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  As Peggy hurried away on her errand, Rose sat down on the stool next to Mrs Perkins’s armchair. The fire was warm after the chilly day and the cottage pleasantly cosy.

  ‘Perhaps you could persuade Lady Ramsay to find the Captain a suitable bride, then,’ Mrs Perkins suggested. ‘One who could make all the improvements this place needs.’

  ‘Perhaps she could,’ Rose said. ‘And I would be most interested to hear what improvements you would suggest, Mrs Perkins, if the right Mrs St George could be found.’

  Mrs Perkins smiled. ‘I could make a long list, Miss Parker, indeed I could. The school needs to be re-opened, the fallow fields put into production again. Once, long ago, when I was a girl, the Captain’s grandfather ran the estate and a fine landlord he was. Always concerned, always taking care of any problem right away. But his son...’

  ‘The Captain’s father?’

  ‘Bah.’ The old lady scowled. ‘He didn’t have a thought for anything but himself. Locked himself up in that house when his wife died, leaving us on our own. Running off his own sons. Master Charles—now there is a bonny young man, but I fear he takes too much after his father.’

  ‘And does the Captain take after him?’

  ‘Never! The Captain is a good man, a dutiful one. Look what he sacrificed in battle. Wounded like that and then coming home to a shambles. ’Tis a great shame. But we know he will always do his duty to Hilltop and to us.’

  Rose nodded. She had seen that for herself. No one cared more about this place, about his duty, than Harry. ‘In finding a wife?’

  ‘Of course. Every estate needs a mistress. She would have to be the right sort, though.’

  ‘The right sort?’

  ‘Sensible and steady. A good, practical head on her shoulders, not like the Captain’s pretty mother, rest her soul.’ Mrs Perkins gave a cackling laugh. ‘And rich, of course. Hilltop can’t be fixed without that.’

  ‘No,’ Rose whispered. Money was the one thing she did not have to offer. ‘It can’t.’

  Mrs Perkins peered at her closer. ‘You aren’t rich, are you, Miss Parker?’

  ‘I fear not.’

  ‘Pity.’ Mrs Perkins settled back among her shawls. ‘You do seem a sensible girl. Not bad looking, either.’

  Rose had to laugh. ‘Thank you.’

  Peggy brought in the tea then, carefully balancing the heavy tray in her small hands. She was the perfect young lady as she poured out the tea and served it, and soon she and her grandmother were laughing at Rose over some of her tales of life at Aunt Sylvia’s grand house.

  ‘You all seem very merry,’ Mr Perkins said as the men re-joined them. He swung his daughter up in his arms, making her giggle.

  ‘Miss Parker was telling us such stories,’ Peggy said.

  ‘Stories?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Oh, just about my Aunt Sylvia,’ Rose answered. ‘No one would believe she was quite real if they had not met her!’

  ‘Miss Parker is quite a lovely gel,’ Mrs Perkins said, chuckling. ‘Won’t you have some tea before you go, Captain? I have a few things I’d like to ask you about the property...’

  * * *

  Harry had thought he knew Rose Parker well enough by then, knew her quiet thoughtfulness, her devotion to her family, all the things that made her, well, Rose. A lady of such subtle understanding that one was drawn to her almost without realising it, without knowing how very addictive her warmth, her smiles, could be.

  But now he saw she was fun, too, as he stood in the sitting-room doorway of that small cottage and watched her singing with little Peggy, her cheeks pink and her eyes glowing. Peggy was giggling and even her grandmother was smiling and clapping along to the song.

  It was a scene of glowing, intimate happiness and Rose had created it in only a short hour. Created it because that was who she was. She could not help herself. Despite her life, her work as a companion to help her family, which could not be an easy or pleasant task for a refined lady, she still made everything about her just a bit brighter, a bit lighter.

  Including himself. After the war, he had been sure he would not laugh again. But she made him want to sweep her into his arms and dance around the room with her, to protect her. And it was the hardest thing he had ever done to admit he wasn’t able to.

  ‘Now that’s a fine lady,’ he heard Oscar say and he turned to look at the man, somehow surprised to find he and Rose were not really the only two people in the world.

  Oscar, too, watched her with a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘She is.’

  ‘I haven’t seen Peggy laugh like that since we lost her mother,’ Oscar said. ‘The children at Barton must adore her.’

  ‘So they do,’ Harry said, thinking of Jane and Hayden’s children, the way they looked at Rose as they sang, so eager for her smiling approval. The way they held her hands and laughed, as Peggy was doing now. Yes—she was a woman who brought warmth into every moment. She would surely be a fine mother.

  ‘Captain St George!’ Mrs Perkins called. ‘Won’t you come sit by the fire? Oscar’s been keeping you out in the cold too long looking at that roof.’

  Harry nodded, recalled to his duties by her words. That was what he had to do, no matter what—take care of his home, his people.

  ‘Peggy has made the most delicious ginger cakes,’ Rose said.

  ‘And now I’ve learned a new song!’ Peggy cried. ‘Miss Parker says I’m a—a...’

  ‘A natural singer,’ Rose said.

  ‘Cakes and music?’ Harry said with a laugh. ‘Who could say no?’

  They spent a pleasant half-hour by the cottage fire, taking tea and singing, hearing a bit of the estate gossip from Mrs Perkins, who despite her age and infirmity seemed to know everything.

  * * *

  By the time they left, the winter-blue sky had turned quite grey and snow had started to drift down in fat, wet, white flakes. They caught on Rose’s lashes and cheeks, sparkling like diamonds as she laughed.

  ‘See? Now it really feels like Christmas,’ she cried, setting her horse to galloping down the line towards Barton. ‘Race you back to Barton!’

  Harry laughed and spurred his horse to catch up with her. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to ride like that, set loose from anything but the speed and the lightness, the freedom. They raced through the gates of Barton, their horses neck and neck, until Harry pulled just slightly ahead of her at the front doors of the house. The snow had begun to fall in earnest, the lights of the windows like beacons of hope in a coming storm.

  But Rose’s smile turned even brighter. ‘I vow you must be the winner, Captain St George! What is your forfeit?’

  A kiss, he thought. ‘I shall have to think of just the right prize, Miss Parker—Rose.’

  Her smile widened, and she laughed. ‘Well, I feel like the winner myself. It has been much too long since I could ride like that. The fresh air, the snow—it’s all so wondrous.’

  Harry dismounted and came around to help her down from the saddle. As she looked up at him, her hand on his arm, her expression turned wistful. ‘Thank you for showing me your house, Harry,’ she said. ‘I enjoyed it so much. It made me see—well, made me see so much about you, I suppose.’

  ‘And were you disappointed by what you saw?’

  She glanced away, her cheeks turning pink until she looked like her name in truth. A pink and white, blooming Rose. ‘Quite the contrary. I just...’

  A groom came to take their horses, and Rose hurried up the steps into the house. Harry followed, but he found he couldn’t let her go just yet, couldn’t be without her until there was no choice.

  ‘Stay with me,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Just for a moment?’

  Rose looked startled, but she nodded and took his hand as he led her into a small, quiet, dark sitting room
off the hall.

  * * *

  As the sitting room door clicked shut behind them, Harry took her into his arms and held her close, so close they couldn’t possibly be parted. Not yet. Rose found herself wanting to seize the moment, to make it her own and never forget it. She looped her arms around his neck and closed her eyes, inhaling his scent of woodsmoke and fresh air, the faint touch of lemon, combined with the bayberry-greenness of Christmas itself. She knew those scents would always remind her of him now.

  ‘Oh, Harry,’ she whispered. She reached up and gently touched his scarred cheek, feeling its roughness under her fingers. ‘I wish—I wish...’

  But she couldn’t say anything else. He moaned, a low, hoarse sound in the shadows, and his lips claimed hers. She went up on tiptoe to meet him, putting all she had into that kiss. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, as their first had been. It was filled with desperation, passion, need, all the feelings she could not speak.

  ‘Rose,’ he whispered, his kiss trailing over her cheek, his lips warm and firm against the life-pulse beating in her temple. ‘Rose, I must...’

  She was suddenly frightened of what he might say, that he could take away this moment before she could grasp it. ‘You don’t need to talk, Harry. I know.’

  ‘I do need to tell you,’ he said. He took a step back, but still held her hands in his, the two of them tethered in the darkness. ‘I’ve hidden from life for too long. But you, you most extraordinary, kind-hearted woman, you make me brave again.’

  ‘You? Not brave? Never say that,’ she protested. ‘You fought in battle, you were horribly injured...’

  ‘I did fight, for so many years. It was what I had to do. But when I came home to find how I had neglected Hilltop—I have hidden from life. I couldn’t face that my life had changed so much.’

  How life changed, so suddenly, so unexpectedly. Yes, she knew how that felt. ‘Indeed it does change, I know that.’

  ‘I know that you do. That’s why I feel I can tell you, only you, about what happened to me. How I came to be here, as I am.’

  He took her hand and led her to a sofa by the high, small window that gave the room its only light. Snow still drifted down outside, thicker now, enclosing them in a silent blanket of white. She went with him, as she knew she could trust him, could follow him anywhere. But she wasn’t sure she could bear to hear his words, to know of the terrible pain he must have endured.

  They sat down at opposite ends of the sofa, only their hands touching in the middle. ‘You know I was a soldier, of course,’ he said.

  Rose nodded.

  ‘I lost so many friends,’ he said. ‘I could not lose my home, too. Could not let people down as I did some of those friends.’

  ‘Oh, Harry, you could never do that,’ she protested. ‘I am sure you saved so many. You would never let anyone down, not at all.’

  He gave her sad smile. ‘Sweet Rose. You do always see the good in everyone, in everything.’

  ‘I wish I did,’ she said. ‘I wish I could see—oh, Harry. We shouldn’t be here like this.’

  ‘Definitely not,’ he answered roughly. But still his head bent towards hers and she instinctively leaned forward to meet him, to meet the kiss she so longed for.

  The touch of his lips was soft at first, warm and gentle. When she wrapped her arms around him to draw him closer, he answered her hunger with his own and deepened the kiss. Their lips parted, tasted—and that taste sent Rose tumbling down into a new, primitive need she had never imagined before. Scandal, the past—it all meant nothing in that one perfect moment.

  A moment that was all too quickly shattered when she remembered where she was, who they were. What he had tried to tell her, that his duty to his home came first, in some kind of recompense for the friends he lost in battle. In her own good honour, she could never turn him from that. She broke away from him and jumped to her feet.

  ‘I—I should go,’ she said. ‘We should go. Shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Rose...’

  She shook her head. The house was still quiet as Rose stepped into the hall, Harry close behind her. She was intently aware of his nearness, the warmth of him that always seemed to hold her secure when he was close to her.

  The housekeeper Hannah came out to take their cloaks and hats.

  ‘Have Lord and Lady Ramsay returned, Hannah?’ Rose asked, self-consciously smoothing her hair as she took off her hat.

  ‘Yes, quite a time ago,’ Hannah answered with a sniff. ‘And the others are dressing for dinner. Shall I have water sent up for a bath, Miss Parker?’

  Rose was suddenly aware of just how long she had been alone with Harry. Being with him just seemed to make her forget all else, but she knew she couldn’t do that. She had to be careful. ‘Yes, thank you, Hannah.’

  As the housekeeper vanished and Rose turned towards the stairs, Harry reached for her hand. ‘You won’t forget, Rose?’

  She shook her head. ‘I won’t forget.’ She felt him watching her all the way up the stairs.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘What is this, then?’ Mrs Pemberton cried as her long-suffering maid, Miss Powell, put her breakfast tray carefully across her velvet and lace-covered knees.

  ‘Tea, madam. And toast with marmalade. As usual.’ Powell had been with Mrs Pemberton for years and knew how every morning proceeded. She calmly crossed the floor to open the window curtains and let in the pale grey winter light.

  ‘But what is this?’ Mrs Pemberton picked up a small pile of letters and waved them around. The lace cap perched on her white curls trembled.

  ‘The morning post, madam.’ Powell stirred at the fire the housemaid had laid in the pre-dawn gloom.

  ‘Why does anyone persist in writing to me?’ Sylvia grumbled. ‘It’s probably just the usual begging letters from my useless relatives. Vultures and bores, the lot of them.’ She took a sip of her tea and thought of her relatives. She had married well when she was quite young and he quite old, and as they had no children and his estate was not entailed and very extensive, she had lived a most comfortable life, one she looked back on now with much satisfaction.

  But now that she was old, cousins and step-cousins and grand-cousins she never even knew she possessed seemed to come out of the woodwork.

  Sylvia sighed and leaned back on her piles of lace-trimmed pillows. Growing old was no game for the weak, she saw that every day now in hearing that was fading, energy flagging. She had to take her enjoyment where she could. It was amusing in its own way to dangle those relatives along a bit.

  But sometimes it was merely wearying. The grand house was so quiet now, so unlike the days when she was young and the corridors were filled with parties, with friends and lovers and fun. She had seized it all with both hands and made the most of being pretty and rich. She regretted not a moment of it.

  But what to do now? How to leave her mark on the world?

  She took another sip of tea and frowned to find it had gone cold. Rose would never have allowed such a thing. Rose had a quick, quiet efficiency about her that made Sylvia’s life so comfortable, so easy. So much less lonely.

  Sylvia had to admit it, even if it was only to herself—she missed Rose. The girl rather reminded her of herself when she was very young, straightforward and practical and unapologetic in a way young ladies did not seem to be in the modern world. Sylvia had been willing to do whatever she could to help her family, her mother and sisters, and so was Rose. Sylvia had married well; Rose looked after Sylvia. And Sylvia knew herself quite well enough to see Rose had a harder bargain to keep than she herself ever had.

  Rose worked so her pretty, silly sister could marry her handsome, poor curate. If only there was a curate out there for Rose. Or better, a rich husband like the one Sylvia herself once snagged.

  Sylvia laughed. No, she couldn’t quite wish that on such a
sweet girl as Rose. Sylvia had known how to ruthlessly get her way with an old husband; Rose would be too kind.

  ‘I think there is a letter from Miss Parker,’ Powell said, as if she read her employer’s thoughts. ‘I do hope she is enjoying herself at Barton.’

  Sylvia sorted through the post, trying to conceal her eagerness. There was indeed a missive at the bottom of the pile marked with Rose’s neat hand.

  She opened it and quickly scanned the lines. ‘It sounds as if Jane is indeed making a merry holiday this year. And Rose says the children are quite talented with their music.’

  ‘She must be glad to be there, then,’ Powell said with a sigh, laying out Sylvia’s morning gown. ‘We do miss her here, though.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose we do. None of you has her droll way of reading aloud.’ Sylvia watched as Powell smoothed the creases from a grey-velvet gown and ruffled shawl. ‘Whatever is that?’

  ‘Your morning gown, madam,’ Powell said. ‘Unless you don’t feel like going downstairs until later?’

  ‘Of course I will go downstairs! I’m old, not ill. But no one will see or care how I’m dressed, anyway.’ She thought for a moment about the Christmases she used to see in that house, the music and games. She glanced back down at Rose’s letter.

  Something among the descriptions of dinners and games caught her attention. Rose mentioned a certain name not once, not twice, but three times, and in a way that was clear she hadn’t even realised it.

  Captain Harry St George. Going for rides, showing them his house, sledding parties. Sylvia remembered the young man well, a war hero and certainly no fool as so many young people were. Now gossip said he was quite scarred, a recluse at his crumbling estate at Hilltop. But Rose did not make him sound that way at all.

  Sylvia tapped the letter thoughtfully on the edge of her tray, a thought slowly taking form in her mind.

  ‘Powell,’ she said. ‘Have the footmen bring down my trunks and for heaven’s sake find something I own that isn’t grey or black. It is Christmas, after all.’

  Powell looked up, her eyes wide. Sylvia smiled to see that she had at last truly surprised her maid. ‘Madam?’