An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  “Those must be our nurserymaid’s children,” Justina said. “Richard mentioned he might invite them. I wish we could join them.”

  “Go ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”

  “Perhaps I shall. If you are certain there is nothing you need.”

  “Not a thing. I promise.”

  “Very well.” Justina squeezed Arabella’s hand, eyes bright. “Rest up. It shall be a late night.”

  When she had gone, Arabella returned her attention to the scene of playful affection outside. She didn’t see Mr. Murray any longer. He must have gone in. But there were Richard, Susanna, and the children. The four of them looked like a family. Arabella’s stomach pinched at the thought. And once more, Richard’s words whispered in her mind, “I will always love her.”

  Arabella turned away.

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, telling herself it did not matter. Yes, he was handsome, almost painfully so. Yes, she was attracted to him, and, she believed, he was attracted to her. But none of that changed the fact she had plans for her life that did not include marriage, and certainly not marriage to a man attached to someone else. A man she could not trust.

  No. Arabella resolved anew to stay the course. To keep her distance and avoid being alone with him in the future.

  CHAPTER

  Thirteen

  While Arabella rested and after Susanna and her children returned home, Richard rode into Wishford to see Jamie. The boy was too busy to talk for more than a few minutes. He looked less weary now that his nightly terrorizer was gone, though he still flinched whenever Mr. Knock came near. If only that rat could be dealt with as easily as the other.

  Late that afternoon, everyone dressed warmly and gathered in the hall. Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, who had hosted elderly relatives over Christmas, had invited everyone to their house for New Year’s Eve.

  The bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. The guests talked amicably amongst themselves while awaiting the three vehicles that would carry them to Stapleford: the Brockwells’ barouche-landau, the Awdrys’ coach, and the Bingleys’ carriage.

  The first vehicle rattled to the door. Lady Barbara, always first on such occasions, was carefully attended to the Brockwells’ barouche-landau by Sir Timothy and Mr. Ashford, followed by Rachel and Justina.

  As he entered, Timothy directed the coachman, “The roads don’t seem slippery, but just in case one of us has trouble, keep as much together with the other carriages as you can.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The Awdrys’ coach pulled up next. Lady Lillian stepped in first, and her daughter Penelope followed. Horace eagerly stepped in behind her.

  That left Arabella, Richard, and Mr. Murray awaiting the Bingleys’ carriage. When it drew up, Mr. Murray opened the door and offered Arabella a hand in. Richard followed her inside and sat across from her.

  Then Murray hesitated. Instead of stepping in, he shut the door and hurriedly wedged himself into the Awdrys’ coach.

  Arabella’s mouth parted in surprise. She leaned toward the window to see what became of him.

  “Crafty fellow,” Richard murmured, then looked at her. “I hope you don’t mind a tête-à-tête drive?”

  She hesitated, expression discomposed. “I . . . suppose not.”

  An awkward moment of silence passed, broken only by the rumble of wheels and jingle of tack as the horses trotted onward. Outside, twilight fell, but light from candle lamps on either side of the coach illuminated their faces.

  Clearly nervous, Arabella began speaking with gravity of the weather and how kind it was of the Bingleys to invite them to their home.

  Richard bit back a grin. “Very propitious, I agree.”

  “How unfortunate that my brother and new sister were delayed in returning from their wedding trip,” she said.

  “Is it unfortunate? Would not one wish for a longer wedding trip?”

  “That depends, I suppose, on whether one is prepared for such a delay, with sufficient funds and clean clothing. And, after all, one wishes to be with family at Christmas.”

  “So I have been told.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “You have not been home for Christmas in some time, I recollect. I hope you are enjoying yourself?”

  “I am. Especially at this moment.”

  “You did not attend Cyril and Miss Bingley’s wedding.”

  “No, I did not have that pleasure.”

  “Do you not like weddings?”

  “Not especially.”

  “I suppose, as a bachelor, they remind you of what you don’t have.”

  Richard considered. “If your theory is correct, then you must not like weddings either.”

  “On the contrary, I do. I may have chosen to devote my life to charitable works, but that does not mean I cannot celebrate with others who choose a more traditional path.”

  “Do you really mean not to marry?”

  She turned toward him, lamplight flickering on one side of her face. “Why do you sound so surprised, when you are determined to remain single as well?”

  It was a question Richard was not quite prepared to answer, so instead he changed the subject. “Would you mind if I sat beside you? I feel a little ill facing backward.”

  “Oh. No, of course not.”

  He moved over. Sitting side by side, their elbows and knees occasionally brushed as the coach turned a corner or jostled over a bump.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, with a little shiver.

  “Here.” He lifted a sheepskin from the opposite bench and spread it over them both. “That’s better. Very kind of the Bingleys to think of it.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  The coachman turned a sharp corner, and the movement tipped Arabella closer to him.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  “Don’t be. It’s warmer this way.”

  Shoulder to shoulder, Richard finally settled on his answer. “You, Miss Awdry, should marry—but only a man who deserves you. One who would treat you with the utmost respect and adoration.”

  She turned to look at him and asked softly, “Do you know of any such man?”

  Richard stilled. The moment was there. The opportunity ripe. All he had to do was say the words, then lean forward. In the half light of the coach, their faces were mere inches apart. It would be so easy to kiss her. . . .

  His gaze lingered on her eyes, then dropped to her mouth. Her beguiling, innocent mouth. Then he leaned back with a sigh. “Unfortunately not.”

  Solemnly, she said, “And you are not he.”

  “Is that a statement or a question?”

  “I would never marry a man who would not be faithful to me.”

  “And you believe I would not be faithful to you?”

  “I . . . doubt it.”

  He thought, then said, “The night you arrived, you told me you have kept a secret of mine for a decade now. Will you tell me what it was?”

  Embarrassed, she shook her head.

  “Well, I can guess. Not sure if you overheard something or how you learnt of it, but either way, I know I can trust you not to repeat this.” He took a breath, then said, “My own father was not faithful to my mother. For a time, I took that as license. Casted off moral scruples and followed in his footsteps. After all, I thought, what’s good for the gander is good for the gosling.

  “But I’ve had to reconsider my conclusions and take a hard look at my life. The truth is, I detested that my father kept a mistress—that he betrayed my mother, betrayed his family. Men can say all they like about secrets between gentlemen and ‘that’s just what men do,’ but I know firsthand how it injures the children. I would never do that to mine. That is why I will never marry . . . unless there is genuine love and fidelity—all or nothing.”

  Arabella blinked. “I’m sorry. That must have been very difficult.” She inhaled a long breath. “Do you think you could be faithful to one woman?”

  He ponder
ed. “Yes. I did not think I would ever want to. But you, Miss Awdry, have changed my mind. Unfortunately, I am not good enough for you.”

  “Are you the best judge of that?”

  He pushed his hand through his hair. “You judged it yourself the first night of the party. You called me a heartless libertine. And you were right.”

  “I thought . . . perhaps . . . you were changing?”

  Should he tell her he’d mended his ways years ago—had never again pressed his advantage with an innocent young woman? Then what was he doing now? How could he tell her he’d changed, when everything in him wanted to take her in his arms right then and there, propriety be hanged?

  Instead, he leaned away. “Do you think a man can change his nature?”

  “With God’s help, yes.”

  Through the coach windows, the Bingley home came into view. Lanterns lit the drive, and candles glowed in every window of the manor house. Their private tête-à-tête was about to come to an end. Their privacy and his opportunity with it. Was he making a mistake?

  Regardless, it was too late. The carriage stopped, and a liveried footman appeared to let down the step.

  Arabella looked away to hide her disappointment. Foolish creature, she chastised herself. Was she truly disappointed he had not offered to marry her, or kissed her? Had she forgotten her plans and his reputation, not to mention the precedent his father had set?

  She vaguely realized he’d been trying to distance himself for her sake, but in this instance, she had not wanted him to be noble. She’d wanted him to kiss her, but he had not. Yet she was certain he’d wanted to.

  They alighted. Donning a placid smile, she laid a cool hand on Richard’s offered arm. Her injured toes ached with each step. She could walk well enough, but hoped no dancing was planned for the evening.

  Stepping inside, servants took their coats, capes, and mantles. In the great hall, they were welcomed by their hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Bingley.

  The evening party commenced. Card tables had been set up in the drawing room, and guests sat in groups of four to play whist. Though not fond of cards, Arabella politely took part. Later, Mrs. Bingley suggested parlour games for the younger people.

  After charades and a memory game, they next played Buffy Gruffy. For this game, a blindfolded player stood in the center of a circle of chairs. The other players changed places as silently as possible. The blindfolded person advanced, arms outstretched until reaching someone. Then he or she asked three questions to try to guess the person’s identity. The players had to answer truthfully but tried to disguise their voices, often teasing the blindfolded player as well. It was a game Arabella had played eagerly as a younger woman but now with some trepidation.

  The game began with the usual blind blunders, embarrassing questions, and silly voices. Then it was Richard’s turn. Blindfolded, he advanced toward Arabella. She sat quietly, hoping he would come to her and fearing it at the same time.

  Hands outstretched, his fingers found her ears, the curls at her temples, then her warm cheeks. Arabella’s pulse began to accelerate.

  “Is your hair fair?” he asked.

  She answered in her best imitation of an old crone. “Yes, young man, it is.”

  “Are your eyes as blue as cornflowers?”

  “Almost as blue as yours.”

  “Are you . . . attracted to anyone here?”

  She started at the unexpected question, but answered truthfully. “Yes.”

  Voice husky, he asked, “Who?”

  She licked dry lips. “Sorry. That is four questions.”

  The games continued for a time, and then the players paused to take refreshment. Needing a respite from all the chattering people, Richard excused himself, walking alone across the great hall and into the library. Ah, the company of books was far more to his liking.

  After breathing in the scents of leather, musty pages, and ink for a time, he would be ready to rejoin society.

  A few solitary, silent moments passed. Then in the passage beyond the library he heard voices. Arabella’s voice and her sister’s lower one, talking in confidential tones.

  “What is wrong, Pen? Did Mr. Bingley say something to upset you?”

  “I . . .”

  “My dear, what is it?”

  “It’s . . . I-I could be wrong, but I think he wants to . . . propose. Marriage. To me.”

  “I should hope so!”

  “Do you? You don’t mind?”

  “Of course I don’t mind. I’ve long known he admires you and wondered why he hesitated.”

  “I feared it was . . . because of you.”

  “Me?” Arabella’s voice rose in surprise.

  “He did dance with you first and paid you attention over Christmas. . . .”

  “Did he? Well, perhaps a little, but I assumed he was just being kind to his future sister-in-law.”

  “No. His mother urged him to try. He confessed as much to me yesterday. Mrs. Bingley prefers you, because you are so pretty and ladylike and accomplished . . .”

  “Oh no. I am sorry to hear it, my love. But Horace prefers you and always has. Wise man!”

  Richard heard a sniff. “So he has tried to reassure me. But I worried about you. If you thought—”

  “No, Pen. I never thought Horace admired me.”

  “That is what he thinks. He told his mother that he is done trying and at any rate Richard Brockwell is interested in you now.”

  “And how did Mrs. Bingley respond to that?”

  “I shouldn’t repeat it.”

  “Please do.”

  Standing there in the shadows, Richard steeled himself for a blow.

  “She said, ‘Richard Brockwell is a prodigal and a profligate. I doubt his interest is honorable. What can he offer her? He might be handsome, but as our eldest son and heir, you have far more to offer a lady.’”

  Richard winced. The words were sobering and painful to hear. They were also true.

  Arabella replied, “All I’ll say to that is that she is right about the merits of her son. I believe you and Horace are perfectly suited, and I am thoroughly happy for you both.”

  “I begin to believe you.”

  Arabella chuckled. “As well you should!”

  “And what do you think? Is Richard’s interest in you honorable?”

  A moment of silence followed, and Richard held his breath to better hear.

  “I wonder that myself. But I have no plans to marry, as you know,” Arabella said. “Now, shall we rejoin the others?”

  After a late supper and tea, the party quieted down, and the carriages were summoned to take the guests home. Horace would be staying with his family for a few days but promised to return to Brockwell Court in time for the season-concluding Twelfth Night party.

  To prevent the Bingleys’ carriage from having to make the return trip, especially as Horace was staying home, the Brockwells and their guests crammed into the two remaining carriages. Six and four. Lady Barbara, Lady Lillian, Sir Timothy, Rachel, Justina, and Mr. Ashford rode in the larger Brockwell vehicle, and Richard, Mr. Murray, Arabella, and Penelope rode in the Awdrys’ coach, the two men facing backward as the sisters faced forward.

  Arabella met Richard’s gaze by lamplight.

  “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Brockwell?” she asked. “I can switch with you, if you like. On the way here, you mentioned facing backward makes you ill.”

  “Did I say that? How odd. I have never been ill a day in my life. It must have been an excuse to sit beside you.”

  She sucked in a surprised breath. “You schemer!”

  He smirked. “Yes, I admit it. It was just an excuse to sit beside you.”

  “I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended. I wish you would simply tell the truth. How can a lady decide whether or not to trust you?”

  Richard flippantly replied, “I would not if I were you. It’s a gamble, to be sure. I’d advise you to err on the side of caution.” He adjusted his cravat, looking more like the
dandy who’d arrived from London than the man she’d come to know since.

  Mr. Murray spoke up. “He talks a good game, Miss Awdry, but I have been acquainted with Richard Brockwell for years. He may not be a gentleman in every sense, but he has his own moral code. He would never trifle with a marriageable young lady. In fact, he avoids them like the plague.”

  Arabella released a dry puff of laughter. “Again, I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended!”

  Mr. Murray amended, “All I am saying, and rather poorly, is that you, Miss Awdry, can trust Richard Brockwell completely.”

  “You give me too much credit, Murray,” Richard said dryly. “She will think me a monk.”

  Arabella leveled a look at him. “I would never think that.”

  He avoided her gaze. Something was different, she realized. What had precipitated his return to more glib, superficial ways? Whatever it was, she didn’t like it. She’d wrongly imagined he viewed her differently from other “marriageable young ladies” and had foolishly thought he might have changed.

  Arabella looked at her sister instead. She was even quieter than usual. Had Mr. Bingley changed his mind, or had his mother said something to upset her?

  She leaned close and whispered, “Are you all right, Pen?”

  “I hardly know.”

  “Did Mr. Bingley . . . ?”

  Pen nodded. “He asked me to marry him. Just before we left.”

  Arabella sucked in a breath. “That is excellent news!”

  Her sister’s smile flashed before she self-consciously ducked her head.

  “How did you answer him?”

  “I . . . I think I accepted. At least, I hope I did.”

  Arabella laughed. “Oh, Pen! You must make him very certain of your answer the next time you see him.”

  Penelope looked up, and a rare girlish giggle escaped her. “I shall indeed.”

  CHAPTER

  Fourteen