The Earl of Highmott Hall: A Regency Cinderella

by Nina Clare

  ‘Olives!’ cried Agnes, pulling out a wax stopper from a jar.

  ‘What’s them?’ asked Robin, who was scouring the breakfast pans in the scullery sink. He ambled over to see the goods in the basket. ‘Ham and eggs,’ he gloated. ‘And walnuts!’ Robin proceeded to demonstrate his trick of smashing a walnut shell open with his bare fist.

  The tradesman’s boy was now at the door.

  ‘Help the fellow with the basket, Robin,’ said Celia. ‘Set it on the table here.’

  ‘It ain’t heavy, miss,’ the youth assured her, ‘just big is all.’ The basket was set down, the straps loosed, and the lid lifted back.

  ‘Oh, it’s full of shoes!’ said Celia.

  ‘Finest shoes in the county,’ said the youth proudly. ‘My Pa is the best shoemaker in town.’

  There were three pairs of half boots, one in black leather, one pair in tan, one in a dyed green; several pairs of thick-soled shoes, and even a pair of dainty dancing slippers in red silk with gold embroidery.

  ‘There’s a note to be sent with ‘em,’ said the youth, rummaging in his coat pockets until he found it and placed it on the table.

  Celia unfolded it and read quickly.

  Dear Madam, I trust at least one pair will fit, it is the best the shoemaker had to offer at such short notice. I beg you will burn those wretched clogs. Sincerely, your fellow bothy-shelterer.

  ‘Is it from Mr Neville?’ said Agnes, watching Celia carefully.

  ‘Don’t cry, Celia,’ said Robin, through a mouthful of walnuts. ‘Don’t you like ‘em?’

  ‘I’m not crying,’ said Celia, dashing at her eyes and folding up the note tightly and shoving it in her pocket. ‘I am just… oh, I don’t know. I suppose I am just not used to people being so kind.’

  ‘He seems to like you,’ said Agnes thoughtfully.

  ‘He thinks I’m a housemaid,’ snapped Celia. ‘He doesn’t like me, he pities me.’ The softened look cleared from her face to be replaced with a firm one. ‘I don’t like being beholden to gentlemen. It’s one thing to accept a little basket of goods from the overflow of Highmott’s pantries, I wouldn’t deprive you and Robin of such treats for the world, but it’s quite another to accept such a valuable gift for myself.’ She thrust each pair of boots and shoes back into the basket, lingering for a moment over the beautiful red dancing slippers.

  ‘Miss Celia Asher,’ cried Agnes, ‘I didn’t think you could grow so ungrateful and unladylike!’

  ‘Unladylike?’

  ‘A lady would not insult a gentleman by sending back a kind gift in so rude a way. You try them boots on this minute, or I’ll send the tea and ham and olives back too!’

  ‘Not the walnuts, Nan,’ begged Robin.

  ‘My instructions, miss,’ said the youth, ‘were to only take back what were no good to you. You was to pick out the ones that fit best.’

  ‘You take a pair of boots, Miss Celia,’ ordered Agnes. ‘And some shoes for when your boots is soaked through. I know how you wear through boots in no time.’

  ‘Please, miss,’ begged the youth. ‘If you don’t take nothing, my Pa don’t get paid. A good sale just ‘afore Christmas would be a sore help.’

  Celia stared at the neat rows of shoes, and picked out the tan half boots and reluctantly tried the left boot on, her right foot still bandaged up. The boot fit like a glove. At Agnes’ urging she also tried on the shoes, and took a pair of black leather ones. The youth pushed forward the beautiful red slippers with a hopeful look. ‘These were an order for a Lady somebody-or-other,’ he said, ‘but she turned round and said she weren’t wearing a red gown after all, and so these wouldn’t suit. Pa was hit sore by that. That’s real gold in that thread, miss. He bought it special an’ paid a sore handsome price for the ‘broidery work.’

  Celia touched the slippers gently. The contrast between the delicate silk and beautiful embroidery to the plain, practical boots and thick-soled shoes was dramatic. It seemed a good representation of her life at that moment. Her world was consumed with work and practicalities and needs, but, oh, for an hour of beauty and comfort. For an hour of dancing in satin slippers…

  The same unaccountable impulse which had caused her to reach up and caress Mr Neville’s face in the dark, just because it stirred some long-buried longing for tenderness, that same impulse drove her now to pluck those beautiful red slippers from the basket and try the left one on. It fitted perfectly.

  ‘I’ll take them.’

  The youth grinned as he closed the wicker lid, re-buckling the straps. Agnes gave him a pocketful of the currant buns she had been baking that morning, and he left, wishing them all Christmas cheer.

  Lavinia returned home that evening, full of the praises of Lord Marbury and an account of the preparations for the ball.

  ‘You have never seen so much greenery and holly,’ she said, when Celia was tying up her stepsister’s hair in curling rags again, so she might have fully revived ringlets for Church in the morning. ‘Why, they must have chopped down half the woods to get it all. Every wall of the great hall is decorated, it looks quite like a fairyland with all the candles lit.’

  ‘I hope they kept to their half of the woods,’ said Celia.

  ‘Lord Marbury showed me all round the manor, even into the kitchens. Just as though he was showing me my future home,’ Lavinia said.

  ‘And how will you like Highmott as your future home?’ asked Celia.

  ‘It will be a prodigious improvement on this old place.’ Lavinia saw Celia’s expression in the looking glass. ‘Sorry, Celia, but it is true. Even with the dark panelling and the heavy, old-fashioned furniture at Highmott it is still so much warmer and more comfortable than here. They have carpets, and every room has a fire lit, and so much food. You should see what the cook and chef have made for the ball, it’s like a royal banquet!’

  Celia was feeling increasingly dissatisfied at the thought of all that she was missing out on. It did seem grossly unfair that she should be stuck at home, while Lavinia danced and Lady Asher feasted.

  ‘The whole house will have to be refurnished of course,’ Lavinia was saying. ‘But how heavenly it would be to go to London and order fabrics and furniture, oh, it is like a dream come true!’

  ‘Do you love him, Lavinia?’

  ‘Who? Oh, Lord Marbury.’ Lavinia giggled. ‘I don’t know if I love him. But I like him more than anyone. He tells such funny stories, he’s not a dry stick like his friend. I think life with Lord Marbury will be very satisfactory. I only wonder that he does have so serious a friend.’

  ‘I think Mr Neville a very kind man,’ said Celia.

  ‘He did ask after you,’ said Lavinia. ‘Fancy you being shut up with him all that time, and quite alone. If people were to hear of it, it would be quite a scandal, you know.’

  ‘It couldn’t be helped,’ said Celia crossly. ‘And if people have nothing better to do than gossip, their opinion is of no concern of mine.’

  ‘Did he kiss you?’

  ‘What?’ Celia was startled enough to drop the comb she was holding.

  ‘Did he kiss you? You were alone, huddling up for hours in a storm, why, it is just like something out of a romance.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You haven’t answered me. And you are blushing.’

  ‘I am not. If I am growing red it’s because your foolish talk is rousing my temper. Now, do you want me to finish your hair or not?’

  ‘He kissed me,’ Lavinia whispered, and stifled another giggle.

  ‘Who?’ cried Celia, dropping the comb again. A horrible image of Mr Neville bending his serious face with those kindly eyes down over her stepsister flashed before her. ‘Mr Neville kissed you!’

  ‘Not Mr Neville, you silly. Lord Marbury. When the mistletoe was pinned into the kissing bough, he held it up over our heads and said, ‘The lady I share the first dance with must also be the lady I give the first mistletoe kiss to.’

  ‘And you let him kiss you?’

/>   ‘They were only little ones. Quite chaste, really.’ She sighed. Then her eyes sparkled again. ‘Oh, I am so looking forward to the ball. Only two more days.’

  17

  Lord Marbury had not slept. All night he had tossed and turned, recalling Miss Asher, smiling and blushing and giggling as Neville had handed her out of the coach at church and escorted her in. It was evident that Miss Lavinia Asher considered herself as good as engaged, but to a man who was not who she thought he was!

  He lit the lamp on his bedside, checked his pocket watch and was frustrated to see that it had stopped with the hour hand on two o’clock. He gave up trying to sleep, pulled on the first pair of breeches that came to hand, stuffed his bare feet into tall boots, dragged on his greatcoat over his linen nightshirt and left the house.

  The cold was bracing, and he tugged up the lapel of his coat higher to reach his chin. Despite the chill, he paused between the pair of granite pillars marking the manor entrance. The world before him did not look as the world as he knew it. This was as a different kingdom altogether.

  The ground was rimed with frost, winking in the light of the full moon. It was setting to the west, where the morning star had already risen, big and bright. In the cool starlight and reflective frost, he could fancy himself in a land of Faerie, just as he had imagined it to be as a child. It would not be at all surprising to see darting fairies at such an hour. A sudden rush of air, close to his ear, made him jump back, half-expecting to see one such fairy flying over him, but it was only a small owl. It settled in the branch of the oak tree and called to him as though laughing at the joke he had just played on the mortal man.

  Lord Marbury shook his head at his own fanciful thoughts, and walked into the night, moving quickly to keep warm. He should have brought a lantern, but there was something about the silver light that suited his mood. He was thinking of things hidden. Secret thoughts. He was musing over the consequences of the revelations about to be revealed that night. At midnight everyone would know that he was Lord Marbury, and not Mr Neville. Lavinia Asher would know that the wrong man had wooed her – blast Neville for taking it all too far – he had even confessed to kissing Miss Asher the other day! Miss Asher might be somewhat silly, perhaps shallow, but she did not deserve to be treated this way.

  He groaned into his collar, the noise sounding earthy and crude amidst such delicate light and the patterns of frost surrounding him. His conscience told him he ought to propose to Miss Asher, it was the only way to make up for the deception. But his heart sank at the thought of it, for he could no longer ignore the truth: he was in love with someone else.

  Someone whose hair flamed in the sunlight, whose proud eyes grew soft at the thought of a poor cottager’s sick child or an old, penniless widow. Someone who would use her own hands to clear a field that she might grow food for her household. Someone who wore the guise of a servant, worked as a servant, but had another air about her completely. She was like some heroine in a romance, a true princess forced to live as a pauper.

  He gave a single hollow laugh, for if she was the hidden princess, then he ought to be the prince who helped reveal her true identity. But here he was, ensnared in a hidden identity of his own! And what unforeseen trouble had come of it.

  His thoughts ranged over all the possible outcomes of the evening ahead, desperate to find some solution that would solve the complexities of his dilemma, but he could not find one. He had a stark choice before him, there was no other way out: either he proposed to Miss Asher and spent the rest of his life as the lord of the manor, the pillar of the county, and put away any thoughts of romantic love, or he did not propose to Miss Asher, took his fifty thousand, lived a quiet life in a modest way, and was free to marry where his heart led.

  Could he marry Celia? The thought stopped him in his tracks. He looked up at the stars, feeling dizzy as his thoughts swirled. The stars winked at the corners of his vision, appearing and disappearing in a game of hide and seek.

  It was a foolish thought! Why would she marry him? She would have to leave the county, for he could not remain here once he had given up the inheritance. Somehow, he knew she would not leave. She had said she’d lived at Roseleat all her life. She was passionate about it and about the people she lived among. He was also sure that she would be disgusted with him when she learnt of his deceit. He could see those sea-green eyes giving him a scornful look as his deception was exposed.

  It was too cold to stargaze for long; he kept walking, turning down the carriageway, heading west, until the moon was nearly set, then turning about and retracing his steps, walking eastward as the horizon flushed pink, giving a rosy glow to the frost. His breath came in soft clouds, while above him, clouds were forming in the sky. Oh, that it would snow so hard today that his guests could not travel to the hall – and then he might gain a stay of execution! But the clouds were small, and the sun was climbing. The magic of starlight faded away, and the world looked real and iron grey again.

  ‘Lavinia, if you do not sit still I shall burn your curls right off!’ Celia was trying to hold the curling irons steady, but Lavinia was wriggling with impatience.

  ‘I cannot sit still with all these flutterings all over me and inside me,’ said Lavinia. She had two high spots of colour on her cheeks, and her light brown eyes were brighter than Celia had ever seen them. ‘I just know he is going to propose tonight. Oh, Celia! Who would have thought it? Here we were, as poor and miserable as could be, and along comes a handsome, rich earl and sweeps me off my feet and makes everything wonderful!’

  ‘It does seem too good to be true,’ murmured Celia, frowning as she tested the hair under her irons. ‘Your hair just will not take a good curl tonight, Lavinia. I think you might have to settle for waves.’

  ‘No!’ shrieked Lavinia, as though Celia had suggested something obscene. ‘I must have Grecian ringlets – it is absolutely the thing! I saw it in the society papers. Everyone has Grecian curls now.’

  ‘But it’s a masque ball,’ Celia argued. ‘You are going as a Celtic princess. They did not have Grecian curls, I assure you.’

  ‘I won’t be proposed to in plaits!’ said Lavinia, her cheeks and eyes glowing more hotly.

  Celia sighed and gave up trying to persuade her stepsister to any rational thought. She was still feeling miserable at not being able to go to the ball herself. What she would give for a costume that she might slip into the hall disguised, and enjoy the food and the dancing and music without anyone knowing who she was.

  She had thought about finishing the discarded gown she had been altering for Lavinia before the beautiful green gown had arrived from Lord Marbury. But her stepmother and Lavinia would recognise it. She was not going to risk her stepmother’s ire, she was sure the threat of selling Roseleat by any means was not an idle one. She might as well do her best by Lavinia; she needed her to win her prize. If Lavinia married the earl, Celia’s inheritance would be safe.

  ‘I wonder who Lord Marbury will be tonight?’ said Lavinia brightly, breaking Celia’s train of thought. ‘Who is it that marries Princess Flora in the story?’

  ‘She marries a shepherd,’ said Celia.

  ‘What?’ Lavinia’s face fell. ‘That is a horrible ending.’

  ‘He was not really a shepherd. He was living disguised as a poor sheep herder.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To test her heart. To see if she could love him for himself, and not for his money and title.’

  ‘Oh, so he was rich!’ Lavinia’s glow of happiness was restored.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And what was his title?’

  ‘He was the crown prince of Albion.’

  ‘A prince,’ sighed Lavinia. ‘I will settle for an earl. Perhaps he will distinguish himself in some way and the king will make him a duke. A duke is almost as good as a prince.’ Her face fell again. ‘You don’t think he will be dressed as a smelly shepherd, do you?’

  Celia shrugged. ‘Who can tell.’

  ‘Oh dear.
Perhaps I should send a note to the Hall.’

  Celia laughed. ‘To say what? Dearest Lord Marbury, I beg that you would not host your ball tonight dressed as a shepherd. It really would not suit.’

  ‘I would not be so forward as to address him as Dearest. Oh, Celia, do find out what his costume is – do!’

  ‘Not I!’ Celia laughed again, but it was a brittle laugh. She could almost wish that Lord Marbury would offer Lavinia his hand in homespun and lanolin stains tonight. But she thought of her mother, and what she would say about vengeful desires, and felt a twinge of shame. ‘If he is a shepherd,’ she said, forcing herself to speak kindly, ‘you can be sure he will be a very well-dressed one. And I do not think he will go so far as to make himself smell of sheep.’

  ‘Oh, you are no help! This is the most important night of my whole life and you are laughing at me. I simply cannot be proposed to by a shepherd.’

  ‘Oh, Lavinia, don’t be pettish.’ Celia’s short-lived patience frayed again. ‘What does it matter what he wears? There are far worse things than a shepherd.’

  ‘I suppose,’ admitted Lavinia, with a pout. ‘He could be a horrible buccaneer, or a… a highwayman, or something else nasty and vile. I could never accept a proposal from a pirate. Oh, please let him be dressed as a prince!’

  ‘Enough chatter, it’s time to dress.’

  18

  The Yule log had been carried in, and the cavernous fireplace in the great hall was filled and set ablaze. Candles and lamps glowed merrily, and the air smelled of pine sap. The musicians had arrived and were practising their scotch reels; the costumes had been delivered from the tailor’s shop. Everything was ready.

  ‘Time to get dressed,’ said Neville, who had been in high spirits all day. He had already delighted the housemaids by insisting they dance a jig with him, kissed the elderly housekeeper under the kissing bough, treated the footmen who carried in the Yule log to a bumper of Lord Marbury’s best claret, and sampled all of Chef’s sauces and pleased him by declaring each dish better than the last. There was nothing like a ball to put Neville in a good humour, and a masque ball was the best kind of all.