One Candlelit Christmas

by Julia Justiss

  Though she’d listened to this narrative already knowing in her bones what must have happened, Meredyth still felt touched by the cruelty of Allen Mansfell’s disappointment. ‘How awful for him,’ she murmured.

  ‘Indeed,’ Faith continued. ‘Clare says all of Society felt quite badly that such a fine young man had been so callously jilted.’

  ‘And because he began last year to look about for a wife, you think he must be set upon completing the matter this spring?’ Meredyth asked.

  ‘Quite the opposite!’ Faith replied. ‘Apparently his mother asked him just such a question. He told her quite sharply he was not yet interested in continuing the search. Nor did he plan ever again to pay particular attention to a lady unless she possessed not just breeding, accomplishments and manners, but a beauty of character to rival that of her countenance. A description which could have been written expressly to describe you, dear sister. The consideration he is showing you must mean he has reached the same conclusion!’

  ‘Perhaps. But more likely, as he recovers from his disappointment, he simply wishes to pass the time by engaging in a bit of light-hearted gallantry, sure that within the confines of a family party no one will take his attentions seriously,’ Meredyth contended, as much to herself as her sister.

  Faith shook her head. ‘Thomas told us his brother does not normally flirt—that in fact he’d never danced attendance on any lady until he began courting Miss Davies. I’m so glad, after how shabbily she treated him, that he’s found you. For though he is rather old, he’s quite handsome and dashing, and I think he deserves to be happy, don’t you? Which he will be, if he manages to secure your affection.’

  ‘Though I allow Thomas must know his brother better than we do,’ Meredyth replied, feeling both thrilled and cornered by Faith’s revelation, ‘I am still not convinced he is trying to fix his interest with me.’

  ‘Oh, he is,’ Faith replied confidently. ‘Colton and Sarah and Clare all think so. They wonder only whether he has engaged your affections in return. Are you in love with him?’

  Was she? Could she be? Unwilling to confess how distraught the query made her, she exclaimed, ‘Please, Faith, no more questions! If you wish to attract Thomas or any gentleman you must appear at your best, not bleary-eyed and yawning. To bed with you.’

  ‘Very well. I won’t tease you any more. But I do think it would be splendid if you fell in love and married him…after I find my own special gentleman, of course. Then we can all be as happy as Sarah and Elizabeth and Clare!’

  Giving her sister another hug, Meredyth walked her to the door. ‘You deserve to be so happy, dearest. And never fear—I mean to enjoy every moment of watching you become the Belle of London.’

  ‘Promise me you will be happy too,’ Faith said as she opened the door.

  ‘I shall certainly try,’ Meredyth said with a smile.

  A smile that faded as soon as the door had closed behind her sister. So Allen Mansfell had been passionately in love and bitterly disappointed? How devastating the loss of one’s love could be! she thought, feeling for him a reminiscent pang.

  Apparently her entire family now believed Mr Mansfell had turned his attentions towards her. But, unlike her romantic younger sister, Meredyth couldn’t convince herself he had truly fallen in love with her.

  For one thing, their personal acquaintance was far too short. And the sad tale of his deception and betrayal at the hands of an acclaimed young beauty just reinforced her original doubts about the nature of his attentions to her.

  The idea that she had bewitched Allen Mansfell had seemed too good to be true, even for the few moments she’d entertained it. After what her sister had confided it seemed far more likely to Meredyth that, having arrived at that time of life when he’d decided to marry, and having been frustrated in his first attempt, Mr Mansfell was simply looking for a more suitable replacement.

  And what more ideal lady than she? Well-bred, skilful at managing an estate, possessing an easy manner with children, reasonably amenable and attractive—but not so dazzling as to attract a great deal of attention from other men—she possessed all the nominal virtues she supposed a gentleman would seek in a wife. In addition, at her advanced age she might be expected to snap up so advantageous an offer, coming as it did from a handsome, well-born gentlemen of excellent character.

  So why did she feel so disappointed?

  Many, indeed most women of her class, would be honoured to entertain a match based on friendship and mutual esteem in order to gain a handsome husband, a home of her own and the opportunity for children. Moreover, there existed between she and Allen Mansfell a sensual fire that promised she would experience all the delights of the bedchamber she had denied herself with James.

  Delights for which she yearned with an intensity she’d not previously imagined. Acknowledging that desire, how should she reply if he did make her an offer?

  Even suspecting what she did, she was tempted to accept him. But if Allen Mansfell proposed to her out of admiration and a polite esteem, he offered nothing—save for passion—she did not already or almost possess. The Dower House probably wasn’t as grand as the manor adorning the Grange, but it belonged to her. She hadn’t given birth to them or suckled them, but with Clare’s children and her sisters’ offspring she had children to dote on and spoil and love.

  Besides that, she would be marrying a very attractive man in a marriage of convenience that only seemed to be advantageous to both parties. She’d watched that scenario play out to a bitter conclusion with her own mother.

  Not to put too fine a point on it, despite a genuine affection for his wife, her father had been a flagrant philanderer. It had been his rampant womanizing, Meredyth was convinced, far more than his irresponsible gaming that had led to his wife’s decline. Remaining at Wellingford bearing babe after babe, her mother had watched her husband jaunt off to London, Newcastle, Oxford—or wherever the gaming was deep and the women beguiling and easy of virtue. Worn down by childbearing and grief, by the time of Colton’s birth her mother’s health and self-esteem had been ruined.

  Of course Allen Mansfell was a man of a much superior character to her late, unlamented father. If Mr Mansfell pledged her his troth she knew he would intend to honour his vow. But the world was full of unattached women who, looking for security, advancement or simply adventure, would be attracted to a handsome man of means.

  Such a gentleman, confident of the affection and loyalty of his wife, and tied to her only by the claims of duty and mild affection, would be vulnerable to any enticing widow looking for brief affair, or any beguiling doxy trolling for a new protector. Indeed, the mores of their society, in which marital fidelity was considered quaint and conquest a matter of masculine pride, would positively encourage such affairs—particularly if the gentleman took care to protect his wife from outward knowledge of his little peccadilloes.

  No less for her than for her mother would such a relationship lead to heartache, anger, and a bitterness that would destroy the affection upon which the union had initially been based.

  Tempted by passion or not, having known what it was to truly to love and be loved, she could not settle for anything less.

  In fact, the longer she considered the matter, the angrier she grew that Allen Mansfell should think her so meek, mild and biddable that she would accept a tepid marriage of convenience—as if she were a poor spinster, desperate for a man to give her his name and protection. As if she didn’t possess the spirit, fire or brilliance of soul to inspire a man to lose his heart to her.

  She might be on the shelf, past her last prayers and an ape-leader—and all the other cleverly derogatory terms by which her society disparaged women who had reached a certain age still unwed. But, praise heaven, she was neither meek, biddable, nor in need of a husband’s protection.

  Better to be aunt and spinster than suffer as her mother had suffered. So, she vowed, she would turn aside any man’s attentions unless or until she was convinced he sought her no
t for her sterling character but because he loved her as totally and passionately as she loved him.

  Chapter Seven

  Two days later, Allen Mansfell sat at the table at the conclusion of their informal nuncheon, watching Meredyth Wellingford chat with her sisters. Since their ride together on his first afternoon at Wellingford, observing its mistress had become quite an absorbing pastime for him.

  He’d listened to the delightful sound of her laughter as she played hide-and-seek with the children. Observed the sparkle in her eye and her cry of triumph when she bested her brother-in-law Nicky at chess. Watched her rapt concentration and the grace of her movements as she played the pianoforte in the evenings. Noted the tenderness on her face as she assisted her ailing sisters or carried one of their sleeping offspring up to bed.

  He’d observed all this because—though she still appeared to admire his character, enjoy his wit and share his interests—the object of his attentions had determinedly deflected any attempt at gallantry and sidestepped every opportunity to be alone with him.

  By now, with a disappointment sharper than he cared to contemplate, he should have given up his efforts, concluding that his initial impression that she favoured him had been in error. Except that despite her elusiveness she continued to give him signs that their attraction was not, after all, one sided.

  Like the afternoon after their ride when, having gone in search of her, he’d come upon her playing at jackstraws with the children. He’d read surprise and approval in her eyes when he had plopped down on the carpet and joined the game, which had continued until just the two of them remained.

  Intent on her play, she’d lost her wariness, applauding his dexterity as enthusiastically as Aubrey and Bella, crowing with delight when she outmatched him. She’d looked so winsome, sitting there in a crumple of skirts, placing her straws with analytical precision, then looking up to beam at him, her smile both shy and challenging, that his chest had tightened. He’d wanted to scoop her up and carry her off on the spot.

  Or last night, after he’d joined her again at the pianoforte to sing duets. He’d asked her to play several of his favourite folk tunes, content for that moment simply to enjoy the sound of her voice mingling with his.

  As during the game of jackstraws, after a time she had relaxed, her fingers caressing the keys, head tilted and eyes closed as she gave her heart to the music. While the company had applauded afterwards, she had gazed up at him, her eyes aglow with approval and affection as she squeezed his hand, setting his pulses racing. Until, apparently realising what she was doing, she had blushed and snatched her hand back.

  Then there had been this morning, when he’d ridden out with her again. After several hours of inspecting fields and barns and cottages, talking with farmers while he asked questions and solicited her opinions, her reserve had melted away. By the time they had returned she’d been interrogating him about the practices he used at the Grange, and listening attentively to his answers.

  When he’d lifted her from the saddle at the end of the ride, once again compelled to let his fingers linger against the tantalising warmth of her waist, desire had smouldered in her eyes. For a moment she’d grasped his shoulders and lifted her face towards the kiss he’d ached to give her. Until at the last moment, with a little gasp, she’d hastily pushed him away and hurried into the house.

  He felt sure she wasn’t simply trying to entice and frustrate him—though frustrated he was! He’d learned enough of coquettery at Susanna’s talented hands to recognise that Meredyth Wellingford’s encouragement was unconsciously given, her retreat instinctive rather than calculated.

  She seemed to be trying so hard to keep him at a distance that only in moments when shared interests or amusements distracted her did her innate desire and affection break through. That she felt a strong partiality for him, he was sure. Then why was she so hesitant to show it?

  Surely she couldn’t think he was only trifling with her? His attentions had been too marked and too public for her to believe that.

  He was only a man—a simple being who, once he’d determined what he wanted, went straight for it, entirely lacking the subtlety of which ladies seemed capable. His affection and desire for Meredyth Wellingford only increased as he spent time with her, making him surer than ever that she was the woman he must wed.

  But his visit to Wellingford was fast approaching its end. And as he’d become convinced he wanted Miss Wellingford for his wife, so had his intention solidified not to wait until the Season in London to ask for her hand.

  He must act this afternoon, he’d decided. Whatever he must do to contrive it, he would get her alone, make his declaration, and ensure once and for all that Meredyth Wellingford would, if not accept him outright, at least agree to consider him as a potential husband.

  Satisfying as that decision was, as he rose to follow the company out of the room, his stomach began churning and he felt the chill of perspiration on his brow. He’d thought that nothing could approach the agony of the jealousy and uncertainty Susanna had made him suffer. But he was discovering that being unsure of his fate at the hands of a virtuous maiden could inspire a torment no less painfully sharp.

  ‘Miss Wellingford?’ he called as she walked out on Sarah’s arm. ‘Can I persuade you to show me the rose garden? I wish to design something similar at the Grange, and would like to observe how yours is planted.’

  She looked back at him, the flare of interest in her eyes almost immediately overshadowed by wariness. ‘I’ve promised Sarah to help her sort silks for a baby blanket.’

  ‘We can do that later,’ Lady Englemere interposed. ‘’Tis a lovely afternoon for a walk, Merry.’

  To Allen’s delight, behind her sister’s back, Lady Englemere gave him a smile and a wink. He returned the smile, heartened to know that at least her family understood and approved his intentions.

  ‘Yes, Merry—do go for a stroll,’ Lord Englemere said. ‘While Colton and Thomas have the children occupied, I thought to steal a little time alone with my wife.’ As he spoke, he walked over, slipped his wife’s hand out of Meredyth’s and clasped it in his own.

  With a sigh of mingled exasperation and amusement, Miss Wellingford said, ‘Since everyone is so determined, I suppose walk I must. Give me a moment to fetch my bonnet and pelisse, Mr Mansfell, and I’ll join you on the terrace.’

  So, ten minutes later, wrapped in his greatcoat and stamping his feet against the cold, Allen waited outside for Miss Wellingford, feeling far more nervous than he’d anticipated.

  A moment later she appeared, her blonde curls and grey eyes set off fetchingly by a deep rose pelisse and bonnet. As he looked at her, her eyes modestly downcast, her long golden lashes casting half-moon shadows on her soft cheeks, a giddy sense of awe swelled in his chest at the idea that very soon this lovely and accomplished lady might be his wife, to love and cherish for the rest of his days.

  He clasped her mittened hand, feeling the heat of it penetrate through his gloves and settle in his loins. Ah, yes—the ‘loving’ part couldn’t begin soon enough!

  But first he had to successfully negotiate a proposal. Resolved to clear difficult ground as quickly as possible, as soon as they had entered the privacy of the walled rose garden Allen walked her to a bench.

  ‘You wished to discuss the design of the roses?’ she asked as he motioned her to a seat.

  ‘Among other things.’ Trying to ignore the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat, Allen began. ‘Miss Wellingford, I know our personal acquaintance is rather short. However, I soon discovered that Thomas, who has long sung your praises, exaggerated neither the excellence of your character nor your many admirable qualities. My initial admiration has grown enormously as I’ve come to know you better and discovered how many interests we share. In addition, I feel between us a strong and compelling attraction that I believe over time would deepen into a tender regard that can ensure us a long and happy life together.

  ‘So, Miss Wellingford…’He paused, dropping
to one knee. ‘Would you make me the happiest of men and do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

  Though she left her hand in his grip, for a long moment she said nothing, her grey eyes intently examining his face. While she hesitated, his heart slammed in his chest and panic curled through him.

  Had his proposal been too abrupt, too precipitate? Might she refuse him? A howl of protest, shockingly more intense and vehement than anything he’d expected, rose up in him. He must say something more—tease her out of uttering a refusal. But the breath seemed to have dried in his throat.

  While he fumbled for speech, she said, ‘I too admire the excellence of your character and accomplishments, and am honoured and flattered by your proposal. But why do you want me for your wife?’

  Confused, he blinked at her. ‘Why? I thought I’d just told you. I admire and respect you. We have many common interests. You make me laugh. I enjoy your company. And I hope I am not arrogant in believing we share the sort of attraction that leads to a strong and permanent affection.’

  ‘Affection?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Mansfell, I find “affection” a rather fragile basis upon which to entrust my future. I once experienced a much more consuming emotion, as I believe you did too. Do you not think you would at some later time feel cheated if you were to settle now for a union based on mere affection?’

  So she’d heard about his engagement to Susanna. He wasn’t surprised; Thomas might have mentioned it. Was she piqued that he’d not vouchsafed a violent passion?