Christmas Yet to Come (5 page)

Laura thought that over. “But you were sure it was a fake?”

“Originally, yes.”

“Who went near it between your original inspection and the constable picking it up?”

“No one.”

That left only two possibilities—either Justin was wrong, or the constable had switched the note for a real one, and when she said so, he chuckled. “You're right. Thankfully that occurred to me, and we managed to delay them both while we sent an urgent message to the nearest police station with the constable's name. They'd never heard of him, so they came to investigate. Apparently he and the counterfeiter worked together, and his job was to go into the bank to spring the trap if his partner seemed to be delayed there for any reason.”

Pleased though she was that she'd guessed right, she didn't like the idea of someone trying to deceive him when he had been working honestly. It was odd, because while she had been indignant about her being reduced to humanity and thrown into a snowbank, she hadn't imagined she could feel the same on someone else's behalf.

“I wondered,” she said. “Let's say someone died and left you a million pounds.”

Justin sighed, shaking his head. “It's always about someone dying.”

She tried to hide any amusement at the theatrical response. “Fine. You saved the Queen's life and she gave you a million pounds. It's the money that matters, not how you came into it.”

Justin looked horror-stricken. “Do I have to pay taxes on it?” She folded her arms and he stifled a laugh. “I beg your pardon. Please go on.”

“With that much money, would you work?”

He leaned back in his chair. “I suppose not. I could live off the interest.”

“And do what?”

She hadn't expected a quick teasing riposte, and sure enough, there was none. All the humor faded from his face, and he looked as he had done when he'd first let her into the house: uncertain because he didn't know what to do under those particular circumstances.

“I'd take painting lessons,” he said finally, as if admitting he would have to learn how to dress himself in the morning.

“Really?” That had been the last thing she'd expected to hear. On the other hand, she only had to look at the parlor to know he could be imaginative when it was called for.

Justin looked even more embarrassed. “I used to paint occasionally, when I had time. There are a few canvases wrapped up in the attic.”

“Why don't you display them?” Laura thought he'd have his choice of bare walls anywhere, but at once she realized the answer. “Oh.”

“They're not good enough. I had everything correctly proportioned, and no mistakes in perspective. The colors never clashed. But there was always something missing.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “Whatever makes people stare at a masterpiece in a museum and talk about it afterwards.”

“Every painting can't be a masterpiece.”

“I know, but there was always something—flat about mine.” He frowned. “Conventional. I painted still lifes of fruit, and the garden. But everyone paints landscapes. Perhaps it's a matter of technique—”

He stopped so abruptly she glanced at the clock to make certain her time wasn't at an end yet. “That was a terrible answer,” he said. “I should have said I would set up a hospital or endow scholarships.”

“Justin, I wasn't trying to put you on trial.” She realized a moment later that it was the first time she had used his name, and she went on quickly. “I only wondered what you would do if you had more time to yourself.”

It was a pity she had to leave, because she would have liked to see the paintings. Then again, she would have liked to do so many things. She knew the reason she'd asked him that question hadn't just been to open him to all the possibilities of what he could do with the time
he
had left, all the choices still to make. It had been because she couldn't afford to have any secret dreams of her own.

The awkward moment seemed to pass, and he looked at her thoughtfully. “What would you do, if I sat you in front of a blank canvas and gave you a bowl of fruit?”

“Probably eat one or two pieces, but the rest…” Laura finished her sherry to give herself time to think. “I'd paint it as close to life as I could, except for an apple growing out of a pear.”

Justin's brows went up. “The realism to ground the audience, and the strange touch to make them look twice. Like an English country garden with a gazelle eating the bluebells.”

Laura nodded. “And you didn't need to pay me your million pounds for that.”

He laughed. “Oh, the money wouldn't be nearly enough thanks. A portrait, on the other hand…”

He didn't finish, and once again she knew exactly what he was thinking of—the kind of portrait that would never be for public view. “With an apple growing out of my head?” she said lightly, to change the mood, and he let the matter drop as he cut more cake for them both.

“Tell me something,” she said as he refilled their glasses. A look at the clock earlier had warned her time was running out faster than she had expected—on the single night she was actually enjoying herself, too—but she needed to settle one final matter before her last hour was done. “You don't strike me as the kind of person who prefers being completely by himself. I mean, you like your work, but you…seem to enjoy talking to me as well.”

A corner of his mouth lifted in a quiet, almost private smile. “You could say that.”

“So why do nothing at all for Christmas?” She didn't want to harp on it, especially if it didn't make any difference to his life, but she was curious about him. “I don't mean you should have crackers overflowing from the chimney, but going to the other extreme isn't much better. It seems…bleak to be alone, working at your books and eating a cold supper before you go to bed as you do on any other day.”

Justin set the sherry bottle down with a little thud and looked at her as though she had asked him for a very large loan. “Is that any of your concern?”

“No. But I'm asking anyway.”

He didn't seem to know how to retort to that. Instead, he drained half his glass at once and looked away from her into the fire.

Oh, well done,
Laura thought in annoyance, mostly at herself. She debated changing the subject, but decided against it. If this was her last night on earth as a human, she didn't want to waste it in a quarrel, but at the same time, she could never again talk to another person. She would go on to witness the deaths of dozens more people, but never their lives.

“Justin, I've seen some of the worst things people can do to each other—and to themselves,” she said. “I wouldn't think less of you.”

He glanced at her, a quick evaluating look, and set his glass down. Leaning forward, he picked up a pine cone that had rolled away from the hearth and turned it over in his hands as if examining it.

“It's nothing dramatic.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “My father left me some money when he died, and a friend persuaded me to invest in the High Weald Railway company. He was putting an equal amount of his savings into it, branch lines would be built all the way out to Hawkhurst and we would see a significant return on our investment. Unfortunately, my partner proved himself a great deal less loyal than the counterfeiter's. Though they were both on a par regarding honesty.”

“He robbed you.”

“He embezzled nearly two thousand pounds in funds.” Even recounting that, she thought, he had to be accurate. “If it had been my loss alone, that would have been bad enough, but there were other shareholders, and I'd advised some of them to invest in the company. I couldn't let them suffer for my poor choice in partners.”

“What did you do?” Laura hoped she would meet his former partner one day, because that was one encounter she would look forward to.

“Made up the loss any way I could. Got loans, arranged lines of credit, sold whatever I didn't need. It took years. I even worked at copying out documents late into the night, which didn't help my eyes any. But finally it was done, the books balanced—and I sold off the High Weald Railway to the South Eastern Railway.”

She stared at him. “You didn't want it any more?”

“I didn't want to bear that responsibility any longer.” He looked straight at her, as though he finally had nothing to hide. “And my feelings towards it had changed. I'd been proud of the High Weald Railway, but after I'd worked myself half to death to save it, just thinking of it made me tired. I'd discharged my duty to the best of my ability and beyond, and now I only wanted to walk away. Like how you felt, I suppose.”

She nodded. “So that was why you never indulged yourself over the Christmas season.”

“Because I couldn't afford to indulge myself at any other time of the year either. I can now. I have a position at the Bank of England. But it's difficult to shake a habit of squeezing pennies out of farthings, and I'd be a poor host if I asked people here.”

“What do you mean?”

He spread a hand as if indicating everything around them. “Well, look at the house.”

Oh.
She'd seen far more unpleasant places—with roofs leaking onto bare stone floors, because whoever owned them hadn't wanted to pay for repairs—but while Justin's house was comfortable enough, it also had a certain bare, utilitarian quality. She guessed silver plate or even china figurines had been sold off long ago, but that didn't change his home's appearance.

On the other hand, when she looked at the paper flowers glowing red in the firelight, and breathed in the scent of apples, she thought if he could make one room welcoming, given a single evening and hardly any money…

“Like I said, a lavish party would be too much,” she said. “One step at a time. You decorated the parlor and had a guest to visit this Christmas. Maybe next year, you'll have some crackers and mince pies and friends to share them with.”

“No.” Justin's voice was uncompromising, his face hard. “I've already decided what I'm going to do. I plan to work even harder and call in loans from everyone I can. I won't give the servants so much as an extra sixpence as a bonus.”

Laura stared at him, because she had no idea what to say. In all her existence, she had never pushed anyone into becoming
more
set in their ways.

He smiled. “Then maybe you'll visit me again.”

All the tension left her in a laugh she couldn't suppress, though as she calmed down, she realized he'd been serious about the last part. She wondered how he would feel if he saw her as a wraith—faceless and silent, looming over him, the embodiment of not so much terror as a merciless inevitability. No, even if she came back, he wouldn't look at her as he looked at her now, his gaze soft and warm, the smile curving up one corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you look even better when you laugh.”

A fluttery sensation filled her chest and descended to her stomach. Her mouth was dry despite the sherry she'd drunk. He wanted her, she knew it, but the few feet between their two armchairs might as well have been a chasm.

And there was a rueful twist to his smile, as though he knew it and wasn't going to prolong something that couldn't last beyond that night. Perhaps not even beyond the twenty minutes that remained of Christmas Eve. He tossed the pine cone into the flames and glanced up.

“Pity I couldn't find any mistletoe,” he said.

Given the depth of snow, she was relieved he hadn't dug his way through it searching for more greenery. She also knew he'd left her that way out—she could say something polite like
perhaps next time
and they could talk about something safer until it was time to leave.

No
. “We don't need mistletoe.”

She got up. Her knees were about to start trembling, so she crossed the distance to his chair before that could happen.
All right, what now?
Perching herself a little awkwardly on the arm of his chair, she kept one hand on the back of it, and leaned down to him.

His arm slid around her waist and he pulled her into his lap. She gasped, clutching at him for balance, but he only slipped his free hand beneath her jaw, cradling it. His thumb touched the corner of her mouth.

That time, when his arm tightened, she didn't try to pull away, and her eyes closed involuntarily as his mouth came down on hers.

His fingers tilted her head to fit his mouth even closer against hers, and he parted her lips with his tongue. Heat and dampness, the shocking intimacy of flesh on flesh, the sense of being opened for something deeper, a slow searching that made her shudder. A strange tightness coiled down through her belly, and her arms rose of their own volition, holding him close. Her fingers sank into his hair. She whimpered, the sound muffled against his mouth as he kissed her hungrily, and she responded with a need that made her forget everything else.

A sharp rat-tat-tat made her jolt. Justin lifted his head. For a moment she was disoriented, but then she knew where the sound had come from—the front door.

“Damn.” His gaze was still hazy with desire where it rested on her, but he blinked and shook his head a little, brown eyes sharpening to their usual alertness. She was only too aware of the strength of his arm behind her, his thighs beneath her, but he was already lifting her off gently. “Of all the times to—”

“Don't open it.”

The words came without conscious thought, but Laura knew at once what was behind them—an intuition fueled by the warning she'd seen in the mirror. Whoever was knocking on the door wasn't there for a benevolent purpose.

Justin got to his feet. “What do you mean? It could be someone lost and needing help, like you—”

A crack of splitting wood echoed through the hall. He spun around and the sound rang out again—a heavy weight smashing against the front door. Something flew across the floor outside with a clang. It was the lock of the door, battered away from the wood.