A Christmas Betrothal

by Carole Mortimer

  He looked around him. He was slumped on the floor in the hall, in front of the ballroom, still clad in his nightclothes. He stood up quickly, glancing around to make sure they were alone. ‘Did anyone … ?’

  ‘See you? Dear God, I hope not. I am sure we will hear of it if they have. But you must consider yourself fortunate that I am an early riser and can help you out of this fix. What happened?’

  ‘I am not sure. I must have roamed in my sleep. I had a very vivid dream.’ And vivid it must have been. He could see the bruise on his hand where he had pinched himself. And feel a small knot on his skull where he had been rapped by the Cavalier’s beribboned walking stick.

  ‘Well, you look like the very devil. Grey as a paving stone and just as cold.’

  Joseph turned behind him to the curtain that hung on the wall and swept it aside, to reveal a small alcove with a stone bench just large enough to hide a pair of lovers. Or a girl playing at hide-and-seek.

  ‘I did not know of this before now,’ he said numbly to his friend. ‘But I dreamed it was here.’

  Breton was staring at him as though he were as barmy as Bernard Lampett. ‘If you wish to search the house for priests’ holes, it might be best to continue when fully dressed.’

  ‘Perhaps so.’ He frowned. ‘But I am surprised I had not noticed this before.’

  His friend took him by the arm, tugging him towards the back stairs. ‘That is little shock to me. It has nothing to do with the running of the mill. That is all you seem to care about lately.’

  ‘Unfair,’ Joseph charged. ‘I care about many things. It is not as if I am made of clockwork, you know.’ Who had told him he was?

  They mounted the steps and Breton hurried him towards his room, his valet and his clothing. ‘Sometimes I wonder. But, if you have them, tell me of these other interests. I defy you to name one.’

  Now that he was pressed, Joseph could not seem to think of any. Unless he could count Lampett’s fractious daughter as an interest. If the spirit of Sir Cedric had taught him anything, it was of his desire to see another of the smiles she had worn as a child.

  In response to his silence Bob gave a snort of disgust. When he spoke, the amusement in his voice had been replaced with sincere annoyance. ‘That was where you should have announced your excitement at your impending engagement. Have you forgotten that as well?’

  ‘Of course I have not forgotten.’ But he had responded too late to be believable.

  ‘I might just as well have included it as part of your business. It is little more than that to you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Little more to her as well,’ Joseph said, a little defensively. ‘Her father wishes her back living in this house. This is the most efficient way to accomplish it.’

  Breton pushed him towards his room. ‘Once she is here, you will notice her as little as you do your own furnishings—or that hole in the wall you found so fascinating. And that is a pity. Anne is a lovely girl, and deserving of better.’

  There was that prickling of his conscience again, and the echoing warning of his father to unravel his plans and start fresh. Perhaps that was what he’d meant. His other business plans were sensible enough. He hardly needed a wife to cement his place. But he could think of no honourable way to back out of the arrangement he had made with Clairemont.

  ‘There is nothing to be done about it now,’ Joseph said with exasperation. ‘We are as good as promised to each other. Everyone knows I mean to make the announcement on Christmas Eve. I cannot cry off, even if I might like to. The scandal to the girl would be greater than any that might befall me.’

  ‘Then the least you can do,’ Breton said more softly, ‘is to recognise that you have won a prize, and treat the girl as such. For if I find that you are neglecting her, or making her unhappy, I will be forced to act.’

  Joseph looked at his friend as if for the first time. Bob, who had been ever loyal, friendly and trusting, was acting as strangely as though he had been receiving nightly revelations as well. He looked angry. It was disquieting.

  ‘Very well, then,’ Joseph answered, searching his friend’s expression for some understandable reason for this change. ‘I will take your words to heart. Although it will not be a love match, I will make sure that she does not suffer for my neglect.’

  His friend sighed. ‘I suppose it is as much as I can expect from you. But see that you remember your words.’

  And mine as well.

  The echo of a voice from the portrait gallery caused him to start nervously.

  His friend gave him another suspicious look. ‘Is there something wrong, Joe?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said hurriedly. ‘You are right. I have been working too hard. I have not slept well for two nights. And I am neglecting Anne. Today I will change. I promise. But for now I must dress. I will see you in the breakfast room shortly.’ He backed hurriedly into his bedroom and shut the door before the conversation could grow any more awkward.

  He would make a change—if only to avoid another night like the one he’d just had. Although, with the minimal direction his nightly ghosts had given him, God only knew what that change was supposed to be.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Will that be all, Miss Lampett?’

  Barbara checked carefully through the list she’d set for herself to finish the Christmas shopping. A matching skein of wool to complete the warm socks she was knitting for Father, and the new fashion plates that her mother would enjoy, along with enough lace to make her a collar. ‘I can think of nothing more.’

  ‘Do you want this sent round to the house, Miss Lampett?’ The girl behind the counter looked at her expectantly.

  There was plenty of space left in her market basket on top of the groceries: three oranges, one for each of them, and a pound of wheat for her father’s favourite frumenty. The roast she’d got from the butcher sat in the bottom of the basket, wrapped tightly in brown paper so that it would not spoil the rest. The poor bit of meat was leaner than she’d wished for. But then so was the butcher. What with the war, and the general poverty of the area, Christmas itself would be sparse for many people, and she had best be grateful that her family had the money to purchase a feast.

  Barbara counted the remaining coins in her purse, calculating the pennies needed to reward the boy at the end of his journey. ‘No, thank you. It is a fine day, and not far. I will carry this myself.’

  The shop girl gave her a doubtful look and wrapped the package carefully, placing it on top of the others.

  Barbara hefted the basket off the counter, feeling the weight shift. It was heavy now. In a mile it would be like lead on the end of her arm. Her muscles would ache with carrying it. But she smiled in gratitude, to show the girl that it was all right, and pulled it to her side, turning to go.

  ‘Allow me, Miss Lampett.’ Without warning, Joseph Stratford was there at her side, as suddenly as he had been two days past in front of the mill. He had a grip on the basket handle, and had pulled it from her without waiting for her to give him leave.

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ she said, trying not to sound breathless from the shock of the sudden contact. It was strange enough to see him in the village, shopping amongst the peasants in the middle of a work day. But it was doubly disconcerting to have him here, close to her again, after the intimacy of yesterday.

  ‘Perhaps you do not think it necessary,’ he agreed. ‘But I would not be able to stand aside and watch you struggle with it. You had best take my assistance, for both our sakes.’

  ‘I would prefer not.’

  ‘But I would not be able to sleep, knowing I had left a lady to carry such a burden.’ He smiled at her in a way that might have been charming had she not known so much of the source. ‘I can hardly sleep as it is.’

  The charm faded for a moment, and she saw shadows under his eyes that had not been there two days ago. Maybe her father was weakening him, after all. She reminded herself that he deserved any suffering he felt, and gave him a false smile in return. �
�Heaven forefend that you are uneasy in your rest, sir.’ She reached again for the basket, but he pulled it just out of reach.

  ‘Come. You and your packages will have a ride home in my carriage.’

  ‘It is a short distance,’ she argued.

  ‘The weather is turning. Come with me, and you will stay warm and dry.’

  ‘My reputation … ‘

  ‘Will be unharmed,’ he finished, glancing at the people around him for confirmation. ‘I mean you no mischief. I will take you directly home. It is on my way.’ He looked around with a glare, cowing the shop girl and the other customers. ‘No one will cast aspersions if I attempt to do you good. They can see plain enough that you are resisting, but I am giving no quarter. Come along, Miss Lampett.’

  Then he and her basket were ahead of her, out of the door and walking towards the large and entirely unnecessary carriage. She had no choice but to trail after.

  As she passed, his groom jumped to attention, rushing to take the basket, get the stair down and hold the door as he helped her up. Across from her, Joseph Stratford leaned back into the seats as though he was ascending to a throne.

  Then he smiled at her, satisfied. ‘There. As you can see, you are perfectly safe, and still in clear view of those in the street. I am all the way over here—properly out of reach of you. There will be no such incident as there was the last time we were alone together.’

  ‘I had no doubt of that, Mr Stratford. I would die first.’

  He laughed at her for her primness. ‘You are a most ungrateful chit, Miss Lampett. One kiss did you no permanent harm. And, if you will remember the altercation outside the mill two days past, you must admit I have shown concern for your welfare. If I was as awful as you pretend, I would have let the mob trample you.’

  ‘You would not have.’ He’d moved with such speed to get to her side that she was sure it had been all but involuntary.

  He looked surprised. ‘You give me credit for that much compassion, at least. Thank you for it.’

  The silence that came after served to remind her just how unequal things had become, and just how unfair she was being to him—even if she did not particularly like the man. ‘I deserve no thanks, Mr Stratford. I owe them to you. At least for that day. I am perfectly aware that if you did not save my life, you at least spared me serious injury.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He seemed almost embarrassed that she had noticed the debt she owed.

  ‘But now you are giving me a ride, when I told you I did not wish one. After yesterday … ‘

  ‘Can you not accept this in the spirit with which it was given?’ he asked with a smile. ‘It is foul outside, but it appeared that you wished to forgo even the help of a delivery boy and struggle home by yourself. There was no reason for it.’

  He looked at her sideways for a moment, and then out of the window, as though his next comment was of no consequence.

  ‘Perhaps I remember what it was like to count pennies as though they were pounds, and do without the smallest luxuries.’

  He had guessed her reason for walking? ‘Then I also apologise for the comment I made in our last conversation, accusing you of being unsympathetic to those in need.’

  He was frowning now, and hardly seemed to speak to her. ‘You were right in part, at least. I had meant, when that time passed, to remember it better. I pledged to myself that I would be of aid to those who were impoverished, as I had been while growing up. It seems I have forgotten.’

  ‘Do not think to make my family an object of pity to salve your stinging conscience,’ she snapped. ‘If you wish to offer charity, there are others that need more of it.’ Then she looked out of the window as well. She felt bad to have spoken thus, for it was very ungrateful of her. He seemed able to put her in the worst temper with the slightest comment. But then, he could arouse other emotions as well.

  Her cheeks coloured as she thought again of the kiss. When she’d accepted this ride, had there been some small part of her that had hoped he would attempt to do it again? Was that what made her angry now? She was a fool if she thought that his offer had been anything other than common courtesy. She meant nothing to him. Nor did the kiss.

  ‘It is hardly charity to offer another person a ride on a cold and rainy day,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll wager you’d have accepted if the offer had come from Anne Clairemont or her mother.’

  ‘That would not have been likely,’ she said.

  ‘Why not? You were friends with the Clairemont girls as a child, were you not?’

  She turned and looked at him sharply. ‘What gave you that idea?’

  His gaze flicked away for a moment. ‘You mentioned it as we were driving towards the house yesterday.’

  ‘I said I’d had a friend there. But you said “girls” just now. I did not mention Mary.’

  ‘Perhaps Anne did,’ he said, still not looking at her. ‘Mary was her sister, then?’

  The idea that Anne might have mentioned her seemed highly unlikely. Something about the calculated way he spoke made her suspect he fished for information and was piecing the truth together with each slip Barbara made. ‘Mary has been dead for quite some time,’ she said, praying that would be the end of the conversation.

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘There was nothing mysterious about her death. She took ill, faded and died. If you wish to know more you had best ask your fiancée, Miss Clairemont.’

  ‘I have not offered as of yet.’

  ‘But you will. The whole village knows that the festivities you have organised are meant to celebrate your engagement to her.’

  ‘Do they, now?’ His voice had dropped briefly, as though he was talking to himself. ‘I did not know that the world was sure of plans that I myself have not spoken.’

  Were they not true? Anne seemed sure enough of them, as was her father. But Stratford’s response gave Barbara reason to fear for them. It would be most embarrassing should they have misunderstood this man’s intent so completely and allowed themselves to be used to further his business. ‘I am sorry. Perhaps I was mistaken.’

  ‘Perhaps you were.’ He was looking at her rather intently now, as though trying to divine her opinion on the subject.

  She reminded herself that she had none. Perhaps she was a little relieved that he was not riding with her or kissing her while planning to marry Anne. She had no wish to hurt that family again by seeming too interested in Mr Stratford. Nor did she want to do anything that might encourage him to become interested in her if he was otherwise engaged.

  But his eyes, when seen this close, were the stormy shade of grey that presaged a violent change in the weather. The slight stubble on his chin only emphasised the squareness of his jaw. Now that she had noticed it she found it hard to look away.

  He broke the gaze. ‘Then again, perhaps you were not mistaken about my engagement. I have not yet made a decision regarding my future, or that of Miss Anne Clairemont.’

  She looked down at her feet, embarrassed for having thought anything at all other than cursory gratitude that she was not walking in the rain. ‘Either way, it is rude of you to discuss it with me. And, I might add, it does not concern me whatever you do. You might marry whoever you like and it will not matter to me in the slightest.’

  ‘It is good to know that. Not that I planned to seek your approval.’ This was more playful than censorious, and delivered with a strangely seductive smile, as if to say it was in his power to make it matter, should he so choose. ‘But why do you say that the Clairemonts would not offer you a ride if you needed one? They seem like nice enough people, from what I know of them.’

  Perhaps enough time had passed that they were better. Barbara was not sure of the mood in the Clairemont household. But she would rather cut her tongue out than ask Anne, for fear the answer she might receive would open old hurts afresh. She gave a firm smile. ‘It is an old family quarrel, and nothing of importance. I would not seek to bother them if I did not have to.’

  �
�But I would like to hear of it, all the same.’

  ‘You will not hear it from me,’ she said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. ‘You are new to Fiddleton, Mr Stratford, and might not know the ways of small villages. When one lives one’s life with the same people from birth, it sometimes happens that one makes a mistake that cannot be corrected and that will follow one almost to the grave.’

  ‘Are you speaking of the Clairemonts, then? What mistakes could you have made to render you less than perfect in the eyes of this village? From where I sit, I see a most charming young woman—and well mannered.’ He smiled. ‘Although not always so to me.’

  ‘You do not always deserve it, sir.’

  ‘True enough,’ he agreed. ‘But you are kind to others, modest, clearly devoted to your family. And beautiful as well.’

  ‘Though too old to be still unmarried,’ she finished for him, sure he must be thinking it. ‘The verdict has already been rendered as to my worth in that regard. I have learned to accept it.’

  ‘Then we are of a kind,’ he said. ‘Although I am the worse of the two of us. I have just got here, and I have made myself universally hated. But I do not let it bother me. I do not care a whit for the opinions of the locals. I am who I am, and they had best get used to it.’ He looked her up and down again. ‘If they think less of you, for some foolish reason or other, I cannot give their views much credence.’

  Between the kiss they had shared and the look he gave her now, she suspected he had got quite the wrong idea about it all. He was hoping that there had been a man involved in her downfall. But their trip was almost over, and he had offered no further insult, so it was hardly worth correcting him. As long as they were not alone again he would give her no trouble.

  But his disregard for his own reputation bothered her. ‘Perhaps you should care what people think. There are worse things than social ostracism, you know. Mill owners have been accosted in their own homes and on their ways to and from the factories they own.’

  ‘That is why I carry this,’ he said, patting the bulge in his pocket and reaching in to draw out the handle of a pistol.