During his six years in the Royal Navy sailing the seas and fighting the bloody French, the captain had learned not to dwell on unpleasant experiences—like gales that pitched his frigate on its side or French sailors trying to take off his head with a cutlass. He had nearly mastered the art of replacing the horrifying with the sublime. At least in his mind.
And nothing was more sublime than Miss Elizabeth Balfour. The memory of her fair blond beauty had sustained him during the years of his absence. Every day for the past six years he had lamented he'd not offered for her before he left. At the time, he had expected to be home in a year, two at the most. During that time, she would reach a more acceptable marriageable age.
No one had then known how that Corsican monster would trample an entire continent. Thank God the fiend was now on Elba.
As welcome as his mother's letters had been, nothing had been more welcome than her observation about Miss Balfour still being unmarried. He would tell himself she had not found anyone who could supplant him in her heart. By her previous actions toward him, he believed she favored him over all the other young men who made cakes of themselves over her.
He could still recall the last time he saw Miss Balfour as if it were the past week. It had been May Day, and the sixteen-year-old Miss Balfour had been twirling around the Maypole in the village green, her saffron skirts swirling, her silvery-blond locks whipping into that flawless face with its wide eyes as clear a blue as an Alpine lake. Every male in the shire was there that day, and not a one was immune to her abundant charms.
Now, as Captain St. Vincent's face stung and his ears throbbed from the miserable cold, he could picture Miss Balfour's lovely smile and her perfect white teeth, and he could almost hear the sweet trill of her voice. These memories nearly made him forget his discomfort.
He smelt a wood fire and looked up to see its source. The Mintons’ cottage was just ahead. As he rode past the wattle-and-daub thatched cottage with smoke spiraling from its chimney, a deep sense of wellbeing spread over him like his grandmother's counterpane.
He was almost home.
He hoped he could get to Rosemary Hill, his family's big comforting farmhouse, before it became completely dark. It seemed as if the skies were blackening as quickly as an artist's brush could spread jet paint.
A kick in the forelock spurred his mount to a faster clip.
Ten minutes of hard and fast riding later, he thought he saw a lone woman walking alongside the road. Surely it could not be! Not in this weather. And not so far away from any houses. Were her cloak not of a light color, he might never have seen her against the darkening skies.
As he drew nearer, he saw that she pressed her cloak's dove gray hood to her head so the assaulting winds would not blow it off. The slender female sped down the lane, her step youthful, her boots leaving indentations in the fresh snow. The wind behind them sounded like the forlorn howl of an injured animal.
She must be mad.
Mad or not, she was a helpless female, and he was a gentleman who intended to offer her assistance. He had to get her into a warm place before she froze to death. But what manner of lady would climb upon the horse of a stranger and ride off with him?
There was nothing for it. He must insist on trading places with her. Surely his sturdy boots were better suited to traipse across snow than were a lady's thin-soled ones. There was also the consideration that as a man, he was much more physically capable of coping with nature's brutality than a frail female.
His horse pulled up beside her. He knew he must shout to be heard over that dashed wind. “I say, miss!”
Her hand still pressing the wind-ruffled hood to her head, her gaze spun to him, and a smile instantly replaced the quizzing look that had been on her face.
She was even younger than he'd at first thought. Not having been in the company of English ladies of good birth for many years, he was not confident he could determine her age with any accuracy, but he was certain she could not exceeded twenty—which would make her seven years younger than he.
At first glance, the sight of her had sent his stomach flipping like a fish in its net. For a fleeting second he thought this girl was the incomparable Miss Balfour, but his lingering gaze told him this young lady lacked Miss Balfour's considerable beauty.
Had he been so long removed from decent females that he would think every blond lady bore a resemblance to his Incomparable?
“Why, if it isn't David St. Vincent! Welcome home.”
Uh oh. The lady remembered him. But he did not remember her. How should he respond? He mustn't injure her feelings by admitting he had no memory of the lady. “It's glad I am to be home, and it appears I'm just in time to rescue a maiden in distress. I beg that you climb up here and allow me to take you home.” Once he knew where she lived, he would know who she was.
Thank God he wouldn't have to trade places with her. Owing to their previous acquaintance—even if he had no recollection of it—she should have no aversion to sharing his mount. He dismounted in order to assist her in mounting.
She favored him with a wondrous smile. Perhaps she was pretty, after all, even though she was not the great beauty Miss Balfour was. He saw now that the hair beneath her hood was almost the same silken blond as Miss Balfour's. “Oh, David, you're my knight in shining armor!”
David? What lady would call him by so intimate a name? Only one who knew him well would do so, one who knew him very well. Which made him feel bloody stupid.
“You mustn't think me an empty-headed female who gets lost in blizzards. I assure you I'm normally an excessively prudent . . . woman. I never would have left Stoneyway had I any inkling the weather would change so dramatically.”
Stoneyway! Why, that was the name of the house where Miss Elizabeth Balfour resided. Which would make this. . . this girl/woman her younger sister, Catherine. He never would have taken her for Cathy. The last time he'd clamped eyes on her, she was a bitty thing. “Cathy! I can't believe it! You're all grown up. Why, I still think of you as . . .” He leveled his hand out to show a height somewhere between his waist and his shoulders. “You couldn't have been more than twelve the last time I saw you.”
“I was twelve and a half. I'm nineteen now.” Pride gave stridency to her voice.
His brows elevated. “I trust your last name remains unchanged.”
She nodded.
“Do you remember what you called me when you were a wee little girl?”
“Of course I do, but surely you're not going to embarrass me by bringing it up.”
“There's nothing to be embarrassed over. I thought it was delightful when you called me Dabid.”
She giggled.
He gave her a leg up, handed her the reins, then he hopped up and swung his leg over the beast to mount behind her. His arms coming around her, he took control once again. “Do you remember what you told me before I left?”
She stiffened. “Pray, Mr. St. Vincent, I beg that you not embarrass me by referring to that!”
He chuckled. “Then I won't refer to it.”
Obviously, the very mention of the topic embarrassed her into silence. After a few minutes of clopping along over the fresh snow, he spoke. “Now, my dear young lady, you must tell me what lunacy brought you out on a day like this. I daresay this involves an unfortunate dog or cat.”
She shook her head, almost dislodging the gray hood. “No dogs or cats. Since Mama died, I've moved up from aiding unfortunate animals to aiding unfortunate widows and children and the elderly.”
He remembered the kindly Mrs. Balfour always coming to the aid of the needy in her husband's flock. His mother's letters had informed him of Mrs. Balfour's death three years previously. “I am so sorry for your loss. Your mother was one of the finest women it's ever been my honor to know.”
She lowered her head and spoke in a barely audible voice. “Thank you.”
“It's good that you're carrying on your mother's benevolent ways. Pray, Cath, who were you aiding today?”
She shook her head. “You wouldn't know her. She's from down in Sussex. Fredrick Williamson met her when he was visiting with his sister. They fell in love, married, and he brought her back to Ramseyfield.” Her voice lowered. “She's Frederick's widow now.”
He winced. “Poor Frederick. I hadn't heard.”
“You wouldn't have. He died just weeks ago.”
“In the mines?”
She nodded ruefully. “His poor wife is prostrate—and her babe is due any day. I cannot tell you how my heart goes out to her.”
“In what way were you able to help her?”
“I took her some fresh cheese, and I like to look in on her each day since she's so alone now. It would be terrible if the babe came and no one was there to help her.”
“She's very fortunate, then, to have you.”
They rode on in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “I expect your sister's of great assistance in such matters of charity.”
“Elizabeth's exceedingly tender hearted, so much so that it's difficult for her to observe the less fortunate. She prefers to turn her attention to happier matters. At present, there's no room in her head for anything save preparations for an assembly on Christmas Eve.”
“I recall how much she liked to dance.”
“Who wouldn't—when every male in the shire is queuing up to dance with one?”
“So she's still as beautiful as ever?”
“Indeed she is.”
“I will own, I was surprised to learn from my mother's letters that Miss Balfour remains unmarried.”
The younger sister shrugged. “It is not because she hasn't had ample opportunity to marry.”
“Then she's rejected many offers?”
“Many.”
Just as he would have thought. “Is there a particular reason why she has avoided matrimony?” Dare he hope she was waiting for his return?
“Particular is the key word, my dear Mr. St. Vincent.”
So now she addressed him in the manner Society demanded. A pity. He liked it better when she'd called him by his Christian name.
Cathy shrugged. “I daresay someone as lovely as Elizabeth might aspire to something. . . more than can be found in Ramseyfield. There is the fact my aunt—you will remember my father's sister, Kate?—keeps putting ridiculous ideas into Elizabeth's pretty head, keeps telling her that one as beautiful as she could aspire to marry at least a baronet—or possibly higher.”
His heart sank. Would marriage to a mere captain in his majesty's Royal Navy not suffice?
It had never occurred to him that he could be rejected now that he was in possession of an income many times greater than he'd ever thought to possess. When David had left Ramseyfield, he'd been a younger son with no financial prospects. Now, six years later, he could afford to buy his own farm. He'd even thought he might be able to afford one with a substantial house, larger than that which had been passed down in the St. Vincent family for the past two hundred years.
It had never crossed his mind that the lovely Elizabeth Balfour would hunger for a title. He did a quick mental survey of Ramseyfield and the surrounding villages in an attempt to identify the men who bore titles.
Fortunately, Ramseyfield was void of titled gentlemen. Over in Swinford, there was Sir Reginald Boddley, but he was many years older than Miss Balfour and quite happily wed.
David's mind raced over the surrounding villages. Ah! Belford Manor in Ashton Mill was owned by the Earl of Haworth, but since Belford was one of his smaller properties, the wealthy peer had never visited there during David's entire childhood. That didn't mean an heir of his—perhaps a bachelor heir—wouldn't take a fancy to Belford and make his home there. Who wouldn't want to live here? In David's opinion, the Cumbria landscape was the loveliest in all of England.
The last titled person who came to mind was Lord Doncaster, who resided in Leffington some ten miles away. That baron had to be getting along in years. He could be dead for all David knew. David's pulse accelerated. What if Lord Doncaster were succeeded by a handsome younger man? Just because Lord Doncaster had not sired any sons did not mean his heir couldn't be a young, handsome bachelor. David hoped to God that was not the case. He swallowed. “Does Miss Balfour even know a baronet?”
Cathy giggled. “No, she doesn't. Papa and I try most sincerely to push such silly ideas from my sister's beautiful head.”
Mr. Balfour was a very wise man. His Sunday sermons always demonstrated a remarkable degree of intelligence. The vicar's maiden sister, though, was quite another thing. David's mother had little patience with the foolish woman. Mrs. St. Vincent, a woman in possession of a considerable degree of intelligence, frequently remarked that Kate Balfour was in want of good sense.
He now had verification of his mother's opinions. Imagine, filling pretty Miss Balfour's head with notions of marrying a title!
Straight ahead he saw the lighted windows of Stoneyway. How good it felt to be back in Ramseyfield! His heart swelled, filling him with such a deep sense of appreciation, it was almost palpable.
Eyeing the Balfour home, he thought of all those previous times he'd been there as a child and as a young man. He never knew then what a privilege it was to live here in Ramseyfield. It had taken hundreds of lonely nights in strange, often hostile lands for him to understand the welcoming comfort of the place where he'd been born, the deep affection he felt for the people he'd known over the course of a lifetime.
He was aware that when he beheld his own house and his own much-beloved mother and siblings, his reaction would be even more profound.
Though he longed to see Miss Elizabeth Balfour, he knew that even a quick visit could rob him of still-passable roads. If he waited much later, it would be impossible to get home to his family tonight.
“I do hope, Mr. St. Vincent, you are home for good now. How often we have thought of you and prayed that you'd return safely.”
“I must be getting quite old for all I've been able to think of is settling down in Ramseyfield with my own farm.”
“I suppose as the captain of a vessel you've scooped in your share of bounty.”
He nodded. “I've been fortunate.”
“That's wonderful! Did you know Lord Haworth has decided to sell Belford Manor?”
“What, Miss Balfour, are you suggesting?” Even the hint that he could take up residence in that stately old pile set his pulse racing.
“I was hoping—for your sake—that you could afford to consider purchasing it.”
Surely if he were in possession of Belford Manor the beautiful Miss Elizabeth Balfour would be most agreeable to uniting her life with his. “I don't know if my pockets are that deep.”
“I heard that since Lord Haworth has not taken especially good care of it in recent years—owing to his deplorable addiction to faro—he may let it go cheaply.”
He found himself confusing Cathy's more mature voice with her sister's, and the two now seemed indistinguishable. But, of course, he hadn't heard Elizabeth speak in years.
It wasn't just their voices which seemed to blend. Unless Elizabeth had grown considerably, he thought the two sisters were built remarkably alike. Both were of medium height, which was considerably shorter than he. And both were on the slender side but he remembered Elizabeth being pleasingly rounded in the places where a woman should be rounded.
He could almost believe it was Elizabeth's back brushing against his chest, almost believe that sweet rose scent were Elizabeth's, and only with the greatest restraint was he able to resist encircling the younger Miss Balfour with arms that ached to hold her sister. “Then be assured that as soon as the snow abates, I shall make inquiries about Belford Manor.”
“It's so wonderful having you home again.” Her head spun as if she were trying to see his face behind her. “Is this to be a surprise for your mother, or does she know you're coming?”
He turned onto the lane to Stoneyway. “A little bit of both, actually. I told her in my last letter I'd be home for Chr
istmas, but she doesn't know when I'm to arrive.”
“How I wish I could see the dear woman's face when she beholds you after so long!”
Cathy had always been a great favorite of his mother. And of everybody, actually. “By the way,” he said, “I have something to return to you. A Balfour Family heirloom. Do you even remember giving it to me?”
“Of course I remember! I knew Grandpapa's cross would keep you safe.” Now she did turn enough that he could see her profile outlined against the smoke-colored skies. “I was so afraid I- - -we'd never see you again.”
His voice softened. His free hand settled gently at her slim waist. “I've never taken it off these past six years.”
As they came to a stop not twenty feet from her front door, his emotions were conflicted. On the one hand he hated to terminate this conversation with Cathy. He was disappointed, too, that he would not be able to feast on the vision of Elizabeth. But he was equally as impatient to be at his own home, to be with his own family after so long an absence. Each moment of delay would make it more difficult to get home over roads that were obliterated by snow.
It was as if she could read his thoughts. “I don't suppose you can come in tonight?”
He shook his head as he dismounted. “I must make haste before the snows fall even harder.” He helped her down.
She offered her hand. “Promise you will call on us the minute the roads clear.”
He brushed his lips across the back of her hand and bowed. “I give you my word.”
* * *
Elizabeth flung her arms around Cathy's neck before her sister could even remove her wet cloak. “I was beyond miserable with worry over you! I feared we'd find your corpse frozen to death. How could you put us into such a fright?”
Cathy shook the snow from her cloak and hung it on a wall peg. “It was a perfectly fair day when I left at noon.”
Elizabeth's brows lowered. “Did I hear the sound of a horse bringing you home?”
“Indeed you did. You will never guess who rescued me from my icy misery.” Stripping off her gloves, Cathy went straight to the hearth to warm her icy fingers.
Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) Page 8