Miss Fitzwilliam's Christmas Redemption

by Lydia Pembroke

  He did not tell a soul of my indiscretion. Indeed, he had every right to cast me aside for Lady Catherine St. Claire, after seeing me kiss his brother in such a clandestine, furtive manner.

  So, why could she not forget the grave mistake she had made? Why did she wish so fervently that she could go back and change things, and stay away from Phillip, so that she might marry Edward after all? The engagement had been within her grasp, and she had ruined it with a moment of impulse.

  Not only that, but she had been sent away by her mother and father for it, in the hopes of reducing the risk of the truth slipping out and ruining her reputation forever. Her dissatisfaction and longing to change the past likely had something to do with the endless arrangement of tea parties, soirées, and dinners she was invited to each week, by the various merchants that her aunt seemed eager to foist her onto.

  Her aunt did not seem to realise that these were not the sort of people she wanted to socialise with of an evening, after a long day in the shop, not when there were Earls and Dukes and even Barons at other soirées across town, far fancier than anything a merchant could produce.

  Still, those evening parties and soirées had given her the chance to dress up in all of her finery, and slough away the weariness of a day of work in the shop, giving her a stage upon which to do what she did best… transform into a social butterfly. Amongst music and excellent wine, she could forget that she had been reduced to a milliner’s assistant, instead of the titled Lady that she might have become, but for one silly mistake.

  The only trouble was, each of these evenings, combined with endless hours feigning admiration and enthusiasm in the millinery shop, left her feeling ever more depleted. Even at gatherings with merchants, she tended to be overlooked by those in attendance, often pushed to the side-lines where she would sit with a goblet of sour wine and nothing to say.

  There, she would watch the other attendees enjoying themselves, laughing and joking about shipments and stocks and brokers, whilst she struggled to find her place amongst them. She didn’t even feature in the upper echelons of this social strata, either, and it was slowly eating away at her.

  Not belonging was far worse than she ever could have imagined.

  Depressed with the way her life in London was developing, she peered out of the window, on the morning in which she had feigned sickness, and watched the fat, feathery flakes fall to the ground. Already, a thin layer had begun to stick on the grass of the distant park, inspiring her to get dressed and go into the part of town where most fashion establishments were located.

  Fashion had always been a sort of medicine for her, though it had taken on a less-comforting edge since beginning at the shop, but she knew it would cheer her that day. That, and the snow. She so adored the snow, even though it left her fingertips numb and her nose red.

  Plus, it meant that hardly anyone would be out and about, which meant she might have a much-needed dose of anonymity.

  Dressing hurriedly, she wrapped up tightly in several layers and set out into the icy mid-morning world.

  Placing a small purse of money which she had brought from her home at Foxford House, into her reticule, she took a carriage towards Soho Square and alighted there to visit the Soho Bazaar. Here, she did not have to worry about being invited to events, or judging which shade of peach might best suit a stubborn young lady for whom peach was a terrible colour, or feel her heart sink at each rebuffed attempt at friendliness. Here, she could simply be Miss Letitia Fitzwilliam, former socialite of St. Alban’s.

  After picking out a small brooch, but little else, Letitia gave up her search for comfort in the arms of the Bazaar and headed towards Mivart’s Hotel.

  A nice cup of tea and a biscuit might be precisely what I require, to haul me out of this pit that I am in.

  The snow was still falling, though less heavily than before. It touched her face gently as it swept downwards, and she stuck out her warm, pink tongue to catch the tumbling flakes.

  “This is not so bad, after all,” she murmured to herself, as she walked on.

  ~~~~~

  She rubbed her gloved hands together as she stepped into the warmth of Mivart’s, glancing for the directions towards the tea room. Her eyes drifted peacefully across the splendid entrance hall, before they widened in surprise.

  A figure stood to one side, checking one of the notice-boards on the far wall of the room. Immediately, Letitia ducked back behind the nearest doorway, lest she be seen.

  Phillip Gillingham, Marquess of Tetherton! What in heaven’s name is he doing here? Her heart leapt into her throat, her chest gripping in a tight vice of unspoken turmoil. The man who stood before the noticeboard was the very man who had managed to get her into all of this trouble. He had been the reason for her departure to London, and yet here he was… in London.

  She stole a glance at him, though he was engrossed in the bulletins which had been posted there. Her mind whirled with memories, sweet and painful at the same time. Regardless of the way they had parted, she longed to see him again, and speak with him the way she used to. Truly, in that moment, he encapsulated every single thing that she missed about her old life.

  You must not cry, she told herself, as the emotions came bubbling to the surface. Almost engaged to Phillip’s brother, Edward, and with an agreement more-or-less in place, she had enjoyed social status and standing, and that would-be union had allowed her to stay close to the man she had really loved, Phillip. Indeed, once upon a time, she had hoped to marry Phillip himself, though his family had denied them that. They did not want their first-born to marry a young lady without title, which is why an agreement had been put in place between her and Edward instead. Even that would have kept her near Phillip, had she not been so foolish. If she had not allowed him to kiss her that night, resulting in their discovery by Edward, then she might have married Edward and continued to relish the attentions of Phillip, with no fear of retribution. For then, she would have been a married woman and he would have been a married man, forging the perfect ruse.

  Still, in those former days, when she and Phillip had enjoyed one another’s company so very much, and she had prayed for an imminent wedding, she had never been happier. Her days with him had been filled with untold joy and laughter. The kind that only came along once in a lifetime, or so she had convinced herself. Moreover, he had confessed his own affections to her, on numerous occasions, especially in private, stolen conversations where they had gazed into one another’s eyes and laughed so much that tears had streaked their gleeful faces. She could not have stopped herself from falling in love with him, any more than she could stop the sun from rising each morning. She only wished she might have fallen for Edward instead.

  She could still recall, in vivid detail, the morning that Phillip had come to her, to tell her some important news. How excited she had been — giddy, even, like a child. She felt foolish, now that she thought back on it, but in that moment, she had truly thought he was there to confess his love to her.

  Never had she expected that he had come to tell her that he was to wed another.

  As soon as the words had come out of his mouth, and he had explained to her that he was being forced to marry another woman — Lady Jane, a lady of high rank and good social standing — she had been at a complete loss. Indeed, she had hardly remembered her own confession falling from her lips, unchecked, and the sadness that had followed. He had admitted his feelings too, but it was too late by then. He had to marry Lady Jane or lose everything. If Edward had not overheard us and seen us that night, at the Autumn party at Foxford House, might he have continued with the wedding? Might we have married, after all?

  Even now, that did not seem like an ideal situation. To be married to one brother, but be in love with the other — surely, that could only have ended in disaster? It seemed like the perfect ruse, but she knew that it would never have been that simple.

  She pressed back against the wall as Phillip turned away from the noticeboard and made his way through to t
he tea rooms. Fortunately, he did not look in her direction, nor see her squashed in the doorway of an unknown side-room. For that, she was glad. Once certain that he would not suddenly reappear, Letitia hurried over to the reception desk and smiled sweetly at the gentleman behind the counter. He was smartly dressed, his greying hair oiled to one side, his rheumy eyes warm and welcoming. The perfect man to assist her in her foolhardy endeavour.

  “Good afternoon, Sir,” she began nervously. “I was wondering if I might leave a message for one of your guests here?”

  The man smiled.

  “Certainly, Miss. Might I have the guest’s name and your name?”

  “Of course,” she replied. “My name is Lady Meredith Holborn. Please may you pass on my message to Phillip Gillingham, Lord Tetherton? I am a friend of his… uh, wife.”

  “I will see that he gets it. Would you like to write a note for him now, or shall I pass the message on verbally?”

  Letitia frowned. “I will write a note now, thank you.”

  Grasping for the provided ink and quill, she began to write a rapid message on the paper that the man had given her, cupping a covetous hand around the words so that he could not catch a glimpse of what was written.

  Once she was done, she folded it up and handed it back to him, with the name Lord Tetherton written on the front.

  “I will ensure that he gets it, My Lady,” the old man said.

  “Thank you, Sir,” she replied, his honorifics feeling strange to her. Indeed, she had almost looked around to see which Lady he was referring to, before remembering the name she had given to him.

  With that, she turned around and exited the hotel, thinking of the brief letter she had written. All it had said was:

  Dear Lord Tetherton,

  I happened to see you in Mivart’s and hoped that you might have some time to visit a former acquaintance. It has been a long while and I am eager to know if you are well. If you are at your liberty tomorrow at two o’clock, might you meet me in the prayer chapel at St. Paul’s Cathedral? I will wait.

  Yours Faithfully,

  An Old Friend

  Truthfully, she did not know if he would come to meet her, but she knew that she had at least put the invitation to him. She longed to see him again, more than anything else in the world. And if he did not appear, then she would know, for certain, that there was no hope for the two of them. No chance of rekindling the love between them. However, if he did appear at the given time, then maybe, just maybe, all was not lost.

  Chapter Six

  Managing to convince her aunt that she required another day of rest, due to her mystery malaise, and glad that Rosalind had not given her away, Letitia sat on the windowsill in her bedchamber and watched the world go by. The carriage clock on the mantel ticked slowly towards two o’clock, when she might meet with Phillip again.

  She had barely slept for nerves. Indeed, that was likely why her aunt had been so easily convinced of Letitia’s illness, for she truly did look ailing, the dark circles prominent beneath her eyes, her complexion very pale.

  At one o’clock, she dressed and slipped out of the second-floor apartments, casting a glance back over her shoulder to make sure that Rosalind was not watching her furtive departure. Although the maid shared the same living spaces, Letitia had scarcely seen her, to the point where she was beginning to wonder if the maid was simply conjured at will. Agnes clapped her hands and poof! — Rosalind appeared.

  The carriage deposited her outside the grand entrance to St. Paul’s Cathedral some forty minutes later.

  Straightening her gown and adjusting the collar of her cloak, she walked up the steps and entered the cavernous building. Ecclesiastical voices sang in a low, peaceful hum as she made her way through the beautiful architecture to the prayer chapel. She had always enjoyed the archways and statues that were intrinsic to St. Paul’s, with her shoes moving quietly across the stone floor, polished by years of similarly placed footsteps.

  Arriving at the prayer chapel, she kept to the back pews and knelt as if to pray. However, her mind could not rest upon divine thoughts. Instead, they strayed towards anxious visions, her heart thundering in her chest as she listened for the door opening and closing.

  Every time someone stepped in, she felt certain it would be Phillip, but each time she was disappointed.

  He is not coming, she thought miserably. He has deciphered that I am the old friend, and he has chosen to keep away, rather than risk any scandal. He no longer cares for me as he once did. Her feelings, however, remained unchanged. She loved him as much as she ever had, a twinge of desperation firing through her veins. She had to see him again, she simply had to.

  She glanced back as the door opened, her heart leaping into her throat as Phillip entered. He looked as handsome as ever, with his dark-brown curls and deep-brown eyes, his features broad and masculine with a subtle slenderness of the nose and a plumpness of the lips that leant towards feminine. He had always walked the line between handsome and pretty, his dark lashes longer than most ladies’, whilst his broad shoulders implied protectiveness and security.

  Their eyes met for a moment, a glimmer of surprise crossing his face. She watched him take an uncertain breath, before he finally approached. He knelt close to her, though he kept a somewhat disappointing distance.

  She could understand his need to be courteous and respectful, but she longed to have him nearer.

  “I did not know if it would be you, Miss Fitzwilliam,” he said, in a low voice. There were very few people in the chapel that day, giving them some degree of privacy. “Your mother informed my mother that you had gone to stay with family in Yorkshire. I did not know of your presence in London. And yet… I did wonder if it might be you, when that message arrived at my door.”

  She dipped her head.

  “I saw you entering Mivart’s Hotel, Lord Phillip. I did not mean to — it was mere chance.”

  “You should not have asked me here,” he replied stiffly.

  He had never spoken to her with so little emotion before, her brow furrowing in confusion. Please say you love me still? Indeed, his words smarted of hypocrisy, for he had been the one to ask her out into the gardens that fateful night. He had been the one to invite her out there, alone, with no chaperone, so he might kiss her in secret.

  You should not have asked me there, either.

  “I had to,” she said, with firm conviction.

  He shook his head slowly.

  “Still, it was unwise.”

  She clasped her hands together as though praying, trying to squeeze back the tears that threatened to fall. After weeks of being overlooked and feeling utterly invisible, she had hoped that he might be the one to make her feel worthy again, giving her a renewed taste of the life that she had enjoyed in St. Alban’s. Instead, he was freezing her out, rebuffing her with cold aloofness.

  He was the only familiar and friendly face that she had seen since leaving her home, only it no longer wore a welcoming expression. There was no warmth in it now; no echo of the Phillip she had known before, the one she had fallen in love with. The one whose lips had touched hers with such tenderness.

  “You cannot understand, my Lord. My time in London has been dire indeed,” she said, holding in a wrenching sob. “My mother and father thought it best that I reside here until the dust settled and the gossips turned their attention elsewhere, but I have missed home so terribly. The people do not know me here, nor do they care for me. I feel as if I am a ghost, wandering an unfamiliar world in which I am not accepted.”

  “I am sorry for that, Miss Fitzwilliam,” Phillip replied, his tone bland.

  She cast him a disapproving look.

  “I have lost everything I held dear because of you, and all you can say is ‘sorry’? Had you not kissed me that night, your brother would have married me instead of that St. Claire woman. You did not seek to repair any of the damage done between myself and your brother, and you allowed me to be humiliated. Do you understand how much shame I ha
ve endured, hearing the congratulations towards your brother and his wife? Do you know how deeply the gossip stings, when everyone wonders why Lord Edward cast me aside for her? They may not know the truth, but their assumptions are just as mortifying. I am here, in this situation, because of you. I must work in my Aunt Agnes’ shop because of you.”

  “What would you have had me do, Miss Fitzwilliam? Renounce my duties and my name, and wed you instead of Lady Jane? I could not have done so — you know that as well as I do. We discussed it often enough. As for my kissing you that night; I am only sorry that my brother discovered us, for I thought you would make a handsome, happy pair. I really did. Indeed, I wish that night had never happened, for then you might still have found joy with him.”

  “You are too cruel, Phillip.” That kiss meant the world to her, even now. He sighed.

  “I am truly sorry for this state of affairs, Miss Fitzwilliam. I did not want it to be like this.” He paused uncertainly. “Although, I must tell you… you should not seek to contact me again. This must be the last time, for though I once cared for you, I love my wife. She is kind, and sweet, and intelligent, and I have been too hard on her. I am seeking to make amends for that, to become a better man. And besides, although your life has changed somewhat, you have not lost everything. You are still the enchanting young lady that you have always been, with a blithe spirit and a sharp humour. I am certain that you will find a gentleman of good standing, who will love you as you ought to be loved — the way I have come to love my wife.” He smiled. “That is my hope for you, Letitia. As Edward and his wife have not disclosed anything of our mutual indiscretion, I do not see why that should not happen for you. You have not been ruined. Your reputation remains intact.”

  It pained her to hear her given name on his tongue, whilst her heart shattered into a million fragments. It was clear to her now that she had lost his affections. Lady Jane had taken her place, and that could not be undone, no matter how desperately she adored Phillip.