The Ice Queen
Summary
Set in England in 1860, the brilliant Dr. James Balfour agrees to a desperate plot to infatuate the beautiful and gifted classical pianist Catherine Harrington before Christmas day. Once warm, vivacious and full of life, Catherine is now called the Ice Queen be the local townspeople ever since she lost her beloved husband in a riding accident and is left caring for her invalid son Daniel. Christmas is no longer celebrated in Harrington Hall; Catherine no longer fills her house with music until...
A fencing accident forces Catherine to accept the iconoclastic young doctor Balfour as a most unwanted house guest through the holidays. Catherine soon finds she has no recourse against the handsome doctor's arrogant and outrageous manners, his determination to cure Daniel, and destroy the icy fortress surrounding her heart...
Excerpt
London, England, 1869
Christmas magic gathers beneath the kissing ring...
Dr. James Balfour's thoughts loomed darker than the misty night as he turned his prized stallion into Hyde Park. He felt the full effects of a bottle of Scotch, and yet drink had in no way diminished the despair threatening him. Desperate to escape the brutal disappointment of the day, he set his spurs sharply into the beast's side.
The great horse leaped into a gallop. James leaned forward, feeling the flex and stretch of the huge muscles beneath him and thrilling to the speed of his flight, his long cape billowing behind him like a dark sail. As the cold night flew past him in a rush of blurred images, it seemed to snatch away his dark thoughts; his bitter anger toward the antiquated doctors at London's Academy of Medicine and Science, the futile months spent petitioning them and all for naught, the absurd rigidity of the English class system and the bigotry it bred, the bigotry that reduced all his accomplishments to the invective, "Your petition has been denied..."
An old woman appeared ahead, emerging from the fog like an apparition. With a startled curse, James drew back hard on the reins, tilting his weight to the left. The horse narrowly missed the bent form. Pulling the beast up, he turned him around in a hard, fast circle as he took stock of the situation.
"My heavens, Madame! I almost killed you!" James stared at the small impish figure standing before him, smiling up at him. He could scarcely believe that she stood in the deserted park in the dark middle of the night. The horse snorted angrily as James swung off so that he could make certain that the woman was indeed unhurt.
As he approached, the elderly creature looked him up and down as if taking stock. "Well, well, you are a handsome devil!"
"I beg your pardon, Madame?"
She ignored the confusion on the handsome face, nodding to herself as she took in his unconventionally tall frame and broad shoulders, a lean hardness that was the result of the rigors of his riding and his famous swordsmanship, no doubt. His olive skin and long hair created a foreign and somehow dangerous air about him, lending credibility to his reputation for arrogance, bold unconventionality, and brashness. His eyes were intelligent—he was said to be a brilliant doctor and diagnostician—and they also reflected his Scottish wit and sense of mischief. She could believe all the stories about him now: that women melted like butter in the pan in his presence, that his conquests were legendary.
"You're perfect!" she announced.
James had been checking his agitated horse, speaking to the creature as if to a child, but the beast kept shuffling his feet and tossing his head with frightened neighs. His gaze returned to the old woman. "If by that you mean I emerged unscathed by this near disaster... " His voice trailed off as the peculiarities of the old woman accumulated and magnified in his mind. She appeared to be a lady, her tiny stature clothed in blue velvet, the very color of a summer twilight. The skirts of her cloak spread over a neat circle of expensive crinoline. Gray hair peeked from her matching cap, on which a colorful peacock feather stood impossibly at attention.
The old woman's extraordinary presence in a chilly winter's night in the middle of Hyde Park transformed his anger at the academy, and he shook his head as if to clear it.
Damn, he must have drunk more than he realized.
"Are you quite all right, Madame?"
She nodded smartly. "Indeed I am!"
The impish quality about her struck him; it was as if a bubble of mirth were caught in her throat. He abruptly caught sight of two footmen waiting on the side in the shadow of an enormous elm. "Ah, you are escorted, I see."
He nodded at this, as if it were just the thing. No further assistance from him would be needed. He turned back to his mount, one booted foot in the stirrup.
"I was told I might find you here," she said.
"Were you now?" he asked, the Scottish lilt to his voice replacing his slight French accent, which appeared whenever he saw humor in a situation. For he had left his two colleagues even more drunk than he back at the Firefox Inn, and no one alive knew he was here.
"Yes," she replied, nodding again as she stared. "Now Catherine does not particularly care about appearances, but I don't know many women who could resist a second look at you. Even her. The ice queen, they call her and for good reason, too." She shook her head. "That's the problem. Catherine. Her heart is covered with a chilly frost as cold as the North Sea in winter. Her husband's death, you see. She loved him madly, though no one could ever figure out why. Anyway, it just keeps getting worse; she keeps getting worse. There's no more music at the manor. Her poor child is lost and becoming more lost each day. And the wonderful Christmas Eve festivities have all but disappeared. Christmas just isn't the same. Something must be done, and I need you to do it."
With a lift of his brow, James considered her nonsensical speech. Obviously, the old woman was a victim of senile dementia, sadly common among old people. What to do?
He looked to her footmen for help. The mist, the interminable London fog, billowed in clouds all around them. The two footmen waiting in the shadows had disappeared in the fog.
"Now," she said in an unmistakably aristocratic voice, a familiar voice to all who knew her. She used this voice when rearranging people's lives, which she was famous for doing. "Here's what I'm going to offer you for the favor. I understand you are seeking a position at the academy. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Madame Isabel Harrington."
"Not... not the mother of one Sir Walter Percival Harrington?"
The old woman nodded. "The very one."
"Why this is extraordinary!" James's dark eyes searched the surrounding area as if someone might step forward to explain the ruse. And surely, it was a ruse. "Why, Madame, just today your son—"
"I know all about it. My son—a good man but too stuffy by half—denied you a position at the academy, a position anyone with half a simpleton's wits could see you deserve. You were the Sorbonne's most outstanding student, were you not? Recommended by the great surgeons Laplace, Rush and von Baer! All your highly innovative research, too; why I happen to know that if given the chance you will become one of England's greatest surgeons!"
"This is all very flattering, Madame, but—"
"You know why you were denied?"
He straightened, his tone changed. "I believe it had everything to do with my heritage. My Scottish father was damning enough, but then my dear French mother—"
"That didn't help, I admit it, but even more than that, those old stuffed shirts at the academy are afraid."
"Afraid?"
"All your methods, you see. Most controversial!" She whispered, "The dissection of cadavers, for one. Your treatises on the church and science, for another. Too stuck in their ways, they are. Those old men are just not ready for you, there it is. You have to make them and..." She paused, leaning forward to whisper, "I am prepared to assist you. I still exercise considerable influence over my son, a few others as well. I believe I could change his mind if you agree to participate in the... ah, intrigue of my design to save my granddaughter and her son. Besides, I suspect, I am quite certain, you will find yourself very much in love with her as the ice begins to melt."
"Love?" James questioned before chuckling as if it were a completely novel prospect, and it was, at least in his life. Once upon a time he had fallen in love as frequently as he visited a barber shop, but after about the twelfth time, he began to have difficulty maintaining the pretense. After the twentieth time, he gave up the idea entirely. There was a world of difference between the poets' true love and a base infatuation, or more bluntly, an appetite for lust.
As the old woman explained the most unlikely intrigue in detail, James Balfour fervently wished he had not drunk so much. "The fencing regional finals are to be held at Harrington Manor?" he questioned after she was done. "Well, yes I had heard but—"
She elaborated further.
"Madame, I can scarcely believe such an outrageous proposition is coming from a woman of your stature!"
The old woman assured him it was .
Only later did he wonder if he imagined the whole unlikely scenario, a fantastic one borne of his desperation. As the old woman finally led him to agree to her terms, she added the last. "I neglected to mention one last thing."
"Yes?" He had mounted and turned his horse around. "What is it?"
"The deed must be done by Christmas."
"Christmas? My word, Madame, that is only two and a half fortnights away now—"
"Don't pretend to have difficulties with my timetable. I understand that you normally get your seductions underway before a single turn of the long hand!"
He heard her laughter as she backed away into the thick London fog. Perhaps he only imagined her last words, "You see, James Balfour, you are my Christmas present to Catherine...."
Widow Dorset stood behind her son's chair on the edge of one of Harrington Manor's grassy fields to watch the fencing match. Her back appeared ramrod straight, her shoulders squared, her chin slightly tilted. She looked absolutely regal, utterly unapproachable, as cold as the winter's day itself. Her meticulous appearance reinforced the impression: Unruly auburn hair was pulled tightly back and neatly pinned into an unattractive knot at the nape of her neck. A net covered the whole. She wore no jewelry, lace or ribbons. Her modest blue woolen dress rose to her neck, gathering tightly at her slim waist before it dropped to the ground. A darker blue winter pelisse, open at the front, draped over the dress.
All her passion remained hidden. The observant eye might guess this by looking into her startling blue eyes—eyes the color of sunlight on ice. She carefully kept her emotions concealed, as if even a slight smile might expose too much. Her emotions found a vent only in front of the piano, which she rarely indulged in these days, as a wintry life closed in around her.
She pretended to watch the finalists in the sword fight. Fencing! Such an archaic sport! She shook her head with disapproval as the two men paired and struck, paired and struck. Here was such ridiculous frivolity, and yet the entire audience appeared enthralled by the graceful athletic dance held on the expansive lawns of Harrington Manor.
Harrington Manor had passed into her paternal grandmother's family many generations ago from the Duchy of Lakeshire, a land grant to her great grandfather, Baron Regional Harrington. Since she had come of age, she managed the fine house for her father. His life was in London at the Academy of Science and Medicine, and he had neither the time nor the inclination to oversee the charge of the estate.
The lawns, gardens and small lake that surrounded the three-story, Tudor-style manor were famous in the region for their beautiful seasonal variations. In days past the gardens had been opened on Sundays to the public. The surrounding communities of Lakeshire had often used the Harrington Manor gardens for all manner of exhibitions and programs. Many of these had been sporting fanfares. No more. Nowadays, she refused permission to the numerous requests to open the gardens, and much to her relief, she was no longer asked very often.
There had been some incomprehensible mistake with London's Fencing Federation. They claimed they had received permission some time ago. Of course, she had granted no such request, but by the time the mistake had come to her attention, it had been too late to alter the outcome.
Her gaze dropped to Daniel in the chair before her. Three goose-down blankets covered his lap. He wore mittens, a hat and both a short and long coat, but still, it was risky letting him out in the cold. If he caught a chill...
Her brow creased with anxiety. The whole exhibition was extremely ill-advised. It was just that Daniel, so obstinate and headstrong, had insisted. "I'll throw a fit Mother, I swear I will and it—it could kill me!"
"Nonsense, darling," she had said but too late. The alarm in her eyes had given her away. Before anything happened, knowing she shouldn't but helpless to do otherwise, she had given in. Daniel's health was so terribly fragile, his precious grip on life itself so tenuous....
This was the worst time to lose their family doctor! He was called away on a personal matter, replaced by one Dr. Michaels, recommended by her father and Admiral Guther, a neighbor. Twice already she had been forced to write her father for reassurance of Dr. Michaels' unconventional advice concerning Daniel....
"Why 'e's as handsome as Satan wooing the angels, 'e is," Meredith said, excitedly, her mirthful dark eyes fixed on the taller swordsman. "If it weren't for me own Samuel, I wouldn't mind 'im warmin' me—"
Catherine cast her maid a shocked look.
"Well 'e is, ma'am. Just look at 'im."
Dr. James Balfour, Catherine knew. She watched as he expertly wielded the sword, forcing the other man back, step by step, as he attempted to gain the upper hand. She knew of the man from her father. Her father had been so distressed by certain essays the doctor had written, essays apparently everyone at the academy were talking about. She had asked to read them. She found the treatises all quite shocking, iconoclastic, barbarous really. She had dismissed them out of hand, only to discover that her thoughts kept returning to his eloquent points time and again, turning them over, finding that with some reflection a reasonable person might agree.
"He shall win, I just know it!" Daniel announced, red-faced with a seven-year-old's excitement as his small, clenched fist pounded the rim of his chair.
With alarm, Catherine leaned over, carefully tucking in the blankets covering Daniel's lap. He always became so excitable at Christmastime, and while she'd like to think his restlessness, like a normal child, owed itself to all the presents and treats, the carols and merrymaking, she knew it did not. For he was not a normal child. The tragedy had occurred at Christmas, forcing them both to relive the memory of it at this special time. The once cherished holiday became a dreaded seasonal flux, a thing she valiantly tried to pass through as quickly and uneventfully as possible.
She put her back to the sword fight as she hovered over her son, and she thereby missed the dashing strike of the doctor's opponent. The man's sword sliced neatly through the doctor's white shirt. The audience sounded a collective gasp as he stepped safely back, his arms raised as bright red blood soaked the wide width of his chest.
The referee shouted excited exclamations about the challenger's point being bared. A number of men stepped forward. Dr. James Balfour fell against the damp grass, blood covering his shirt.
Catherine took one look, and with a lift of skirts, she started toward the injured party. "Meredith," she called over her shoulder, "cover Daniel's eyes! Take him away!"
Wide-eyed with shock, Meredith reached down to shield young Daniel's vision. She yelped as she felt two small teeth clamp down on her hand. "Why ye little ruffian—"
"I want to watch!"
"Your mum says—"
"I don't care! And don't you dare wheel me away or I'll throw a fit."
"Ye wouldn't!?"
Daniel didn't respond, for he didn't have to. They both knew he would. Besides, he was too enthralled by the sight of his mother kneeling over the injured man to pay any mind to Meredith.
Catherine was one of four figures within James's vision. She appeared before a background made of the sun piercing through a gray sky. His victim had looked beautiful from afar, but now, as she knelt at his side, leaning over his form, he saw she was a good deal more than merely beautiful. The winter sun on the rich color of her hair, the startling blue of her finely shaped eyes, too large against the pale ivory of her skin. Too pale, he saw, resisting the urge to touch her full wide lips, slightly parted to reveal a neat row of small white teeth. He caught the faintest trace of her breath mixed with her perfume: a scent of sweetened apples and lilacs.
If she was the Ice Queen, he was the fire....
Hands were removing his shirt. Dr. Michaels shouted for a litter. Someone else suggested Mistress Dorset draw away from the gruesome sight of blood before she fainted. Dr. Michaels passed instructions that Dr. Balfour be removed to Harrington Manor at once. Catherine's hands had come to her face in shock, and she nodded as she drew back.
The injured man groaned, his hand shot up as if with a sudden nerve twitch. His cufflink caught a hair pin that held the net constraining Catherine's hair, and she gasped, startled, as he brought down his hand. Rich, auburn hair tumbled about her shoulders and bosom.
Catherine stared straight into the pleased smile curving on the handsome face. Of course, if he were not debilitated, a hair's breadth from unconsciousness, she would have sworn the doctor had done it on purpose. Ridiculous, she realized, simply ridiculous...
