‘But he has never forgotten you, Hannah Linton. As soon as I had parole, I wrote to you, but your mother replied, saying that you had married that man Maxwell and I was not to write again.’
A choked sob rose in Hannah’s throat, and she leaned her gloved hands on the wall of the terrace. The snow soaked through them, but she hardly felt the pain of the cold dampness.
‘I know. It was too cruel, Fabien. I destroyed that letter. If my husband had found it …’ She swallowed back the tears. ‘I told Mama to write to you.’
‘Too cruel?’
He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she shrank from his warmth as he gently turned her to face him.
She forced herself to look up at him, taking in the man he had become. He stood with his back to the brightly lit ballroom, his face shadowed and immobile, like the carved face of a statue. A face she had known so well, harder now than it had been all those years ago, but still the face of Fabien Brassard, her first and only love.
‘Did you think I married Maxwell willingly? I was the price of his silence. He would have seen Mama and me both hang for harbouring an enemy.’
‘But why marriage? What did you have that he wanted so badly?’
She laughed, a short, bitter laugh. ‘My body, Fabien. He wanted sons but in that I failed him.’
There had been pregnancies… and miscarriages and then, mercifully, Maxwell’s death.
His grip on her shoulder tightened for a moment and then he released her, spreading his hands in a gesture of futility.
‘You paid a heavy price for my freedom. I abandoned you to a terrible fate with that monster. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?’
‘Forgive you ...?’
Forgive you? I have never stopped loving you, dreaming that, despite everything, you would return and rescue me, but you never came...
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ she said at last. ‘Maxwell died in a hunting accident. It was the happiest day of my life.’
He lifted her right hand and grimaced. ‘Your glove is wet. Allow me.’
He peeled off the long grey glove and drew an audible breath as the little garnet ring sparkled in the light flooding from the ballroom, like a ruby. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the ring.
‘The first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me …’ The familiar words of the Christmas carol drifted out through the open door
‘Carollers,’ Hannah said. ‘I haven’t truly celebrated Christmas since the day they took you away. How could I celebrate a season of happiness and love without you in my life?’
He placed a finger under his chin and raised her face to the light, a gentle smile curving the corners of his lips. ‘Nine years is a long time to wait … Is it too late for Fabien and Hannah?’
He kissed each finger in turn and, turning her hand over, brushed his lips across her palm before drawing her into his arms. She melted into his warmth, suddenly conscious of the cold and her inadequate gown. Their lips met and they entwined as the long years slipped away and they were once more just Fabien and Hannah.
When they broke apart the carollers were singing. ‘The fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, five golden rings …’
He smiled. ‘Happy Christmas, Hannah Linton.’
As he bent to kiss her again, she whispered, ‘Happy Christmas, Fabien Brassard.’
Epilogue
LONDON 24 DECEMBER 1824
The warm glow of a thousand candles, mingled with the sound of happy chatter and dance music, flowed out on to the damp London street, as Lord and Lady Easterbrook’s coach drew up to the door of the French Ambassador’s residence. The Christmas Eve ball thrown by the new Ambassador was the talk of the season.
A liveried servant was at the door of the carriage to hand Lady Easterbrook safely down on to carpet-covered hessian to save the ladies shoes from being spoiled by the mud and slush. Sophie, Lady Easterbrook turned to look at her husband as he dismounted, straightening his cravat and running his finger around the high neckline.
‘Do hurry,’ she said. ‘We are late.’
‘I thought it was fashionable to be late,’ he grumbled. ‘Besides, we wouldn’t be late if you hadn’t taken so damn long with your hair.’
