by Various
He bowed. ‘My lady.’ He came forward, took her hand and urged her to sit again. ‘I must apologise for not arriving sooner. The exigencies of foreign service and then the weather.’
‘Of course.’ The widow was a fragile brunette with wide brown eyes and a rosebud mouth. Very pretty, very feminine, he thought as she began to prattle nervously about how glad she was that he was there...not that she did not completely understand the delay...only it was so necessary to have a man to manage everything...dear Mr Temple had explained things so patiently, several times. But now dear Lord Welbourn was here everything would be all right...
Oh, Lord, a fluffy bunny rabbit. ‘Call me Giles,’ he said. ‘Do not worry, I will take care of everything.’
She managed a tremulous smile. ‘Oh, thank you, Giles. I feel so much more comfortable now.’
Of course you do. Your future is in the hands of a man so masculine, so masterful, that his pride rules his heart. And his head.
‘Now, do tell me all about this house and the staff. What do you think needs doing first?’
‘Oh. I do not know. I leave everything to Greaves and the housekeeper. Darling Henry said I was not to worry my head about anything practical.’
‘Of course, how foolish of me. Tell me about your daughters instead.’
You used to like feminine, fluffy little brunettes, didn’t you? jeered an inner voice. Yes, he snapped back. At least they haven’t the wit to deceive me, the calculation to weigh me up like a pound of peppercorns.
Chapter Nine
He should be able to sleep. The bed was comfortable, the room was warm, he was bone-weary. Giles had tossed and turned until faint light showed between the curtains, then gave up, dressed and went exploring.
A footman materialised at the head of the stairs. ‘My lord?’
‘Coffee. I’ll be somewhere along here.’ He waved a hand vaguely at the expanse of corridor running off along the front of the house.
‘Of course, my lord. That is the way to the Long Gallery.’
The Long Gallery was magnificent with the dawn light flooding across the polished boards. Opposite the windows were two fireplaces with portraits lining the walls between them. The fires were both blazing. How much longer before he had to ration the wood and coal? Giles began to pace, reading the names on the bottoms of the gilded frames, studying his ancestors.
Fragments of his face looked back at him from portrait after portrait. His nose here, his chin there, his eyes from most of them. It occurred to him for the first time that he actually belonged here. This was his family, these generations of Markhams who had built this house. At the far end he stopped and gazed out over the gardens, across the park to the just visible village rooftops, the spire of the church. His family, his blood, had cared for this land and its people since the fifteenth century. This place was his by rights, his responsibility. Being Earl of Welbourn meant something. It had value.
An idea was stirring in his sleep-deprived brain, loose ends were trying to tie themselves together.
‘Your coffee, my lord.’ Two footmen with trays of coffee and cream, pastries, rolls and preserves. They arranged a table by one of the fires, set a chair in place, shook out a napkin for him.
‘Thank you. Excellent. I can manage now.’ They looked ready to put jam on his rolls for him if he asked. A wave of longing for a bivouac with a few fellow officers and a rabbit stew came over him, followed by an even sharper craving for vegetable hotpot in a draughty dining room with Julia.
He drank the coffee and brooded. He needed to plan the day, but there was a pain under his breastbone and he couldn’t seem to focus on whether he should go to church, or stay in and make lists, write letters. Or perhaps the widow expected his company.
He tossed back a third cup of coffee, got to his feet and strode downstairs and out before the startled footman could reach the door. The stables were quiet, with a couple of grooms mucking out stalls and voices coming from the tack room.
Giles found Trojan and let the big horse slobber into his ear, which was disgusting, but vaguely comforting. An irritable gobble reminded him about his other livestock.
‘I suppose you think you’ve fallen on your scaly feet here.’ He leaned on the half-door and eyed Bulstrode. The turkey glared at him with boot-button-black eyes and scolded some more. That, too, was comforting. Giles thought of Julia leaning on that other stable door in an attitude of despair. She had kissed him then. Looking back on it, he realised now that she had only done so because she trusted him, because she thought he was a romantic, someone with imagination who could follow her thoughts and her longings.
‘Have I been a stiff-necked idiot?’ Bulstrode gobbled, then unfurled his tail and stalked off. ‘I suppose that’s yes. She’s not had much luck with men, has she? Her father squanders the family fortunes, her cousin throws her out, her potential suitors die on her, her husband is an ageing, lazy lump and now men see her bank balance and not the woman. She took a risk, telling me she was wealthy. I could have pretended feelings that were false to get her or I could have done what I did and acted like some starched-up aristocrat whose pride has been mortally wounded.
‘I think I love her.’ From across the fields church bells rang out Christmas peals into the crisp air. In the yard one of the lads began to sing ‘God Rest You Merry Gentlemen’, and other voices joined him, some lusty, some flat, all joyous. ‘She didn’t tell me because she wasn’t certain she could trust me and then when she did I threw it in her face.’
And all for pride. All because once a selfish woman had used him for her own ends and he had been braced for betrayal ever since. Apparently he was able to face negotiating with some cit for his daughter’s hand and vast dowry in exchange for giving her a title and ensuring the man had aristocratic grandchildren, but he couldn’t accept being bailed out by the woman he loved.
Giles strolled out into the yard, gestured to the grooms to keep singing and stood looking at the house. He had thought he had nothing to offer Julia, but he had. He should write, apologise. But those harsh, bitter words needed a face-to-face apology and she deserved another chance to slap his face.
‘Saddle my horse.’
‘Now, my lord?’
‘Now.’
In the house the clock struck nine o’clock. ‘Festive greetings, my lord. My lady is taking breakfast before morning service.’ Greaves gestured towards doors opposite the drawing room and he went in.
‘Good morning, my lady. I hope you will excuse me, I must leave. I may be back tonight, possibly tomorrow. Or next week.’
‘But aren’t you coming to church?’
‘No. Forgive me.’
Trojan looked fresh, despite the long ride the previous day, and now he was sure of the route it would take less time, Giles told himself as they crunched down the village street, past the church. The bells were still ringing and on impulse Giles dismounted, tied the reins to the lychgate and went in.
He had given up on prayer during the long years of war. It had seemed like hypocrisy to be praying to be saved while dealing death himself. Now he sat on a hard pew just inside the door and tried to assemble some sort of plea, for forgiveness, if nothing else. Someone had set up a nativity scene with a thatched stable and figures carved from wood. There was an example of travelling hopefully and with faith and finding what you wished for at the end, he thought, smiling at the rather lumpen figures of the shepherds grouped around the crib, each clutching a woolly sheep.
He stood and buttoned his greatcoat and noticed a bulge in the breast pocket. The small package was wrapped in silver and when he opened it the scent of sandalwood rose in the cold air. Inside, nestled in blood-red silk, was a heart.
Perhaps there was hope for an ungracious, prideful, desperate soldier.
* * *
They all sat around the dining room ta
ble with its candles and evergreens in brass pots down the centre and shining glasses and flatware.
There had been a brace of pheasants—she was not going to enquire where they came from—and after experimenting with spices and honey, even a very potent wine punch to drink, which helped ease any awkwardness amongst the staff.
‘It’s dark outside now.’ Mrs Smithers carried in the steamed pudding and set it in the centre and Thomas poured over something from his flask that burned blue and sharp when he lit it.
‘The days’ll be lengthening soon,’ Paul observed, passing bowls of pudding down the table. ‘But I’m glad we’re in here and not out on the road, that’s for sure.’
‘I think we should drink a toast,’ Miri declared, her nose decidedly pink from the punch. She lifted her glass. ‘Here’s to Mrs Smithers for a wonderful Christmas dinner, and to a merry Christmas for all of us!’
Julia raised her glass, forced her aching face into another cheerful smile, and echoed, ‘Merry Christmas!’ She wanted to go out into the snow and walk and walk until she vanished into a deep drift and oblivion. She wanted to weep. She would do neither because some instinct told her that there was always hope unless she despaired. But hope of what, even at Christmas? The little inner voice was silent on that.
‘Is that the kitchen door?’ Mrs Smithers stopped, spoon raised.
‘It must be the wind in a shutter. I’ll go and see. I want to fetch the Christmas presents in any case.’ Julia got up and took a lamp, leaving an excited buzz behind her as she went out into the dark hall. There was a thin line of light under the kitchen door, which was strange because Mrs Smithers was careful with lamp oil and candles. Best to check first, perhaps.
The kitchen was warm and lit by a lantern on the table and there, stripping off his greatcoat, was Giles. ‘May I come in?’
‘What are you... Why are you here?’ The punch had gone to her head, she was seeing things.
‘I have come to apologise. What I said was unforgivable, but I cling to the hope you can forgive.’ He was white with cold and, she realised, tension. ‘That was hurt pride talking. Stupid pride and the memory of an old hurt. It had not meant anything to me to plan marrying a woman I did not know, had no feelings for, so long as there was a mutual exchange of benefits. A City merchant’s daughter would like the status of a title, the big house in the country.
‘I had no idea how it would be if my feelings were engaged.’ He looked at her, his heart in his eyes. ‘But I love you.’
‘You love me?’ Julia groped for a chair and sat down.
‘Yes. And because I love you I should be able to give you everything. I should be able to lay the world at your feet, see that you want for nothing. But I couldn’t be the man I wanted to be for you. I was angry and something seemed to break. I said those unforgivable things.’
‘But you came back.’ He was here, there was hope. She clung to it like a lantern in the darkness. Clung on and prayed.
‘A letter is a coward’s way of apologising and I am foolish enough to hope that perhaps I can offer you something in exchange. I can restore you to your rightful place as an earl’s daughter. I can share a great estate and the life you were born to live.’
‘It isn’t enough,’ she whispered. ‘That isn’t what I need.’
Giles smiled, just a faint, rueful curve of his lips. ‘I know. Those are the material things. Julia, I can protect you to the death. I can cherish you with every fibre of my being. I can love you with all my heart. Is that enough? Can that be enough? Am I so wrong to believe that you would never have lain with me, told me about your money, if you did not feel something for me? You sent me on my way with your heart, after all.’
She was on her feet and in his arms before she was aware of moving. ‘I love you, Giles. I don’t care about titles or land or money. I love you and I want to be with you and raise a family with you and never feel cold again because I am yours.’
‘My darling Julia.’ Giles’s voice was husky, his hands as he held her, not quite steady. ‘All my love, everything I am, always, for ever.’
His kiss was a claiming and so was hers in return. This would be a partnership, she thought as she held him, felt his heat through his cold clothes, the strength of his hands on her back, the beat of his heart against hers, the pressure of his mouth as he found her again. They would build a kingdom together, she and Giles. They would restore the estate, raise a brood of children who would never want for love, discover each other, deeper and deeper, every day for the rest of their lives.
A burst of cheering shocked her back to where they stood on the rag rug in front of the range. Miri and the entire household were pushing through the kitchen door, laughing and clapping.
‘Captain Markham! You came back!’ Miri hugged him, hugged them both.
‘Actually, I am the Earl of Welbourn,’ Giles said, with a most un-aristocratic grin. ‘And this is my future Countess. Wish us happy?’
Mrs Smithers burst into tears, the men cheered, Miri ran out and returned with a sprig of pale greenery in her hand. ‘It was the mistletoe that did it. You kissed her and realised how much she meant to you.’
Julia caught Giles’s wicked look and shook her head. They had managed to do a lot more than kissing before the mistletoe appeared. She took the sprig and held it above their heads. ‘Once more for luck then, my love.’
‘Once more, for now,’ he agreed. ‘And then I am going to come in and drink a glass of whatever it is that makes you taste of wine and cinnamon and honey. But it wasn’t luck that brought us together and gave us love. It was a Christmas miracle and we can find it every year.’
‘For the next seventy at the very least,’ she vowed as she went into his arms and the church bells rang out into the night.
* * * * *
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Marriage
Made at Christmas
Sophia James
Dear Reader,
Christmas.
Christmas in New Zealand is a summer celebration and for me it’s a time of family. We have long tables set up on our veranda overlooking Chelsea Bay and usually at least twenty-five people for lunch.
All the girls make the meal, the boys concoct the punch, my husband finds chairs and tables, and my mother keeps us all on track. This year we are joined by two small grandchildren, so that will add a whole new and wonderful dimension to our day.
I love the joy and the hope of Christmas, the end of the old year and the beginning of a new one. We always say a prayer for those loved ones missing and then the eating and drinking begins...
Christine Howard in Marriage Made at Christmas has forgotten the meaning of love until she meets a man who makes her remember everything wonderful about the season. The weeks of Advent mark the growing admiration between Christine and the mysterious American William Miller, emotions that blossom into forever as the last candles are lit.
Sophia James
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter One
London—late November 1816
‘Is that gentleman bothering you, ma’am?’
The voice came close, gravelly and raw as Lady Christine Howard turned. A man stood there very still, his eyes a dark bruised green and his hair a lot longer than that worn by most o
f the men of the ton. A big man dressed in the clothes of trade.
Amazingly she was not in any way afraid of him and made her decision instantly. ‘Yes. I’ve no idea who he is, but he has been following me and I can’t seem to shake him off.’
‘I can easily deal with him if that is what you would wish?’
‘Deal with him?’
‘A quick jab to the face followed by a harder one to the groin is best. It always makes them think twice next time.’
‘A fight, you mean?’ She suddenly felt sick.
‘Well, hardly,’ he drawled and smiled.
The breath simply left her body in one single and shocking realisation. He was beautiful in the way an ancient warrior might once have been, hewn by violence, a man who knew his own worth and would never let others define him; a man unused to the sedate gossip of London society and more at home in places she would never go.
‘You look pale. Here, let me help you to a seat. If it’s only a talking-to you’d like him to have, I can do that instead.’
‘No.’ Christine did not wish for him to touch her and she moved back. She didn’t want to feel his hand against her own because she couldn’t trust herself to know what might happen next. ‘I am quite, quite all right, sir. Do I know you?’
‘Me?’ Now puzzlement lined his face. ‘I do not think so.’
He gave no name. He did not remember his manners and introduce himself. No, in fact all he did was remove his slouchy ill-fitting hat and slap it against his thigh. A cloud of thick dust motes blossomed and he laughed even as the late winter sun reflected in the browns of his hair.
‘Horses, ma’am, I’ve been seeing to them. They tend to be on the dirty side, you see.’
The lilt in his words alluded to another place and one far from here. The Americas, if she could name the accent, the vowels pulled long and slow.
‘You are a groom?’
‘Sometimes, indeed I am.’ Again that smile that made her want to reach out just to see if he could be real.