‘The front gate?’ Stratford said in surprise. ‘That is nearly eight feet tall.’
Her father laughed, as though lost in a happier time. ‘My Barb always was a spirited one as a youngster. Constantly climbing into trees and taking the short way back to the ground. It is a good thing that the Lampett heads are hard, or we’d have lost her by now. Sit down, Barbara, and let me have a look at your foot.’
She took the seat they had pressed her to, and her father knelt at her feet and pulled off her muddy boot, probing gently at the foot to search for breaks.
She sat patiently and watched as Stratford’s expression changed from concern to interest at the sight of her stocking-clad leg. Then he hurriedly looked away, embarrassed that he’d been caught staring. He gave her a rueful smile and a half-shrug, as if to say he could hardly be blamed for looking at something so attractive, and then offered a benign, ‘I hope it is nothing serious.’
‘A mild sprain, nothing more,’ her father assured him. For a change, his tone was as placid as it had ever been. He was the simple schoolmaster, the kind father she remembered and still knew, but a man the world rarely saw. She wanted to shout into the face of the mill owner to make him notice the change.
This is who he is. This is who we all are. We are not your enemies. We need you, just as you need us. If only you were to listen you might know us. You might like us.
‘Would it help for her to sit with her foot on a cushion for a bit?’ Mr Stratford responded as he was addressed, behaving as though she had twisted an ankle during a picnic, and not while haring to her father’s rescue. ‘My carriage is waiting at the back gate, just around the corner of the building.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ she said. This had hardly begun as a social call, though both men now seemed ready to treat it as such. While she doubted her father capable of guile, she did not know if this new and gentler Stratford was the truth. What proof did she have that they were not being led into a trap so that he could call the authorities? Even if he did not, at any time her father might recollect who had made the offer and turn again to the wild man she had found a few moments ago.
‘A ride would be most welcome,’ her father said, loud enough to drown out her objections. His axe still lay, forgotten, on the floor behind them. For now he was willing to accept the hospitality of a man he’d been angry enough to threaten only a moment ago.
‘Then, with your permission, Mr Lampett, and with apologies to you, miss, for the liberty … ‘ Joseph Stratford pulled off his apron, tossed it aside, then reached around her and lifted her easily off the stool and into his arms.
While it was a relief to see how easily he’d managed her father, it was rather annoying to see how easily he could manage her as well. He was carrying her through the factory as though she weighed nothing. And she was allowing him to do it—without protest. The worst of it was, she rather liked the sensation. She could feel far too much of his body through the fabric of his shirt, and her face was close enough to his bare skin to smell the blending of soap and sweat and cologne that was unique to him. Such overt masculinity should have repelled her. Instead she found herself wishing she could press her face into the hollow of his throat. At least she might lay her head against his shoulder, feigning a swoon.
That would be utter nonsense. She was not the sort to swoon under any circumstances, and she would not play at it now. Though she did allow herself to slip an arm around his neck under the guise of steadying herself. His arms were wrapped tightly, protectively, around her already, and such extra support was not really necessary. But it gave her the opportunity to feel more of him, and to bring her body even closer to his as he moved.
‘It seems I am always to be rescuing you, Miss Lampett,’ he said into her ear, so quietly that her father could not overhear.
‘You needn’t have bothered,’ she whispered back. ‘I am shamming.’
‘As you were when the crowd knocked you down yesterday?’
Then he spoke louder, and directly to her father. ‘If you would precede us, sir? I do not wish to risk upsetting the lady with too rough a gait. Tell the coachman of our difficulties. Perhaps he can find an extra cushion and a lap robe so that Miss Lampett will be comfortable on the journey.’
‘Very good.’
As her father hurried ahead, Stratford stopped to kick the axe he had been wielding into a darkened corner. ‘Though you may not want my help, I think it is quite necessary today, for the safety of all concerned, that we play this to the very
hilt.’ He started again towards the carriage at a stately pace, stopping only long enough at the door to lean against it and push it shut behind him. ‘Do you really wish to protest good health and risk your father remembering and using his weapon?’
She shifted a little in his grasp, feeling quite ridiculous to be treated as some sort of porcelain doll. ‘Of course not. But I do not wish you to make a habit of swooping in to care for me when I am quite capable of seeing to my own needs.’
‘Your independence is duly noted and admired,’ he said. Then he dipped his head a little, so he could catch her scent. ‘Though I find your infirmity has advantages as well.’
She slapped hard at his arm. ‘You are incorrigible.’
‘You are not the first to have told me so. And here we are.’ He said the last louder, for the benefit of her father, to signal that their intimate conversation was at an end.
She frowned. Stratford could easily have ridden the distance between the manor and here, or perhaps even walked. To bring a full equipage and servants to wait after him while he worked was just the sort of excess she had come to expect from him—and just the sort of thing that was angering the locals. Or it could mean that he had a sensible fear of being set upon, should he travel alone and vulnerable along a road that might be lined with enemies.
He set her down briefly, only to lift her again, up into the body of the carriage, settling her beside her father on a totally unnecessary mound of cushions, her injured ankle stretched out before her to rest on the seat at Stratford’s side.
The carriage was new, as was everything he owned, and practically shining with it. The upholstery was a deep burgundy leather, soft and well padded. There were heavy robes for her legs to keep out the cold, and a pan of coals to warm the foot that still rested on the floor. The other was tucked up securely, the stocking-clad toes dangerously close to the gentleman there. The foot was chilled, and she resisted the urge to press it against his leg to steal some warmth.
Stratford had noticed it. He stared down for a moment, and then, as unobtrusively as possible, he tossed the tail of his coat over it and shifted his weight to be nearer.
Barbara warmed instantly—from the contact with his body and the embarrassment accompanying it. It was a practical solution, of course. But she would be the talk of the town if anyone heard of it. And by the smug smile on his face Joseph Stratford knew it, and was enjoying her discomfiture.
Then he signalled the driver and they set off, with barely a sway to tell her of the moment. It was by far the richest and most comfortable trip she’d taken, and she had to struggle not to enjoy it. Her subdued pleasure turned to suspicion, for at another signal to the driver they proceeded through the unlocked gates down the road towards Clairemont Manor.
‘This is not the way to our home,’ she said, stating the obvious.
‘My house is nearer. You can both come for tea. I will send you home once I am assured that you are warmed and refreshed, and that no harm has come to you while on my property.’
‘That is most kind of you,’ her father said.
It was not at all kind. It was annoying. And she was sure that there must be some sort of ulterior motive to his sudden solicitousness.
But when she opened her mouth to say so, her father went on. ‘There are not many who are such good neighbours. And are you new here, Mr … ?’ He struggled for a name. ‘I am sorry. My memory is not what it once was.’
Barbara coloured, par
t relieved and part ashamed. She needn’t worry that her father was likely to turn violent again, for it was clear that he had lost the thread of things and forgotten all about Mr Stratford while concerned for her ankle. But what was she to do now? Should she remind him that his host was the same man who, according to her father’s own words, treated his workers ‘like chattel to be cast off in pursuit of Mammon’? Or should she continue to let him display his mental confusion in front of his enemy and become an object of scorn and pity?
Stratford seemed unbothered, and responded with the barest of pauses. ‘We have met only briefly, and I do not fault you for not recalling. I am Joseph Stratford, and I have taken residence of Clairemont Manor now that the family has relocated closer to the village.’
Her father gave a nod in response, still not associating the man across from them with the evil mill owner he despised.
‘Would you do me the honour of an introduction to your daughter, sir?’
As her father presented her to this supposed stranger with all necessary formality, she thought she detected a slight twitch at the corners of Stratford’s mouth. If he meant to make sport at the expense of her father’s failed memory she would find a way to pay him out. But, after the briefest lapse, he was straight-faced and respectful again, enquiring after her father’s work and commiserating with him on the closing of the little school where he had taught, and his recent difficulties in finding another occupation.
Mr Stratford had changed much since the last time she’d seen him brandishing a pistol and taunting the crowd. Though she could not say she liked him, she’d felt an illogical thrill at the power of him then, and the masterful way he had come to her aid. Now she was left with time to admire him as he conversed with her father, displaying intelligence and a thoughtful nature that had not been in evidence before. She found herself wishing that things could be different from the way they were and that this might be their first meeting. If she could look on him with fresh eyes, knowing none of his behaviour in the recent past, it might be possible to trust him. But she could not help thinking that this display of good manners was as false as her sprained ankle.
He had let the groom help him on with his coat again before they had taken off, and she could see that it was the height of London fashion, tailored to perfection and designed to give a gentlemanly outline to the work-broadened shoulders she had felt as he carried her. He was clean-shaven. But his hair was a trifle too long, as though he could not be bothered to spare the few extra minutes that the cutting of it would take. A lock of it fell into his eyes as he nodded at something her father had said, and he brushed it out of his face with an impatient flick of his hand. Though she could not call them graceful, his movements were precise. She could imagine that these were hands better at tending machinery than creating art, more efficient than gentle.
He made conversation with her father in an accent carefully smoothed to remind the listener of London, though she doubted that his tongue had been born to it. He spoke nothing of himself or his own past. But in the questions that drew her father to conversation Barbara heard the occasional lilt or drawl that was the true Joseph Stratford. He was a Northerner. But for some reason he did not like to show it.
She looked away before he could catch her staring. Even if he was nothing more than a tradesman masquerading as gentry, he deserved more courtesy than she was giving him. They were drawing up the long drive towards the great house where she had played as a child. That was before Mary had died, of course, and before her sister Anne had grown into such a great and unapproachable lady. Had the manor changed as well? she wondered. Were the places she’d hidden under chairs and behind statues the same or different? Although she wished the circumstances had been different, she very much wanted to see the place—just once more.
She could feel the eyes of the other man on her, watching her reaction to the house. So she worked to relax her posture and not stare so, or appear eager for a visit to it. It was little better than staring directly at him to admire his property as though she coveted or desired the luxury he took for granted.
‘I had a friend who lived here once,’ she blurted, to explain her interest.
‘And perhaps you will again,’ he replied easily.
She looked up sharply into a face that was all bland innocence. The carriage pulled up before the great front entry, and as it stopped he signalled for the door to be opened, allowing her father to exit first so that he might help her on the steps.
For a moment they were alone again, and he touched her hand and smiled. ‘There is no reason for us to be enemies,’ he said.
‘Nor any particular reason for friendship,’ she reminded him, drawing her hand away.
‘I think it is too soon for either of us to tell,’ he announced, ignoring her animosity.
The process of entering the house was much the same as their setting off from the mill had been, with him carrying her while she protested, her shoeless foot waving in the air. There was a flurry of alarm amongst the servants, many of whom recognised her and her father.
‘Put me down now,’ she insisted. ‘Talk of this will reach the village. It will be the ruin of me.’
‘If it is, your father is right here to set them straight.’ He was smiling again, as though he knew how likely it was that her father would have no real memory of the event, for good or ill.
‘I would prefer that no explanation be needed,’ she said.
‘And I would prefer that people think me less of an ogre,’ Stratford replied. ‘I will not have you limping about my house while I offer no assistance. Then it will get round that I let you suffer as a punishment to your father.’
For her own sake, and to preserve her reputation, he explained in a loud voice for the benefit of the staff that Miss Lampett had fallen, and he did not wish to risk further injury until she had rested her foot. But as he did so his hands tightened on her body, to prove to Barbara that he was enjoying the experience at her expense.
‘You may put me down, and I will take my chances,’ she said, glancing at a parlour maid who stood, wide-eyed, taking in the sight. ‘I feel quite all right now.’
He pretended that he had not heard, and called for tea to be brought to the library, carrying her down the wide hall and depositing her on a couch by the fire.
How had Mr Stratford known, she wondered, the calming effect that the presence of books had on her father? Though he seemed to have more difficulty with people since the accident, the printed word still gave him great comfort. The Clairemont Manor library was the largest in the area and the best possible place to cement her father’s recovery.
As the servants prepared tea, her father stood and ran a hand along the rows of leather-bound volumes. Stratford studied the behaviour and then invited him to help himself to whatever he liked, lamenting that business gave him little time to enjoy the books there.
Her father gave a grateful nod and fell quickly to silence, ignoring the cup that had been poured for him, and the plate of sandwiches, in favour of the Roman history in his hand.
Stratford gave her a wry smile. ‘While your father is preoccupied, would you enjoy a brief walk down the corridor? If your ankle is better, as you claim, a spot of exercise will assure me that it is safe to send you home.’
She wanted to snap that she did not need him seeing to her safety. She had not wanted to come here at all. And now that she was here she would go home when she was ready, and not at his bidding. But it would be shaming to discuss her father’s rude behaviour while she shared a room with him, so it was best that she allow herself to be drawn away.
‘That would be lovely,’ she lied.
He went to fetch her boot and helped her with the lacing of it, commenting that the lack of swelling was an encouraging sign. Behind a placid smile, she gritted her teeth against the contact of his fingers against her foot and ankle. He was very gentle, as though he cared enough not to cause injury to a weakened joint. But she suspected the occasional fleeting touches
she felt against her stocking were not the least bit accidental. He was touching her for his own pleasure. Much as she did not wish to, she found it wickedly exciting.
Then he rose and went ahead to open the door for her, standing respectfully to the side so that she might pass. She forced herself to stifle the unquiet feeling that it gave her to have him at her back—even for a moment.
It was possible that this latest offer masked something much darker. Perhaps he had designs upon her virtue. For, this close, she could not deny the virile air that he seemed to carry about with him, and the sense that he had a man’s needs and would not scruple to act upon them. She gave a small shudder, barely enough to be noticeable.
‘Is the house too cold for you?’ he prompted. ‘If so, I could have a servant build up the fire, or perhaps bring you a wrap … ‘
‘No, I am fine. I suspect that I took a slight chill on the moors.’
‘Your clothing is still damp from the fall. And I took you away from the tea I had promised.’ He frowned. ‘But I wished to speak alone with you for a moment, so that you might know I bear you no ill will because of recent events.’ He rubbed his brow, as though tired. ‘One can hardly be held responsible for the actions of one’s parent. I myself have a troublesome father.’
He stopped.
‘Had,’ he corrected. ‘I had a difficult father. He is dead now. For a moment I had quite forgotten.’
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ she said politely. ‘I assume the passing is a recent one, if you still forget it?’
He looked away, as though embarrassed. ‘Almost seven years, actually. It is just that he has been on my mind of late. He was a weaver, you see.’
‘You are the son of a weaver?’ she said.
‘Is that so surprising?’ There was a cant to his head, a jutting of the chin as though he were ready to respond to a challenge. ‘With all your father’s fine talk of supporting the workers, I did not think to find you snobbish, Miss Lampett.’
A Christmas Betrothal Page 22