Yuletide Treasure (Thornton 1.50)

A shrug.

“I could help keep Fuzzy out of trouble.”

Noelle unburied her face, assessing Brigitte with probing sapphire eyes. “I s’pose.”

“Then it’s all right with you?”

“I s’pose.”

“Excellent.”

Eric cleared his throat. “Does this mean your decision is final?”

“It does.”

“Good.” He veered toward the church, sidestepping both Brigitte and the disconcerted vicar. “I’ll await your return. After which, your grandfather can perform the ceremony.” He paused, his back to her. “Miss Curran?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for saving Noelle’s life.”

Three

“NO. UNEQUIVOCALLY NO. YOU WILL NOT TAKE THIS FRIGHTFUL step based on some misplaced sense of duty to me and your students. You’ll be helping no one by committing yourself to a blackhearted beast like Farrington.”

The vicar leaned unsteadily against Brigitte’s commode, watching as she arranged her meager wardrobe in the open traveling bag on her bed.

Responding to the anguish in his tone, Brigitte abandoned her task and went to him. “Grandfather.” She lay her palm alongside his jaw. “The earl is not a ‘blackhearted beast.’ We both know that. If not in fact, then in here.” She pointed to her heart. “It’s not duty alone that’s prompting my decision. I truly want to wed Lord Farrington.”

“Why? Because of your romantic childhood notions? Brigitte, surely you can’t still be clinging to those?”

“Why not?” She inclined her head, searching her grandfather’s face. “Don’t you recall what he was like before … before …”

“Yes—before,” the vicar replied grimly. “And, yes, of course I remember. But that was years ago. Then came Liza’s tragic death and the earl’s self-imposed seclusion—events far more destructive than time. Lord Farrington is not the same man who filled your girlhood dreams.”

“I realize that. Which is all the more reason for my decision.” Brigitte silenced her grandfather’s protest with a gentle shake of her head, wondering how she could make him understand, when he lacked knowledge of a vital piece of the truth. But then, she’d never shared that conversation with him, for there were some memories too painful to discuss, even with this beloved man who’d raised her. “Grandfather, our parishioners come from miles around to seek your advice, easing their burdens simply by sharing them with you. Why? Because of your compassionate heart and open mind. Please, Grandfather, won’t you offer those same gifts to me?”

The vicar sighed. “I’ll try, child. It’s not as easy when you love someone as much as I love you.”

“I know. I feel the same way about you. And about our church. That love alone would propel me to accept the earl’s offer. But I’d be lying if I professed that to be my only reason for doing so.” Her gaze swept the ceiling, as if consulting the heavens, then lowered to meet the vicar’s. “I understand your concerns, and I love you for them. But the earl is in pain. As is Noelle. They need me. It’s my responsibility—no,” she amended softly, “my privilege—to help them heal.” With solemn reverence, Brigitte clasped her grandfather’s hands. “How many times have we pondered the source of my restlessness? How often have we wondered why I feel so empty inside; as if I’m missing my calling—some unknown purpose that would give my life meaning?”

A flash of pain crossed the vicar’s face. “I thought you’d filled that void with your teaching.”

“Partially, perhaps. Fully? Never. Not that I haven’t adored teaching the children,” she hastened to add. “I have. And, yes, they’ve needed me. But Norah is equally qualified to fill that need. The two times she visited the schoolhouse, the children clustered around her like eager cubs. She’s a fine instructor, and a caring one. My students will thrive beneath her guidance. Whereas Noelle …” Brigitte’s voice quavered, emotion surging inside her like a great, untamed wave. “You’ve always said that when a person’s life is at its bleakest is the time when God’s hope shines through. Perhaps now is that time, for both the earl and Noelle. Perhaps God is offering me this opportunity to bring joy back into their lives, to help make them a family. And maybe, just maybe, to open Lord Farrington’s heart to love. Noelle needs him so badly. You and I both realize that beneath her sassy, devilish facade she’s no more than a forsaken child.”

“True. But is the earl capable of offering her that which she needs? Can a heart as cold as his learn to love?”

“Lord Farrington’s heart needs to be reawakened, not taught. Think, Grandfather. Remember the stories you told me—about how the earl saw to Liza’s upbringing?”

Staring off, the vicar’s thoughts traveled back more than two decades. “That was a lifetime ago, but yes,” he murmured. “Liza was a babe, the earl scarcely in his teens, when their parents were lost at sea. Lord Farrington refused to give Liza up to the countless families who offered to raise her. With the help of his servants, he himself provided her with care, education …”

“And love,” Brigitte finished. “Even I recall that—not from the onset obviously, since Liza was two years my senior—but from the time she was about six or seven. She and Lord Farrington attended church weekly, arriving just before your service began. Oh, how eagerly I’d await their carriage. I’d watch them alight—a beautiful princess and her guardian, straight from the pages of a fairy tale. Lord Farrington was everything a princess could dream of: protective, devoted—and so handsome it was hard not to stare. His smile—I remember that most of all. It would begin at his eyes, then travel to his mouth. It was so dazzling it could melt the winter’s snow.” A reminiscent light dawned in Brigitte’s eyes. “Every year during your Christmas service he would slip a gift into Liza’s coat pocket, undetected. It wasn’t until they were leaving the church that she’d find it. Then she’d squeal and hug him, and he’d break into that wonderful rumbling laughter …” Brigitte’s voice faltered.

The vicar cupped her chin, raising her face to meet his gaze. “Your preoccupation with the earl began earlier than I realized.”

“I suppose it did. But, preoccupied or not, what I beheld was fact, not sentiment. Lord Farrington was an exemplary brother. He doted on Liza. A man like that doesn’t need to be taught to care.”

“Brigitte,” the vicar said quietly, “all that altered near the end. The earl changed after he lost his fortune; he became angry, bitter. His transformation must have been dreadful—and I’m not only referring to his physical transformation, although that alone was intimidating enough. But his unkempt hair and unshaven face were eclipsed by the hollow darkness in his eyes, his soul. How many times did we hear of his torrents? The way he cast the manor in darkness, permeated with silence, but for his terrifying fits of rage? ’Tis no wonder that less than two months later Liza ran off.”