A Christmas Betrothal

by Carole Mortimer

  His father gave a tug on his spectral forelock. ‘Well, then, Your Lordship, I am put in my place. I hope by now you know that you don’t fit with the posh sort that you suck up to. You are as much of a dog to be kicked from their path as I am to you.’

  ‘Probably true,’ Joseph admitted. There was no point in lying about that, even to himself. Though the gentry might be forced to mix with those in trade, there was nothing to make them enjoy it. ‘But if I am a dog, then I am a young pup with many years ahead of me. Their time is ending, just as yours did. In the day that is coming men of vision will be rewarded.’

  ‘At the expense of others,’ his father replied.

  ‘Others can seize this opportunity and profit as well, if they wish to,’ Joe snapped back. ‘It is not my responsibility to see to the welfare of every man on the planet. They had best look out for themselves.’

  ‘That is no better than I expected from you,’ his father replied. ‘And not good enough. Believe me, boy, I can see from this side of the veil that it is not nearly enough. It is no pleasant thing to die with regrets, to have unfinished business when your life is spent and to know that you have failed in the one thing you should have profited at: the care of another human life.’

  The statement made the speaker uncomfortably real. It was most unlike anything in Joseph’s own mind. It sounded almost like an apology. And never would he have put those words in his father’s mouth—no matter how much he might have wished to hear them. If things went as planned Joseph would be a father soon enough. It would not take much effort on his part to do a better job of it than his father had done with him.

  ‘You would know better than I on that, I am sure. As of this time, I have no one under my care. I answer only to myself, and I am happy with that.’ Surreptitiously he made a fist and dug his nails into his palm, pinching the skin to let the pain start him awake.

  ‘Boy, you are wrong.’

  ‘So you always told me, Father. Although why I should dream of your voice now, I do not know. I have only to wake up and look around me to prove that I am doing quite well for myself.’ Although, thinking on it, he could not seem to recall having fallen asleep in the first place. But it was the only explanation for this. He was not in the habit of conversing with ghosts.

  He was sound asleep in this bed and having a dream. No. He was having a nightmare. If he could not manage to wake, he must try to go to a deep, untroubled rest where his father would not follow. To encourage the change he sat upon the edge of the bed and began to undress himself. While it seemed strange to do so during a dream, he could think of no other way to set things right.

  As he leaned forwards to pull off his boots his father stepped closer and brought with him the smell of the grave—damp earth, a faint whiff of decomposition and the chill of a cold and lifeless thing made even colder by the season. ‘Do not think to ignore me. You do so at your peril.’

  ‘Do I, now?’ Joseph could not help it and stole a glance up at the spirit—if that was what it was. And he wondered when he had ever had a dream this real. He could smell and feel, as well as hear and see. He had to struggle to keep himself from reaching out to touch the shroud that the man in front of him carried like a mantle draped over his bony arm. He stared at the ghost, willing it to disappear. ‘I ignored you in life as best I could. Because of it I gave you enough money to die in comfort, instead of bent over a loom. But that was years ago. Go back to where you have been and leave me in peace.’

  ‘You do not have peace, if you would be honest and see the truth. Just as it always was when you were a boy, you are careless. You have not attended to both the warp and the weft. The tension is uneven. You have done much, and done it quickly with your fancy machines. But your work is without shape.’

  Joseph glared into the hollow eyes before him, too angry at the slight to stay silent. ‘I bore enough of that needless criticism from you when you lived—trying to teach me to weave when it was clear I had no skill for it. The last piece of work you will ever see me make on an old-fashioned loom was the shroud I buried you in. I wove it on your old machine with my own hands. I made it out of wool in respect for custom and your trade. If you have come to me to complain of the quality, then go back to your grave without it. As for my current life—there is no basis for this criticism. I can measure my success by my surroundings. This Christmas I will have a house full to the brim with guests and a table creaking with bounty. I have a new mill. When it opens I will be able to afford to fill the warehouse with goods, ready to ship when the sanctions are lifted.’

  The ghost shook his head, as though all the achievement was nothing, and waved the shroud before him. ‘Shapeless. Tear it out. Tear it out before it is too late. Your grain is off, boy.’

  Joseph finished with his undressing and pulled a nightshirt over his head. Then he lay down on the bed with his arms stiff at his sides, fighting to keep from stuffing his fingers in his ears. He could hear the old man’s death rattle of a breath, along with the same repeated criticisms that had tortured him all through his failed apprenticeship.

  Then he thought of the girl who had been clinging to Bernard Lampett’s arm in front of the mill. Her difficulties with her father had raised these memories in him. He felt a sympathy with her. And, for all his convictions that there could be no mercy shown, he would not rest easy until he had found a peaceful solution.

  He looked at the shade of his father again, half hoping that it had evaporated now that he’d found the probable cause. But it was still there, as stern and disapproving as ever he had been. ‘If you are my own guilty conscience, the least you could have done,’ Joseph said, ‘was come to me in the form of Barbara Lampett. And I’d be much more likely to listen if you told me plainly what you wanted.’

  The ghost looked at him as though he was both stupid and a disappointment. It was a familiar look. ‘It will not go well for you if you persist in talking nonsense. I came here hoping to spare you what is soon to come. My time is wasted, for you are as stubborn as you were right up ‘til the day I died.’

  ‘You? Spare me?’ Joseph laughed. ‘When did you ever wish to spare me anything? It was I who saved myself, and none other. I used my own brain and my own hands to make sure that I did not live as you did. And I succeeded at it.’

  The ghost looked troubled, but only briefly. ‘My goal is not to make you into myself. I was a hard man in life. A good craftsman, but a poor father.’

  ‘Thank you for admitting the fact now that it is years too late,’ Joseph snapped, annoyed that his mind would choose his precious free hours to remind him of things he preferred to forget.

  ‘I bear the punishment of my errors even now. But my goal was to make you something more.’ The ghost pointed with a pale, long-fingered hand that in life had been nimble with a shuttle. ‘Here you are—proof that my job was not done. You are less than you should be. You are certainly less than you must be. That is why you must tear out what you have done. Tear out the work and start again, while you are able. It is not too late to go back. Find the mistake and fix it. Start again, before tomorrow night, or face another visitor.’

  ‘I have no intention of destroying the work of a lifetime to please some niggling voice in my own mind that will be gone in the morning.’ He pulled up the coverlet and waved a hand. ‘Now, go, sir. Come again as some more interesting dream. You do not frighten me, though I will be glad to see you gone. Bring the girl instead.’

  He smiled at the thought. If he could choose a bedtime fantasy, she was better than most. Then he pulled the sheet over his head and rolled away from the figure, trying to ignore the strange green glow that seemed to seep through his closed eyelids. What sort of dream remained even after one ceased to look at it?

  One that could still speak, apparently. His father’s voice came from just above him, unbothered by his ignoring of it. It was louder now, and Joseph had his first moment’s fright, thinking if he pulled the blankets away he might find himself inches away from a corpse—close eno
ugh to choke on the smell of rotting flesh and see the waxy vacancy of a dead man’s eyes.

  ‘Very well, then. It is as was feared. You will not listen to me. Be warned, boy. If you have a brain, you will heed before Christmas Eve. From here, I can see what is coming, and I would not wish that—even on you.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Father, for such a cold comfort.’ Joseph snuggled down into the pillow.

  ‘There will be three before Christmas. Look for the first when the clock chimes one tomorrow. If you have any sense you will heed them, before it is too late.’

  Joseph laughed into the bedclothes. ‘You mean to ruin my sleep between here and Christmas, I suppose? And destroy every last pleasure I take in this holiday. Only you would be trying to visit me with dire predictions on this of all weeks. Come back after Twelfth Night and perhaps I shall care.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Joseph opened his eyes.

  The voice was not that of his father but of his valet, who sounded rather worried. ‘Were you speaking to me, Mr Stratford? For I did not quite catch … ‘

  When he pulled back the covers the candles were still lit and there was no sign of the eldritch glow he had been trying to shut out, nor the figure that had cast it. ‘No, Hobson. It was only a dream. I was talking in my sleep, I think.’ It must have been that. He had come back to his room and dozed, spinning a wild fancy without even bothering to blow out the light.

  His valet was standing in a litter of clothes, looking around him with disapproval. ‘If you were tired, you had but to ring and I would have come immediately to assist you.’ Hobson picked the jacquard waistcoat from off the floor, smoothing the wrinkles from it and hanging it in the wardrobe.

  ‘I was not tired,’ Joseph insisted. Although he must have been. Why had he been dreaming? Though he could remember each piece of clothing as he’d dropped it on the floor, he could not seem to manage to remember falling asleep at any point—dressed or otherwise.

  ‘Then might I bring you a warm drink before bed? A brandy? A posset? In keeping with the season, Cook has mulled some wine.’

  ‘No, thank you. No spirits before bed, I think.’ At least not like the one he’d had already.

  There will be three.

  He looked to the valet. ‘Did you say something just now?’

  ‘I offered wine … ‘ The man was looking at him as though he was drunk.

  ‘Because I thought I heard … ‘ Of course he was sure that he had not heard Hobson speak. It had been his father’s voice for certain, come back to repeat his warning. Although, looking around the room, he could see no sign of a spectre. ‘Did you hear a voice?’

  The valet was looking behind him, about the empty room. Then he looked back at his master, struggling to keep the worry from his face. ‘No, sir. Just the two of us conversing.’

  Joseph gave a laugh to mask the awkward moment. ‘I must be more tired than I thought. Pay me no mind. And no wine tonight, please. A few hours’ untroubled rest is all I need.’

  But if there were to be another evening such as this one he doubted that serenity would be a quality it possessed.

  Chapter Four

  In the little corner of the Lampett kitchen set aside as a still room, Barbara inhaled deeply and sighed. After the ruckus of yesterday it was comforting to be home again, immersed in the sights and scents and sounds of Christmas preparation. There were mince pies cooling on a shelf beside the pudding bowl, and the makings for a good bowl of punch set aside against any guests they might have between now and Twelfth Night. Before her she’d arranged what fragrant ingredients she could find—dried rose petals and lavender, cloves, the saved rinds of the year’s oranges and handfuls of pine needles to refill pomanders and refresh sachets in recently tidied closets and drawers.

  She glanced down at her apron, pleased to see that there were few marks on it to reveal the labours of the day. Everything spoke of order, cleanliness and control. She smiled. All was as it should be, and as she liked it.

  Suddenly the back door burst open and her mother rushed into the room, dropping the empty market basket and looking hurriedly around her.

  Barbara stood, fearing the worst. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Your father? Is he here with you?’

  ‘No. He was in the parlour, reading his paper. I’ve heard nothing unusual.’ Barbara rushed to the kitchen door, opening it and staring into the empty front room.

  ‘On the way to the village I passed Mrs Betts. She had seen him heading towards the mill. He was carrying the axe.’

  Barbara stripped off her apron, pushing past her mother to grab a shawl and bonnet from pegs by the door. ‘I will go. You stay here. Do not worry. Whatever he is up to, I will put a stop to it before any real damage is done.’

  There could be little question as to what he meant to do if he had taken a tool of destruction. The papers were full of reports from other villages of the frame-breakers—followers of Ned Ludd got out of hand—destroying machinery. And of mill owners dead in their beds or at their factories by violence. While there was much that annoyed her about Mr Stratford, he hardly deserved death.

  It might go hard for her family if her father was left unchecked. He could well lose his freedom over this—or his life. She thought of the pistol in Stratford’s hand the previous day. His first shot had been fired into the air. If he felt himself sufficiently threatened he might aim lower, and her father would be the one to suffer for it.

  She ran down the path from the Lampett cottage, forgoing the road and heading cross-country over the patch of moor that separated the mill from the village. She splashed through the shallow stream, feeling the icy water seeping into her shoes and chilling her feet near to freezing, making her stumble as she came up the bank. The thorns in the thicket tore at her skirts and her hem was muddy, the dress practically ruined.

  It was a risky journey. But if she wished to catch her father before he did harm she must trust that the ground was solid enough that she would not be sucked down into the peat before she reached her destination. Even the smallest delay might cost her dearly.

  When she reached the front gate to Stratford’s mill she found it chained and locked. She wondered if Mr Stratford had left it thus, or if her father had gone through and then locked it behind him, the better to do his mischief in privacy. For a moment she imagined Joseph Stratford, working unawares in the office as an assailant crept stealthily up behind him, axe raised …

  She threw herself at the wrought-iron bars, crying out a warning, shaking them and feeling no movement under her hands. And then she was climbing, using the crossbars and the masonry of the wall to help her up. Mr Stratford had made it look simple when he had climbed to face the crowd. But he had not done so in a sodden dress and petticoats. She struggled under the weight of them, stumbling as she reached the top. What she’d hoped would be a leap to the ground on the inside was more of a stagger and a fall, and she felt something in her ankle twist and give as she landed.

  It slowed her, but she did not stop, limping the last of the way to the wide back entrance. She passed through the open dock, where the vans and carts would bring materials and take away the finished goods, through the high-ceilinged storeroom waiting to hold the finished bolts of cloth. She passed the boiler room and the office and counting house, which were quiet and empty, and continued on to the floor of the factory proper, with its row upon row of orderly machinery, still new and smelling of green wood and machine oil.

  From the far side of the big room she heard voices. Her father’s was raised in threat. Mr Stratford’s firm baritone answered him. The two men stood facing each other by the wreckage of a loom. Her father’s axe was raised, and the look in his eyes was wild.

  Stratford must have been disturbed in working with the machinery. He was coatless, the collar of his shirt open and its sleeves rolled up and out of the way, with a leather apron tied around his waist and smudged with grease. In one hand he held a hammer. Though his arm was lowered, Barbara could see
the tensed muscles that told her he would use it in defence when her father rushed him.

  ‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘What are you doing, Father? I have come to take you home for dinner.’

  ‘Go home yourself, gel, for you do not need to see what is like to occur.’ Father’s voice was coarse, half-mad and dismissive. There was nothing left of the soft, rather pedantic tone she knew and loved.

  ‘Your father is right, Miss Lampett. It is unnecessary for you to remain. Let we gentlemen work this out between us.’ Stratford sounded calm and reassuring, though the smile he shot in her direction was tight with worry. His eyes never left the man in front of him. ‘You will see your father directly.’

  ‘Perhaps I will,’ she answered. ‘In jail or at his funeral. That is how this is likely to end if I allow it to continue.’ She hobbled forwards and stepped between them. And between axe and hammer as well, trusting that neither was so angry as to try and strike around her.

  ‘Miss Lampett,’ Stratford said sharply. ‘What have you done to yourself? Observe, sir, she is limping. Assist me and we will help her to a chair.’ He sounded sincerely worried. But she detected another note in his voice as well, as though he was seizing on a welcome distraction.

  ‘My Lord, Barbara, he is right. What have you done to yourself now?’

  Her father dropped his axe immediately, forgetting his plans, and came to take her arm. Sometimes these violent spells passed as quickly as they came. This one had faded the moment he had recognised her injury.

  Stratford had her other elbow, but she noticed the handle of his hammer protruding from an apron pocket, still close by should he need a weapon.

  ‘I fell when climbing down from the gate. I am sure it is nothing serious.’ Though the pain was not bad, and she could easily have managed for herself, she exaggerated the limp and let the two men work together to bear her forwards towards a chair.