The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,89
as she could. “But Charlie loves you so much he wants you to be happy. He thinks you’ll leave him if you don’t have pretty things and gifts all the time.”
“What?” Ceci looked genuinely aghast at the idea.
“Oh, come now,” Livvy said, a touch impatient. “We all know you could have married the Duke of Hartington.”
“That fat old man!” Ceci retorted in disgust. “You think that… that I’d rather marry that fat old man and be rich than starve with my darling Charlie?”
Livvy stared back at her, surprised and gratified by Ceci’s vehemence. The truth was, she had wondered. She knew Ceci loved Charlie, but she was so lethargic about everything that Livvy had questioned how deep the emotion ran. Now she knew. She smiled at Ceci, a genuine, heartfelt smile of affection. “Oh, Ceci, if only you’d told Charlie that before now, but I am so glad to know it’s true.”
“Well, it is,” she said, putting her chin up and showing a glimmer of steel that Livvy had never seen.
Livvy nodded and took Ceci’s hands. “Tell Charlie that. Please, Ceci, for I think we may have to leave this place and rent it out. It will be a terrible come down for you, I’m afraid.”
Ceci’s lip quivered, but she nodded. “M-My clothes… jewellery…?”
Livvy said nothing, just held her gaze and Ceci nodded again.
“Be brave, Ceci. We shall find a way.”
“And… and you really won’t m-marry…?”
“No!” Livvy said, her voice brooking no argument. “You wouldn’t marry a fat old duke and I won’t marry Mr Skewes.”
“Oh,” Ceci replied, understanding dawning. She patted Livvy’s hand. “No, dear. In that case, of course you must not marry him.”
Livvy let out a breath of surprise and hugged Ceci tightly. “Thank you, and I’m so sorry about the baby, but you must not feel guilty. Of course it is heartbreaking, and if it had been born we would all have loved it with our whole hearts, but it would have been hard, Ceci. It’s a weight off all our minds, truth be told, for another mouth to feed now….”
“Yes,” Ceci said, her voice thready with emotion. “Yes, I know and… and those things you said about… about how to not have… a-another one.”
Livvy drew back in surprise to see Ceci’s cheeks burning scarlet.
“I shall speak to Charlie,” Ceci said, clearly embarrassed but determined too.
For a moment, Livvy only stared in astonishment. Goodness, what a day this was turning out to be. “Well done, Ceci. I’m so proud of you.”
“I can be practical too, Livvy,” Ceci said with dignity, and Livvy could only smile.
King looked up from the piano keys to find Walsh watching him.
“Calmed down now, have you?” Walsh enquired.
“No,” King replied, glowering at the keys. “This is a bloody madhouse.”
Walsh snorted. “Must be why you like it so much.”
There was a tap, tap, tap, on the window and King jumped, turning to glare at the crow. It tilted its head, regarding King sideways through the glass, one obsidian eye glinting.
“That damned bird,” he muttered wrathfully. “I swear it’s an omen of doom.”
“Or it just wants to come in,” Walsh pointed out. He moved to the window.
“No! Walsh, don’t you dare—”
But it was too late. The bird flew in with a flurry of black feathers and skidded to a halt on top of the piano. Its big black beak opened and emitted a discordant caw.
“Stay away from me, demon spawn,” King said, glaring at it.
It glared back, unblinking.
“Caw!”
At that moment Livvy entered the room, smiling to discover her crow.
“Mr Moon,” she said with obvious delight. The crow flew to her, landed on her finger, and allowed her to pet him for a moment before flying back to the top of the piano to bother King.
“Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, bull’s-pizzle, you stock-fish!” King cursed it.
“Oh, here we go,” Walsh muttered, while Livvy looked on with interest.
“Caw!”
“Away, you three-inch fool!”
“King, really,” Livvy protested.
“Caw!”
“I am sick when I do look on thee,” King said, getting into his stride now.
Mr Moon cocked his head to one side and took a step closer to him. “Caw!”
“I scorn you, scurvy companion!”
“Caw!”
“Oh,” Livvy said, realisation dawning. “That was Henry IV.”
“Thou art a boil, a plague sore!”
“Oh, oh, King Lear!” Livvy said, putting up her hand. She was getting the hang of it now.
“Caw,” said Mr Moon, unimpressed.
“Thou art unfit for any place but hell!”
Livvy hesitated and then yelled, “Richard III!”
King chuckled, amused despite himself. He looked back at the crow and shuddered. “Oh, Livvy, make it go