Page 121 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
Jocelyn crossed to one of the windows to study the view beyond. Bayneville Castle itself and its surroundings fascinated her. It was so big, the expanse of land so vast! And so other-worldly to her, a city-bred woman. The winter-browned grass undulated gently down to a narrow river lined with tall, bare-branched trees etched against the hillside to the south. Beyond, up the sloping hill, were green hedges and dark pine set against a pale blue-washed sky.
She went from window to window. To the east stood a village of estate buildings, to the north a small dower house, a church, and greenhouses with orchards beyond. Emmie came up beside her to quietly point out and name the landmarks. Jocelyn was touched by the young girl's thoughtfulness and silently vowed to procure a small Christmas token for the maid.
Just as they were about to turn away, a tall, hatless figure in a worn coat and stained leather breeches crossed the ground from the house toward one of the smaller whitewashed outbuildings. Jocelyn recognized the figure as the Marquess and said as much aloud.
"Yes, Miss. He be going to the carpenter's," the maid said. She turned away to hang up Jocelyn's coat.
"The carpenter's?" Jocelyn asked before she could stop herself. Silently she cursed her wayward curiosity, the bane of her existence. It did not do to appear nosy before servants, especially when one had just arrived.
Emmie didn't seem to notice. "Aye." She paused to smile and glance toward the window. " 'Tis for his little ladyship, don't y' know."
Jocelyn laughed, entirely confused. "No, I'm afraid I don't."
"Och, that's right. You'll not have met her yet," Emmie said as she shut the armoire door and crossed the room to turn down the bed. " 'Tis a rocking horse he makes for her. Her one desire, she says. Poor wee one."
She shook her head, though her gentle smile remained. Finished with the bed, she removed a large kettle from a hob on the fireplace and poured hot water into a basin beside which she laid out a small scented soap and a towel. "There ya be, miss, hot water to wash with, a warm fire to take the chill from ya bones, and a bed turned down for a nice nap. Will there be anything else?"
Yes! Jocelyn wanted to shout, surprised at the questions and feelings consuming her. Tell me more of rocking horses, little ones, and the Marquess! Tell me of vast expanses of land, of clear blue skies, and country living! Her soul thirsted.
But she only laughed, the questions going unasked. She was too well-bred. Inwardly she sighed and chafed at the social restraints that demanded a curb on curiosity. The feeling joined the niggling mental discomforts she'd felt of late but did not understand. She brushed it aside. "No, Emmie, nothing else," she said on a wistful sigh. "I thank you for your care. You may be sure I shall mention your efficiency to the housekeeper."
"Thank ya, miss," Emmie said, beaming as she backed out of the room, leaving Jocelyn alone.
Jocelyn looked once more toward the building the Marquess had entered; then she walked toward the basin to wash away the travel dust and compose her mind.
By two o'clock, Miss Amelia Barnes, Jocelyn's abigail, had arrived with all her baggage. The redoubtable little woman set immediately to unpacking, pressing wrinkled clothes, informing Jocelyn how fortunate she was to be an extended guest at such an exalted establishment, dressing Jocelyn's luxuriant dark hair with combs and velvet ribbons, and otherwise pushing and prodding her young mistress into fashionable formal attire. Jocelyn's protests that they were diningen famillefell upon deaf ears. After all, this was the house of a Marquess insisted Miss Barnes. Proper form must be maintained. Her young mistress would be best guided by her. Without argument.
By three o'clock, Jocelyn found herself attired in yellow figured silk complete with pearls, a compromise as Miss Barnes would have preferred she wear yellow topaz with diamonds, gloves, fan, filmy shawl, and reticule as if she were attending a London soiree.
Moments later, a beaming Miss Barnes gently pushed Jocelyn out of the room, then closed the door.
Bemused, Jocelyn stared at the closed oak door. A puff of quiet laughter escaped her lips, and she shook her head ruefully. Even here, in the country, this attention to society was the same. Somehow she thought it would be different. Perhaps the expanse of land she'd seen from her tower window, the number and types of buildings upon the land, or simply the worn coat and stained leather breeches the Marquess wore when he passed under her window made her think of differences. Perhaps, in truth, there weren't any, and therefore she should be touched by her maid's interest in her—in her—
What?
Her mind stumbled, and her bemused smile faded into a pondering frown. Interest in her social exposure? Success? Presence?
Why? To what purpose? Must this attention exist every moment of her life?
Slowly she turned away from the door and walked down the long corridor, her pace slow and measured. This time she scarcely noticed the richly oiled and immaculate wainscoting, the paintings hung between windows out of the sun's fading glare, the carpet runners woven with the Tarkington heraldic device. Vaguely she realized this was a long walk, but it felt right, for it gave her time to gather her wits, to leave behind ‘silly ponderings that have no meaning or purpose,’ as her mother often said in exasperation when Jocelyn questioned her on society's unwritten rules.
Somewhere nearby heavy footsteps rang staccato on marble. She heard them as one hears city background sounds and ignores them. Jocelyn's teeth worried her lower lip as her mind slid steadily toward considering what Miss Barnes's interests might be.
Jocelyn turned the corner toward the main staircase and scarcely saw the dust-encrusted boots before she collided with their owner, her downcast head bouncing off a broad chest that smelled of sawdust, sweat, and leather. She stumbled backward. Strong, work-roughened hands caught her bare arms where her shawl slipped down. She found herself staring at those hands.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Maybrey. Are you all right?"
That voice! Deep, solemn, and threaded with an ingrained sincerity. Jocelyn's gaze flew upward to meet soft gray eyes. "What? Oh, my lord! Oh, yes—yes—thank you very much. I was woolgathering, quite my fault. I do apologize, my lord."
"Nonsense, Miss Maybrey. It is for me to apologize." He smiled, and a spark of mischief lit his eyes. The expression transformed his face and took Jocelyn's breath away. His hands slid away from her bare arms, their roughness sending shivers down her spine. "I was running. Something I was told from childhood—as I'm certain you were—not to do in the house." He winked at her. "So I do not think you need to apologize."
Jocelyn laughed. "You are too kind, sir." Her breathing calmed from that first flush of fear and surprise, though her voice remained high and breathy. There was something about the marquess that fascinated her, and her fascination embarrassed her. She stepped away, embarrassed both by her clumsiness and her breathless responses. Firmly she dropped her society mien into place.
"Kind? Scarcely, Miss Maybrey. Or as lately my mother would have it, not at all. But I beg you to excuse me. I have been too long at my work which I specifically promised my lady mother that I wouldn't do on your first day with us."
"Oh! Please do not rush on my account," she said, lightly dropping a hand on his arm. "I daresay I would not be ready if my maid didn't so well manage me!"
"You, too, eh?" An odd expression—both mocking and humorous—twisted his lips.
