Miss Fitzwilliam's Christmas Redemption

by Lydia Pembroke

  THE NETTLEFOLD CHRONICLES

  MISS FITZWILLIAM’S CHRISTMAS REDEMPTION

  A Regency Romance

  LYDIA PEMBROKE

  ©Copyright 2018 Lydia Pembroke

  All Rights Reserved.

  License Notes

  This Book is licensed for personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.

  Disclaimer

  This story is a work of fiction any resemblance to people is purely coincidence. All places, names, events, businesses, etc. are used in a fictional manner. All characters are from the imagination of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books by Lydia Pembroke

  Here is Your Preview of Restoring Lady Alice

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter One

  Frost lingered like a spray of diamonds across the well-kept, private parks of Belgravia, whilst the towering oaks looked sparse without their summer foliage, their branches stark and bare. Blackbirds chirped as they hopped across the bejewelled lawns, seeking out a morsel in the undergrowth. Most of the autumn leaves had fallen, the soil hard-packed as winter continued its imminent approach. In the fog that rolled across the rising dawn, a carriage trundled up to one of the townhouses and rattled to a halt outside. Two ladies sat within — Miss Letitia Fitzwilliam and Mrs Agnes Hepworth. The former had her head down, her chin pressed to her chest, whilst the elder looked out of the window with an expression that said: “I am home”.

  “Have we arrived, Aunt?” Letitia asked curtly, the bitter chill creeping beneath her woollen cloak.

  “We have, Letitia,” she replied, opening the door. The driver assisted the two ladies in alighting, before offloading the trunks that had been stowed aboard. Letitia looked up at the building which was to be her new home, whilst her heart ached for the one that she had left behind in St. Alban’s.

  Truly, it had been her own fault, and her shame had been entirely of her own making, but she had not anticipated that it would come to this. A complete upheaval of everything she had known, and the loss of two men in one fell swoop—one she loved, and one she might have come to admire.

  “Thank you for allowing me to live with you here,” Letitia said, with a forced smile. Gratitude did not come naturally to her, especially not in her present state of despair.

  “It is my pleasure,” Agnes replied. “Now, I would advise that you go straight to your rooms and unpack your things. I will send one of the maids to assist, though I have very few staff. It will not quite be what you are accustomed to, dear niece, but we shall both muddle through. Once you are finished unpacking, I should like it if you would meet me in the drawing room. There is much for you and I to discuss.”

  Letitia nodded slowly.

  “Yes, Aunt. I will be as swift as I am able.”

  With a gesture of encouragement, Agnes ushered Letitia towards the front door of the townhouse. The moment Letitia stepped inside, her mouth fell open in surprise. She gaped at the surroundings, as she took in the vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall, and the elegant staircase which swept up to the next floor.

  She had known her aunt was a well-to-do, high-society milliner, but she had not expected her aunt to be quite so wealthy, especially with her husband six years buried. It seemed madness that a woman should have accumulated this much wealth. The townhouse was utterly remarkable and looked as though it ought to belong to a Duke, rather than a simple milliner.

  “You live here?” Letitia murmured, staring at the intricate cornicing overhead. She had never visited her aunt in London before.

  Indeed, Agnes had always been the one to come to their country manor, and even then, it was a rare enough occasion. With Agnes being on Letitia’s father’s side of the family, they were not as close as two sisters might have been — a brotherly distance had always lingered between the pair.

  “The second-floor apartments are mine,” Agnes replied, prompting Letitia to walk up the winding staircase. “All of those on the ground floor, and the first, belong to other families.”

  “Ah,” Letitia said with a nod.

  That made a lot more sense to her, though it would be an adjustment after Foxford House; the family manor which sat just outside the quaint town of St. Alban’s. There, Letitia had enjoyed an abundance of space, and excellent gardens.

  She thought of the hedge maze and the clustered topiary where her misdemeanour had been discovered, her shame still burning a livid flame in her cheeks. Here, it seemed they would be confined, without much greenery to speak of. There were the private parks outside, but they paled in comparison to the beautiful walled gardens that had been a daily feature of her ten-and-nine years. Perhaps that was for the best.

  As they approached the second floor, Letitia’s legs already beginning to ache from the steep climb, a red-headed young woman appeared at the top of the staircase.

  She curtseyed awkwardly, drawing her black skirt outward like a pair of wings.

  “This is Rosalind, my primary maid. I have occasional other members of staff who come and go, but Rosalind resides here with me,” Agnes explained. “She will assist you with whatever you require, though she is not to be exploited. Here, we do what we can of our own volition. I will expect you to do the same. Now, I will be in the drawing room when you finish unpacking — it is that room down the hallway.”

  She pointed to a doorway at the very end of the corridor.

  “Yes, Aunt,” Letitia said, feeling her chest grip with anxiety.

  All she wanted to do was turn around and run for home — her real home. Maybe, it was not too late to make amends. Maybe, it was not too late to change the course of her future. Another husband could be found, she was sure of it.

  “Very good. Rosalind will point you in the right direction for your room. Please, think of this house as yours from now on, for it is. Indeed, I am glad to have you here, even if the circumstances are somewhat unfortunate.”

  Agnes cast Letitia a kind smile, before disappearing down the hallway to the room she had gestured to.

  “Shall we, Miss?” Rosalind said brightly, her accent lightly flavoured with a Celtic twang. ‘Irish, if I am not mistaken’, she thought.

  Letitia nodded.

  “Yes, thank you. I believe the coachman is bringing the trunks up.”

  Just then, the laboured driver appeared, lugging two of the vast boxes under his arms. He was already perspiring furiously, making Letitia feel guilty about the quantity of items she had brought.

  Then again, she had been forced to pack her entire existence, for she did not know when propriety would allow her to return to the town she adored.

  “Allow me to help you with those,” she urged, hurrying to take one of the trunks.

  She and Rosalind carried it between them, heaving it, with some difficulty, towards the room in the very centre of the hallway.

  Beyond the varnished door of dark wood lay a simple, clean room. It lacked the embellishments that she was used to, with no colour, no rich fabrics, no t
apestries, and no paintings to speak of. A cross stood above the fireplace, the walls a pale shade of duck-egg blue, the bed a narrow wrought-iron frame with a starchy, white coverlet and flat-looking pillows.

  Is my aunt’s house masquerading as a convent? she wondered. Have I mistakenly found myself in Rosalind’s room?

  “I’ll fill a jug o’ water for you, Miss, so you might clean up before you go and meet with Mrs. Hepworth,” Rosalind said. “Then I’ll come and help ye pack yer things into the wardrobes and whatnot.”

  Before Letitia could answer, the maid had vanished. She did not mind; she rather liked the peace, if only for a moment, so she might gather her thoughts.

  Otherwise, she feared she might burst into silly tears.

  This is temporary, she told herself. In a year or so, you will return to St. Alban’s and all will have been forgotten. You need only endure for a short while.

  An hour later, she made her way down the hallway towards the farthest room on the right. For some reason, she felt a bristle of nerves run through her, as if she were about to greet the governess after a mishap during arithmetic. Taking a steadying breath, she knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Agnes replied.

  Letitia entered the drawing room, peering around the threshold with wide eyes. It was not an unpleasant room, and had a quaint cosiness that she rather liked.

  Bookcases lined the walls, and there were one or two interesting landscapes of an autumnal riverbank and a farmland scene. It was the glimpse of colour she had been longing for, in the otherwise bland apartments. Meanwhile, a fire blazed in the grate, casting a reddish glow on the two armchairs that faced the flames.

  On the right-hand side sat Agnes, looking up from a book.

  “Are you settled into your chambers, dear niece?” she asked.

  Letitia smiled. “Yes, thank you — my belongings are packed away.”

  She knew it would be a much longer expanse of time before she felt settled in this house, if ever. Given her youth, she could not help but draw comparisons between the second floor of a townhouse in Belgravia, and the manor she had come from.

  “Sit,” Agnes urged, before tinkling a bell that sat on the side-table next to her.

  Rosalind appeared a moment later. “Mrs. Hepworth?”

  “Might you fetch us some tea, Rosalind? And some of those blackberry tarts, if Mrs. Brooks has any left?” Agnes replied.

  “Very good, Mrs. Hepworth. I’ll bring them to you anon.”

  With that, they were left alone, with Letitia wondering what her aunt might wish to say. The older lady wore a solemn expression on her face, her mouth somewhat pursed. That, in itself, was enough to worry Letitia. Nothing good could come of an expression like that.

  “You wished to speak with me, Aunt?” Letitia prompted, unable to wait a moment longer.

  Agnes chuckled softly.

  “Impatient as ever, I see,” she remarked, chastening Letitia. “I wished to speak with you regarding your new circumstances. I understand that you have had a trying few weeks, and I am sympathetic towards your plight. I was young and impressionable once, and I know how changeable the heart can be at such an age. It is fragile, and easily wounded, though I daresay you were partially responsible for its recent injury,” she went on. “However, whilst you are living with me, I will not have you whiling away the hours doing nothing. Laziness shows a lack of ambition, and I cannot abide indolence. As such, I will require you to work with me at my shop. I will teach you all that you need to know, and I know that mistakes will occur. Saying that, this is not a negotiable suggestion. If you are to reside here, you will earn your keep.”

  Letitia gaped at her.

  “Work with you, Aunt?”

  She had never worked a day in her life and had never planned to.

  Indeed, she had thought to be married a few months from now, though that was no longer to be the case. Her actions had already ruined that notion.

  “Yes. It will be an excellent distraction for you, I am sure,” her aunt replied, her voice carrying a warning. There was no room for dispute here, that much was clear.

  “But, I—” Letitia began to protest, but Agnes cut her off.

  “You may take a few days to settle properly into your new surroundings — no longer than two, I should think — but then you will join me at the shop, and you will work alongside myself, and my assistant, Penny.”

  “But, I—” Letitia tried again.

  Agnes smiled tightly.

  “These are my terms for your staying here, Letitia. If you do not like my terms, you may return to your home and face the trouble and humiliation that has brought you here. It is entirely your decision.”

  Letitia dropped her gaze, feeling backed into a corner. If she told her aunt that she wished to return home, then she would have to face the proverbial music with Edward and Phillip Gillingham — she would have to hear of their happy marriages and be forced to keep away, whilst enduring the chatter of the local gossipmongers. If she stayed, then she would have to work in a humble milliner’s shop, albeit one visited frequently by the high-society of London.

  Agnes had said that the decision was Letitia’s, but that was an illusion; there had never been a choice. She could not go home now, no matter how dearly she wanted to. A year or so… that is all. I can endure a year.

  Chapter Two

  Mr. Percy Timmins hurried along the main street in Belgravia, clutching a leather-bound folder of designs under his arm. His grandfather, Mr. Charles Timmins, had convinced Percy’s father to send him to London three years prior, to work as an apprentice in Bothwell’s Emporium — a design house of excellent reputation, where he had been educated in the family trade of fabric and bonnets. However, in his time there, an idea had taken hold of Percy.

  A skilled designer, commended by his tutors and the members of Bothwell’s, he had hoped to expand his grandfather’s breadth of business, bringing the latest trends and styles up to the rural township of his childhood home, Upper Nettlefold. Not to mention its surrounding settlements, including the closest city, Swindon.

  This week was the last of his apprenticeship, and he desired to bring further business to his grandfather’s shop by gaining orders for his own designs here in London. He was certain he could ready the garments with swifter speed than the seamstresses and milliners of London, though the transport was something of a logistical problem.

  With that in mind, he found himself in Belgravia. A friend had sent him here, stating that he knew of a former express messenger who was in need of further employment.

  If I can gain his services, then I may secure the family business for years to come, he told himself, as he lifted his collar to the biting winter wind. It was scarcely a month to Christmas, and he knew that he was running out of time.

  Orders would need to be in place within the week if he was to make delivery of garments prior to the festive season, which would almost definitely be one of his busiest times of year, if he could get his designs off the ground. The spring Season was the sole exception.

  As he raced towards the address that he held in his hands, written on a small slip of paper, he thought only of his grandfather. At eighty years of age, Charles was growing frailer with each passing season. It pained Percy to admit it, but he did not know how much longer his grandfather would continue to hold onto this mortal coil. At least with hard work and determination, Percy could ensure that his grandfather’s legacy remained, long after he was dead.

  Timmins’ Fabric and Bonnets would not go out of business, nor would it fall into small-town obscurity.

  He was halfway down the street, when a sight brought him to a sudden halt. A shop stood out amongst the rest, calling to him: Hepworth’s Millinery. He was unable to resist the beautiful window display, which had been laid out in eye-catching detail. He particularly noted jewel-toned peacock feathers arching out of a silken bonnet of sapphire blue with emerald lining, and an oval side-tilting hat of red-velvet, with a cluster of perfectly-c
rafted satin roses atop it.

  Tentatively, he opened the door and listened for the musical jangle of the bell, drawing the attention of the three women who worked there. Two were behind the counter — an older lady with greying, mousy hair set in a severe style, and a much younger lady with fine, blonde hair and brown eyes, who seemed barely fifteen.

  “Good afternoon to you, Ladies,” he said, tipping his hat.

  Only then did he truly notice the third lady in the room, who was in the process of folding a small pile of rich, amethyst fabric. She looked up slowly, revealing eyes as blue as the silken, shimmering sapphire of the peacock-feathered hat, her beautiful features framed by a mass of honey blonde hair that had been elegantly curled and fixed in a modern style. Her bone structure was angular yet soft, giving a handsome impression that he could not tear his eyes away from. A flush of pink dusted the plump apples of her cheeks, and a slight smattering of freckles dotted her slender nose, leading down to a sweet mouth that curved into a half-smile as she caught him staring.

  “Good day to you, Sir. Might I assist you with something?” the older lady said, distracting him from the beauty by the shop window.

  He turned to her.

  “My name is Mr. Percy Timmins,” he replied. “I was wondering if you might be in the market for purchasing designs. I have long been an apprentice at Bothwell’s and I am looking to expand my reputation.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Timmins. I am Mrs. Agnes Hepworth, and this is my assistant, Miss Lucy Mottram,” she said, gesturing to the younger lady at her side.

  He cast a pointed glance at the sapphire-eyed woman.

  “And that is my niece, Miss Letitia Fitzwilliam. She is also an apprentice of sorts,” Mrs. Hepworth acquiesced, prompting the woman named Letitia to dip her head to hide her expression.

  Nervousness lingered behind the eyes of this Miss Fitzwilliam, her mouth forcing a smile that did not look natural. The sight of it worried and disappointed Percy, for he would very much have liked to have seen that genuine half-smile return. Nevertheless, it did not diminish her striking appearance, nor the hint of sweetness that he sensed beneath her superficial exterior.