordered sharper than he intended. He softened his rebuke with a smile and added, “Stay here. I’ll fetch everything.”

  Lillian nodded and arranged the blanket more securely around her. William eyed her for a moment, just to make sure she stayed put, then went back outside. It took him several trips to carry everything inside, and he carefully closed the door each time he entered or left. No need to have the cold day’s wind whip through the house when his entire goal was to keep the house warm.

  William hung the pot of stew on the hook over the now roaring fire and carefully stirred it. He had a vision of Mary laying into him for ruining the stew, and he felt his lips twitch. He took one of the blankets, smoothly lifted her legs onto the settee, and covered them with the second blanket.

  He ignored the intimacy of the move or the look Lillian sent him. But she didn’t say a word, and merely leaned her head on the back of the settee and continued to watch him silently.

  Satisfied he needed no more, William returned outside. Fitzgerald was climbing back into the driver’s seat and looked expectantly down, awaiting further orders.