One Foggy Christmas

by Barbara Miller

  One Foggy Christmas

  Barbara Miller

  Smashwords Edition

  One Foggy Christmas

  Presented by Publishing by Rebecca J. Vickery

  Copyright © 2016 Barbara Miller

  Art Cover Copyright © 2016 Joshua Shinn

  Executive Production Karen Michelle Nutt

  Design Consultant and Formatting Laura Shinn

  Smashwords Licensing Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with other people, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this ebook without purchasing it and it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  One Foggy Christmas is a work of fiction. Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven.

  Dedication

  For my Greensburg Writers Group, who make sense of my Regency stories.

  One Foggy Christmas

  Lady Jane Faraday is conflicted about traveling to Summerhill for the Christmas holiday since the heir to the estate, and the man who was supposed to marry her, has died. But she has other worries than her guilt over not marrying Henry St. Giles. Stephen, the younger son and the one she loves, is still fighting the war in the Peninsula. If only he had written to her she would know where she stands with his affections. She'd wait for him if he'd say the word, but she isn't sure he's still alive.

  Stephen St. Giles receives leave to return home since his beloved brother Henry is dead and the war is nearly over, but what of Jane? She has answered none of his letters. Is she now his brother's widow or did she wed someone else? And why has he heard nothing from his mother? As he trudges the last miles toward home through the fog, he feels as confused and uncertain as his misty surroundings.

  Chapter One

  Christmas Eve, 1813, Somersetshire, England

  When she heard the carriage slow down, Lady Jane Faraday assumed they were coming to a village. Her parents were both dozing on the opposite seat. She lifted the flap on the carriage window and noted the menacing fog along with the freezing draft of damp air that made her next breath show in a cold puff. Still there were lit shop windows, people with packages scurrying out of the way of the carriage. The breeze brought with it the scent of roasted goose and fresh baked bread. All things that should cheer her. She was trying to feel more optimistic about Christmas than she had last year, but how could she be happy after Henry's death? And there was still no word from Henry's brother Stephen in the Peninsula. She loved Stephen, but he had not written, so perhaps he did not return that affection. She had been only sixteen when he left.

  She pulled her black wool cloak tighter about her and clasped her cold hands together inside her ermine muff. The bricks under their feet had long ago lost their warmth, so she wiggled her toes in her half boots to keep some circulation. She didn't mind the cold, but this beastly fog made her feel uncertain of the next step, let alone the next mile.

  Past the village, the team picked up speed again though they could not canter at their usual pace. She wondered how the coachman could keep going when she saw nothing but vague shadows passing for buildings and dim lights that must be windows into candlelit rooms where people enjoyed the warmth of their hearth. It was as though the coach was floating through the clouds and might fall to earth. They had left home a good four hours ago. It did not seem at all like Christmas Eve without snow.

  Last Christmas, she wanted the weather to prevent their arrival at Summerhill, the estate of her parents' good friends, the St. Giles. She had feared Henry might be compelled to ask for her hand. Even this year it would be an uncomfortable Christmas with Henry dead only two months from a riding accident. Henry loved horses. How terrible to die that way, though she did not know the exact manner of his death. She never knew what to say to people when a death was untimely. When was death ever timely?

  A selfish thought crept into her mind like a tendril of fog. Henry's demise let her off the hook. No one could possibly now expect her to become engaged, though she wished he had not died to save her from that fate. It was his brother Stephen she loved. With no word from Stephen in many months, it seemed his father had given him up for dead in Spain, though Jane still hoped. Henry had been his parents' conduit for news of Stephen and now that was ended.

  How strange. No matter how much you planned and prepared, events conspired to take you by surprise for good or ill. About Henry she was confused. She had kept him at arm's length for the four years he had courted her, and he had not made the task difficult. Almost as though he knew about her and Stephen. She'd been prepared to hold Henry off forever in spite of pressure from her parents. Now she felt guilty as though she could have prevented his death by marrying him.

  Before they left the house today, she'd overheard her mother speaking to her father when they thought she wasn't listening. Her mother hinted Henry had killed himself. She hoped it was not for love of her since Henry well knew she did not return that affection. She prayed she had not misinterpreted Henry's feelings. Thinking back and rehashing every moment, his courtship had seemed like a show he'd put on for the benefit of their parents. She had never feared him making a proposal, only the broad hints dropped by her parents after every visit.

  Her mother jolted awake and that made her father open his eyes. "I think the fog is clearing," her mother said. She pursed her lips and pulled her bonnet tighter about her brown curls.

  Her father removed his hat and peeked out. Some flakes of snow settled on his graying hair. "Because it's getting colder. Perhaps we should stop at an inn."

  "Nonsense, we can't be more than a stone's throw from Summerhill." Her mother leaned back and folded her gloved hands in her lap. "We shall keep going."

  "We could be driven into a ditch," her father insisted.

  Her mother always assumed the best would happen, but her father the worst. Jane cleared her throat. "The horses could be injured."

  Her father just looked at her to let her know he had thought of that and was not willing to countermand her mother to avoid the risk. He always did what Mother wanted.

  The match between her and Henry had been talked of for years by her mother and Lord Summerhill. She could not comprehend her mother's eagerness to reach Summerhill when a match between the families could no longer be. Plus they were still in mourning so a ten-day holiday seemed indelicate. She sighed. Jane had endured four years of uncertainly; she could stand anything for ten days.

  Chapter Two

  Lieutenant Stephen St. Giles paused to get his bearings. He had often been on foot in the wilds of Spain and Portugal and managed to return to camp but never in such a beastly fog. It would be embarrassing to lose his way within striking distance of his ancestral home, but this mist was deceptive. Landmarks he thought he recognized proved to be something else, not a cottage but a sheepfold, not a path but a stream, hence the wet boots which were now freezing his feet. He blew out a breath and watched he droplets condense in the wet air. His dark green rifleman's uniform glistened with beads of moisture.

  He supposed the area had changed much in the four years he had been in the rifle corp. Even trees grew up. But the road should not have moved. Every landmark seemed to betray his memory. If not for the death of Henry he might not have come back.
<
br />   His departure from home had been wrought with despair and guilt, brought on by his father pushing him away as though he wished to disown him. He could not understand his father's behavior, but he must have offended him in some way that was lost to him. The fog was a good metaphor for his last months at Summerhill, fraught with confusion and misdirection.

  His time in Spain gave him back his confidence. Putting his skills to use, Stephen had felt valued for his marksmanship, his willingness to take risks, to out think the enemy. He'd had friends there. The news of Henry's death had been bitter, especially conveyed in a letter from the family solicitor rather than a parent. The death notice had contained no details. Stephen had asked for leave and his captain insisted he return to England.

  Though he had heard of his brother's death from Mr. Chadwick, their neighbor and solicitor, he'd had no word about it from home. In a way that was not odd, since only Henry wrote to him. What could Stephen have done to alienate both his parents?

  After he'd fallen in a ditch a while back, he should have stayed at the coaching inn with the other passengers waiting for the fog to lift, but the possibility of getting home by Christmas Eve had tempted him to imprudence. He must speak to his mother. And would Jane be there with her parents? Did he dare hope? He considered the possibility that Henry had married her, but had not wanted to tell him.

  He might have to swallow his pride, if he saw any inhabited dwelling at all, and ask the way. He stopped to catch his breath and looked around him in a circle for any inviting light or even a rooftop. The only peaks he saw could have been the tops of pine trees. Better off staying on the rutted track. He trudged forward, feeling the road as best he could with his feet and trying to recall if any of it seemed familiar. However, he had never walked. He'd always been riding or driving a carriage. He had done plenty of marching these last four years, so even if he were going in the wrong direction or in circles he kept warm by moving quickly.

  He thought about Henry and how much he owed him. His brother had tried to keep their father from forcing him to take a position in the army. His brother had meant well, but he was thankful he had not been sent to the university as Henry suggested with the church as his goal. He could not see himself filling that role. In the army his marksmanship had made a difference. The war was won or nearly so. It was after they had crossed the Pyrenees and won that desperate battle at St. Pierre in France that Chadwick's letter caught up with him and won him the leave he had not asked for in years. He dreaded seeing his father again, and Summerhill would never be the same without Henry. At least his mother would welcome him.

  With six years separating them in age, he'd been a child to Henry when he'd left. Now that he was twenty-two he would have savored Henry's companionship.

  He'd had a good life in the army, but he had given something up, his youth. The mystery of his expulsion from Summerhill still haunted him. What if he was not welcome? He'd gotten precious few letters from Henry, none from his mother and father. He wondered if any of his missives had reached his mother. She might think him dead. It might have been better if he had waited at the inn and sent a messenger to announce his arrival.

  Stephen suddenly saw a gate emerge from the brutal fog and recognized the stone work on either side of the wrought iron. It belonged to the churchyard and was adorned by a pine wreath and red bow, a welcome mark of the season. Now he knew where he was and not more than half an hour from home. But something stopped him.

  He swung the gate open and walked though the mist to the St. Giles plots. There was fresh earth in one spot, cementing the tragedy into reality in his mind. He was too late for Henry, possibly too late for his mother and probably too late for Jane. He should have thought of all this before he agreed to the army as his escape.

  Chapter Three

  Too late Jane discovered they were not the only guests at Summerhill. Lady Agatha and her son, Bertram, had taken up residence here and seemed all agog to further their acquaintance with her. She recalled the lord's sister and her unpromising son from holidays before, and had not liked the outspoken mother then either.

  Amid the flurry of greetings Bertram gripped her arm and led her to the empty drawing room. "I must speak to you," he said. The room was chilly so standing in front of the fireplace did her no good. Bertrand stood taller than she recalled and he'd grown into his St. Giles' dark looks, making him somewhat handsomer. Without letting her catch her breath, he went down on one knee and grasped her right hand. "Will you marry me?"

  "No, absolutely not. Let go of me."

  Bertram sprang to his feet like a young colt. "I see. I should have spoken to your father first."

  Jane retreated to the door. "No, don't you dare speak to him, and never mention this again."

  She turned and fled upstairs to the guest room she usually occupied during her visits to find that her valise had been delivered there. She pulled off her bonnet and muff, and tossed them on the bed. She had been trapped again and guessed her mother expected her to align herself with Bertram Syn, the new heir. He had proposed to her as if it had been an unpleasant task he wanted behind him as soon as possible. What nerve. She tried to calm herself as she washed her face and traded her wool traveling dress for a gown of gray silk. She also unearthed a wool shawl to hide the gooseflesh on her arms.

  The door to her room was thrust open by her mother without the courtesy of a knock. "Are you ready to go down?" Her mother wore a dress of amber silk, a bit too festive for mourning, but Jane kept her opinion to herself.

  "Mother, did you know?" Jane draped the grey wool shawl about her shoulders against the chilliness of the house. It was not warm and festooned with greenery as it had been in holidays past, but cold and uninviting.

  "Know what?" Her mother's round face held an expression of innocence.

  "That they would be here."

  "Of course. How could you have forgotten Lady Agatha is a widow? I'm sure it's only natural that Bertram's uncle shows some partiality toward him. For all we know he is the heir."

  "He is not. Stephen yet lives." Jane stomped her foot and wondered what everyone would think if she did not go down for dinner.

  "I know what you would like to believe, but you can't make it so by wishing it."

  "If Stephen is alive, you would have no objection to me marrying him?"

  "Of course not, but the war is nearly over and there has been no word. If he were alive, we would have heard. Always a dutiful boy, he would have written his mother."

  "Yes, I suppose he would have." Jane was satisfied to get her mother's agreement that Stephen would be the preferred suitor. In her heart she believed he would return.

  "So be polite." Her mother tweaked one of Jane's long brown curls and smiled. "There's no rush. Indeed it would seem odd for you to switch your affections from Henry to Bertram overnight." Her mother stepped into the hall and motioned for her to follow.

  "You know I had no romantic feelings for Henry."

  "Good then. You are not grieving for him."

  Jane gasped. "Of course I am. He was a childhood friend."

  "You must marry someone."

  Jane followed her mother into the hall and made for the stairs. "No, I shall find employment rather than marry without love."

  "Don't be ridiculous. What can you do?"

  "I can teach."

  "You wouldn't dare embarrass us with such a notion."

  She was going to be twenty-one in a few months, so would have the power to decide her own future. Most girls her age were married but she did not care. She could refuse Bertram if he asked again and apply for a position at a girl's school. Anything would be better than living a lie.

  Chapter Four

  The fog was lifting but the snow fell now in clumps and soaked through the dark wool of Stephen's uniform. He had seldom seen such a storm even in the mountains in Spain. With a sigh of relief, he slung his pack and rifle off his shoulder and clapped the knocker on the front door of Summerhill. He still had a key but did not wan
t to take anyone by surprise. He stomped his feet to try to get some feeling back.

  The door cracked open. "Not today," old Foster said and moved to push the door closed.

  "But—"

  "Go 'round to the kitchen." Foster did close the door on him then.

  The butler had not recognized him with his watery old eyes. What a joke. Laughing, Stephen hefted his pack again and walked to the back entrance. The maid that opened the door shook her head and began to push it shut. Stephen said the cook's name and the girl said, "Cook is busy. The family is at dinner."

  Stephen was stunned. He could open the door and push past her, but what sort of impression would that make? Truth to tell, he had not wanted to arrive unshaven and damp. He turned his frozen steps toward the stable block and eased the door at the end of the aisle between the stalls open. He smelled the sweet scent of hay and heard the horses munching contentedly before he felt the warmth of their bodies. He pulled the door shut quietly, and walking down the row of stalls, was pleased to see both his hunters in their same boxes. They knew him and blew into his hand, whickering to him.

  "Who goes there? What are you doing to those horses?"

  "Getting a welcome home, Bossley." Stephen saw the stooped old man holding a lantern up and squinting.

  "Mister Stephen? I say, how did you get here in this ghastly fog?"

  "I walked." Stephen came toward him and was surprised by a warm hug. Old Bossley smelled of hay and sweet feed. The embrace brought back memories. Bossley had taught him to ride, and he spent long hours with the man trying to perfect his skills. Bossley had been a kind and patient teacher though Stephen was not as apt a pupil as Henry.

  "Forgive me, sir," Bossley said, seemingly embarrassed at his exuberant welcome. "I was overcome. Let's get you up to the house."