Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

“I’ve a proposal to make, Lori.” Julian crossed his long legs and leaned back. “If, by some miracle, I manage to keep Saint Benedict’s going, why don’t you come along and lend me a hand once in a while? I could use your help in the kitchen, and the men you meet there will give that shriveled soul of yours a chance to blossom.” He inclined his head toward mine. “But it’ll still be up to you to do the real work.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

He raised an admonitory finger. “See to it that no one who crosses your path is invisible.” He extended his hand and I clasped it to seal the bargain. Far above us, strangely muted in the church’s cavernous reaches, Saint Joseph’s bells began to chime the hour.

“Ten o’clock.” Julian pursed his lips. “A bit late to set out for Belgravia.”

“I’m not leaving London before I speak with Kit’s sister,” I said stubbornly.

Julian shrugged. “Then we’ll stay here for the night and see her first thing tomorrow morning. Father Raywood said there are cots downstairs, and the kitchen’s warm enough for us to—”

“No.” I straightened slightly, but couldn’t bring myself to edge away from the warm circle of his arm. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

He gave me a playful shake. “Not afraid of spending the night in a church, are you? Don’t worry, you’ll be safe with me.”

“But you might not be safe with me .” Exasperation made me speak without thinking. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Julian, haven’t you figured out yet that I find you attractive?”

“You… what?” Julian’s look of blank astonishment told me plainly that the thought had never crossed his mind. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t possibly find me attractive.”

“Oh yeah?” I retorted. “Well, watch out for lightning bolts, because if the Virgin can read my mind at this moment, she’ll probably fry me.”

Julian carefully removed his arm from my shoulders and folded his hands in his lap. “I’d no idea.”

“Now you do.” My blush should have outshone the candles. “You know the old saying: I may be married, but I’m not dead.” I glanced heavenward. “Yet.”

Julian faced forward, clearly disconcerted. “I could understand it if you harbored romantic notions about Kit,” he reasoned. “Kit’s a fine-looking man, but I’ve got a face like a… a…”

“A basset hound,” I offered.

“Precisely,” he agreed, unfazed. “I wouldn’t call a basset hound attractive, would you? Unless…” He raised a hand to his goatee. “Is it the beard? Perhaps I should shave it off.”

“It’s not the beard,” I said, coloring to my toes. “It’s nothing to do with your looks. It’s your passion, your tenderness, your humility. You’re a good man, Julian, and goodness is tremendously attractive.” I snatched a quick breath and thought: In for a penny, in for a pound. “And in case you think I’m being unbearably high-minded, let me just add that you’ve got a beautiful voice and exquisite hands, and let’s face it, Julian, you’ve got a body to die for.”

“Good Lord,” Julian said weakly. “Do I?”

I pressed my palms to my burning cheeks. “Take my word for it. It must come from hauling around all those vats of boiled cabbage.”

There was a nerve-racking pause, then a gust of laughter that ruffled the candle flames. Julian bent forward, clutching his sides, laughing until tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

I gave him a very dark look. “You must have a high old time in the confessional, Father Bright.”

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “It’s just… a basset hound… hauling vats of cabbage…” He gulped for air. “Perhaps I should make an exercise video?” And he was off again, holding his sides and rocking with hilarity.

I folded my arms. “It’s not funny,” I muttered, feeling more than a bit put out.

“No.” He wiped his eyes and took a few slow breaths. “It’s not funny. But it’s not a mortal sin, either.” He shifted sideways, rested his elbow on the pew, and regarded me thoughtfully. “I think I know what this is all about.”

I raised a clenched fist. “If you say one word about maternal instinct, I’ll clobber you.”

“The instinct I’m thinking of isn’t necessarily maternal,” Julian temporized. “I think you miss your husband, Lori. While Bill’s been away your natural, God-given appetites have been”—he stroked his goatee meditatively— “temporarily misdirected to another channel.”

I ducked my head, still too embarrassed to meet his gaze. “So this is a job for the Army Corps of Engineers, huh?”

“And what safer channel,” Julian continued, “than one you know to be absolutely inaccessible.”

His words seemed to echo, although he’d spoken softly, and when the last whisper of sound faded, I turned to face him.

“Because you don’t have God-given appetites?” I asked.

Something entirely human flickered briefly in the depths of Julian’s brown eyes, but he answered without hesitation. “Because I believe, as you do, in the sanctity of marriage.” He gazed at me steadily, then put out his hand. “You know you can trust me, Lori, even if you can’t trust yourself.”

I gazed up at the shadowy planes of his face, the glimmering, dark pools of his eyes, and slowly took his hand in mine. As we sat, fingers entwined, bathed in soft candlelight, I felt warmed from within, not by the fiery flames of passion, but by the unwavering glow of a far deeper and longer-lasting love.

“I do trust you, Julian,” I said, resting my head against his shoulder, “but if you think I’m going to spend the night sleeping on a cot in a soup kitchen, you’re insane as well as inaccessible.”

18

One of the nicest things about being filthy rich and married to a Willis was that I could always get a room at the Flamborough Hotel. In far less time than it took us to cross the frozen tundra between Stepney and Mayfair, Julian and I found ourselves wrapped in luxurious bathrobes, sipping large brandies, and toasting our slippered feet before a fire in the spacious living rooms of the three-bedroom suite assigned to us by the redoubtable Miss Kingsley.

“I can feel my soul corroding,” Julian said drowsily.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Ain’t it great?”

Julian gave muzzy chuckle. “It makes a change from Saint Benedict’s.”

“It’s the first part of your Christmas present,” I told him. “I’ll give you the rest as soon as I’ve sorted out the details.”

Julian slouched lazily in his oversized armchair. “If I weren’t so sleepy, I’d be intrigued by that comment.”

“I’ll tell you what intrigues me.” I tilted my head to one side and noted distantly that the room appeared to tilt along with it. “Did you notice the way Father Danos practically held his nose every time he mentioned Lady Havorford?”

“Perhaps she has an aversion to clerical garb,” Julian suggested. He lifted his head slightly and opened his eyes. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask: where, exactly, are our clothes?”

“They’re being cleaned,” I replied. “You’ll find them hanging in your closet tomorrow morning.”

Julian nestled back into his chair. “Delivered by the same elves who provided our pajamas, one presumes.”

“Naturally. They’re recharging my cell phone, too.”

“Clever elves,” Julian murmured.

A disturbing thought floated gently through the amber mist enveloping my brain. “What if Lady Havorford isn’t home tomorrow morning?”

“She will be,” said Julian. “Father Raywood told me she’s renowned for her Christmas Eve brunches. Speaking of which, has your husband arrived home yet?”