Read Online A Christmas Promise by Mary Balogh - Free Book Online Page A

come home to her then in all its harsh truth.
    And it had been her husband, not she, who had asked for news, who had directed that the doctor be shown into the parlor as soon as he came downstairs, who had questioned him when he came. It was her husband who had gone up first to Papa, not she.
    She had been paralyzed by the new knowledge that was not new at all. The full stark realization that her father was dying, that soon she would be left alone. Alone with a cold and frightening stranger who had not spoken even a single word of sympathy during their wait for the doctor. Not that she sought or wanted sympathy from him. But—oh yes, she did. She wanted a kind voice and kind hands—anyone’s, even his.
    The door opened behind her.
    “You may go up, my lady,” he said. “He is waiting for you.”
    How is he?
she almost asked. Foolish, fruitless words. She turned from the fire. “I will stay with him,” she said, looking him directly in the eye, “until he is dead. With your permission, my lord.”
    He nodded. “I shall return later,” he said, “to see how he goes on.”
    She was still wearing her cloak and bonnet, she realized suddenly. She removed them and set them down on a chair, folding her cloak carefully. She dreaded going up. She knew that after yesterday he would have finally given in to his inevitable end. She knew he would be very close to death. She wanted someone to go with her. She wanted an arm to lean on.
    “Do you want me to come up with you?” he asked.
    “No, thank you,” she said, looking at him coolly and sweeping past him in the doorway and up the stairs. She felt like two quite separate people, she thought, the one who thought and felt and the one who spoke and acted. She was frightened by the thought that she could not be sure which was the real Eleanor Transome—Eleanor Pierce.
    Her father sounded as if he were snoring. But when she tiptoed to his bedside and nodded to the housekeeper to indicate that she could leave, she found that he was awake.
    “Papa?” she said.
    “Ellie.” She knew he was smiling even though his face did not quite register the expression. “My own little countess.”
    “Yes,” she said, bending to kiss his forehead very lightly.
    “Is he treating you well, Ellie?” he asked.
    “Yes, Papa,” she lied. “He is very kind.”
    “And gentle, Ellie?”
    “And gentle,” she said, remembering the searing pain.
    “Forgive me, Ellie,” he said. “I know this is not what you wanted. But I know more of life than you. I believe you will be happy. Forgive me?”
    “Papa,” she said.
    “I loved your mama,” he said. “And you were born of her, Ellie—more precious than anyone or anything else in my life.”
    “Papa,” she said, “don’t talk anymore.” His words had been interspersed with loud rasping breaths.
    He obeyed her for a while. He lay still with closed eyes, looking and sounding again as if he were asleep. But he opened his eyes eventually.
    “Promise me something, Ellie,” he said.
    “Anything, Papa.” She leaned closer.
    “Don’t mourn long for me,” he said. “I know you love me, girl. You don’t need to show it to the world with black clothes and gloom. You are a new bride, Ellie, and will be a new mother before the first year is out, I have no doubt. And Christmas is coming. Promise me you will put off your mourning before Christmas and have a wonderful celebration. Have Christmas for me. It was always my favorite time of year. Promise me.”
    “Oh, Papa,” she said.
    “Promise.” He reached out one bony hand and grabbed feebly for her wrist.
    “I promise,” she said. “We will have a warm and wonderful Christmas, Papa.”
    “Ah,” he said.
    They were the last coherent words he spoke. When he grew restless a short while later, she fetched him his medicine and gave him twice the usual dose. And she sat beside his bed, her hands in her lap, not touching either him or the bed, afraid of causing him more pain. She watched