Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

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Once Upon a Christmas Wedding Page 65

by Scarlett Scott


  Eustace, at the instigation of his father—she had no doubt—had proposed an engagement three times since she’d turned twenty, and she’d refused a proper answer on each occasion. There was no question of love—nor of him having a broken heart. In the intervening years, each time she’d evaded him, he’d seemed almost relieved.

  In fairness, it wasn’t just Eustace she wasn’t keen on. There wasn’t anyone she wanted to settle down with (or settle for)—and there had been plenty of gentlemen from which to choose.

  During the season in which Aunt Phillippa had presented her at court, at least three young men had paid calls. Even Mr. Berridge’s son had made an earnest offer—with a speech on the wisdom of uniting their two houses, as if they were characters in a Shakespearean play.

  She hadn’t been interested. They’d all been fops.

  If she married Eustace, or anyone else, would they let her pursue anything of her own? Or would they be like Uncle Cedric, proclaiming that a woman’s sphere was within the home and that to look outside it for occupation was vulgar?

  How could she possibly explore her own interests if she was obliged to obey her husband all the time?

  Fairbury and Berridge was part of the world of men. The world of activity and commerce, where you made decisions and things happened. She wasn’t ready for her life to be a round of morning calls and musical afternoons punctuated by dinner parties and soirées.

  “Wifehood and motherhood!” Uncle Cedric banged his fist on the mahogany tabletop. “Those are the occupations that should matter to you, Ursula. This nonsense about taking over your father’s business has got to stop. It would bring utter disrepute on the noble Arrington name.”

  He went to stand by the fire, then looked at her for some moments—as if weighing up what to say next, since she’d given no reply. Ursula sat straight-backed. Her uncle was entitled to his opinion, and, this being his house, she would sit and listen while he gave forth, but it would change not a whit her own position in the matter.

  Smoothing down his moustache, he frowned. “It was bad enough that your father stooped to becoming involved in such unsavoury business.”

  Ursula blinked twice.

  Unsavoury?

  Her uncle hadn’t seemed to find the profits of that business so vile last year, when he’d requested funds to repair the roof of Arrington Hall. There had been other instances, too, all logged in her father’s ledgers.

  Her uncle continued. “Your father’s marriage to your mother was one of expediency, having no fortune of his own and no expectation of the title with which I am now endowed. Your mother was base-born, with only her wealth to recommend her.”

  Ursula sucked in her breath.

  How dare he! The vile, snobbish, insulting hypocrite.

  But Uncle Cedric wasn’t finished. His lip curled in an ugly sneer. “It’s unfortunate that this is the stock from which you’re drawn, but I’ve always treated you as one of our own, overlooking the disadvantage of your birth. It is with us that you belong, and your marriage to Eustace shall assure you of a place in society. Whatever others may think in private, they shall not dare utter in your presence, once you are allied to my heir.”

  Through clenched jaws, Ursula spoke with barely-contained fury. “Grandfather was happy enough to overlook my mother’s ‘disadvantages’ when he agreed to the betrothal, with a handsome dowry attached, while the ‘unfortunate’ source of my mother’s wealth has not deterred you from making use of it.” A trembling rage was filling her, now she’d begun.

  “Such rudeness!” The viscount’s left eye was twitching, while the other bulged in an alarming manner. “It is you, niece, who are failing to observe the proprieties! Were I a lesser man, I would dismiss you from this house immediately. As it is, I bid you to keep to your room until you have an apology to deliver and a more civil tongue in your head.”

  Ursula also stood, drawing to her full—if modest—height, but without intention of leaving.

  She still had plenty to say.

  “If my forthrightness offends you, Uncle, then I suggest you look to the cause. As to leaving this house, nothing shall give me greater pleasure.” She held her chin high. “I’ll apply to Mr. Bombardine’s office of law in the morning, for full access to my father’s papers, and shall arrange a meeting with Mr. Berridge forthwith. You need nevermore be concerned with the Arrington name being sullied, for I shall refute any claim that we are related!”

  “Abominable, ungrateful girl!” The viscount’s nostrils flared large. “By all means, visit Bombardine, and he shall tell you not only that my guardianship of you, and of all the assets in your possession, continues until your twenty-fifth birthday, but that the Pimlico house has been sold—”

  “Sold?” The heat in Ursula’s chest rushed to her head. “You cannot mean—”

  “I do.” He moved to the window, not even looking at her. “The contents were auctioned off last month, and your personal possessions brought here; placed in storage in the attic of this house.”

  Ursula grasped the table’s edge, suddenly speechless.

  He turned towards her again, a malicious glint in his eyes. “Your stake-holding in Fairbury and Berridge has been dissolved.”

  The last he uttered with marked relish.

  Dissolved?

  Her throat constricted.

  Surely not! It couldn’t be true.

  “You’ve sold my father’s share in the business?” She struggled to project her voice but he heard her all right.

  A slow, triumphant smile spread across her uncle’s face. “I see we understand each other. As your guardian, the decision was mine and Mr. Berridge was most obliging. Not only did he appreciate your reluctance to continue an association with the business, but offered a very fair price to release you from the partnership. Naturally, wishing to fulfil my duties, I accepted on your behalf.”

  Ursula spluttered, but nothing of coherence emerged.

  Her uncle made a study of his fingernails. “Of course, the terms of your father’s will only allow you to enjoy the interest of that capital, upon the arrival of your forthcoming birthday.”

  Glancing upward, he fixed Ursula with a beady stare. “Full entitlement must wait until such time as you marry—or reach the spinsterly age of thirty years.” He inclined his head. “All the more reason for you to apologise for your hasty words, and fix a date for your betrothal to Eustace.”

  “And until my birthday?” The question emerged as a whisper.

  “The interest is at my disposal, to allocate as I see fit. Several of the rooms at Arrington Hall require refurbishment, and you can have no objection. The house will pass to Eustace one day.” He gave her a tight smile. “You’ll receive the benefit at last, and your children will, in turn, inherit.”

  Though her legs felt entirely numb, she managed to cross the thick pile of the Persian rug and reach the door. She knew his eyes followed her, thinking that he’d won, that her immediate lack of means would keep her under his roof—not just for these coming weeks but beyond—that the thought of setting out into the unknown would daunt her.

  Viscount Arrington didn’t know her at all.

  Chapter Four

  The Highland Caledonian Overnight Sleeper to Fort William

  Early morning, 13th December

  With the lurch of the train, Ursula was tossed onto her side and almost thrown from the little cot in her compartment. She’d been awake through most of the past hours, she was sure, but the jolt had certainly woken her.

  She wasn’t in her own bed—neither in Pimlico nor Eaton Square—and it was uncomfortably chilly. Fortunately, she’d slept in most of her clothes.

  Pulling on her cardigan, she swung her stockinged feet to the floor and lifted the blind. Light was barely creeping into the sky, the moon fading against a backdrop of delicate violet-grey, yet the landscape glowed white.

  And there were mountains!

  The sort that loomed so majestically you had to crane your neck to see their j
agged peaks. Their ridges and upper crags were heavily snow-topped, while the lower planes and the moorland beneath were crusted thick with frost.

  There was no doubt about it. She was in Scotland—and there was most certainly no going back.

  If dawn was near breaking, it wouldn’t be long until they reached Fort William.

  She fought a sudden wave of nausea.

  What had she done?

  It had seemed the only option yesterday—to pack a large carpet bag and swear Tilly to utmost confidentiality. Ursula hadn’t a great deal of coin but enough for the ticket, and for the hire of some transport at the other end.

  The note she’d scrawled for Eustace would stop him worrying. He’d always been a good friend. He’d want her to be happy. He’d understand.

  And he’d keep her whereabouts secret. It was only thirteen days until her birthday. Once it came, she’d have enough income of her own to live upon. Modestly, perhaps, but enough. And she’d be her own person, without needing to ask for anything.

  As for where she might go until then, Ursula had immediately thought of Daphne. Hardly a month went by without an exchange between them, and she’d often mentioned how much she’d love Ursula to visit.

  They’d met at the Ventissori Academy. Ursula had hardly been a star pupil but her father had been adamant that she attend, and she’d wanted to please him. Together, she and Daphne had practised how to daintily swallow an oyster and remove a lobster from its shell, how to tell apart their forks for fruit and fish, and how to fold napkins into elaborate whimsies.

  Finding everything such a bore, Ursula had resorted to making the other girls laugh—mimicking Monsieur Ventissori’s mincing walk and his Gallic histrionics. Daphne had disapproved but always covered for her and, when their Academy days came to an end, had insisted on them keeping in touch.

  Daphne was spending Christmas with her parents, only twelve miles east of Fort William.

  Once I get there, I’ll simply find a cab for hire, or someone with a cart if need be, thought Ursula. It would be wonderful to see Daphne again.

  Why then, did Ursula feel like she wanted to vomit?

  Hugging her cardigan closer, she searched about for her footwear.

  Breakfast. That was what was needed.

  All things were more manageable once you’d eaten. She’d find the dining car and order something comforting.

  Her life was in a mess but if she was to sort it out, porridge—hot and sweet—and a steaming pot of tea would be a good place to start.

  Consuming a generous helping of sausages and grilled tomatoes lifted Ursula’s spirits. As did the toasted muffins. And the porridge, served with cream and honey.

  Meanwhile, the sun rose, flashing into view between the eastern mountains.

  Still, a knot continued to pull tight within her chest.

  Ursula sighed, wondering if the waiter might be prevailed upon to supply more tea, but he seemed to have disappeared altogether.

  The carriage was surprisingly empty but for herself, an elderly lady and a party of three clergymen at the far end.

  Ursula was staring dolefully into her empty cup when a kindly voice carried to her ear.

  “I’ve plenty in my pot if you’re still in need of whetting the whistle.”

  With her chin dipped to peer over her reading spectacles, the owner of the voice was eyeing Ursula.

  “And the company would be welcome.” She inclined her head towards the seat opposite and, with a grateful smile, Ursula gathered her belongings.

  “Urania Abernathy,” said the lady, proffering a hand much wrinkled, though steady enough in pouring the tea. She delved into the large handbag at her elbow and plucked out a hip flask, adding a tipple of something dark and potent to the darjeeling.

  “One needs extra warming at my age.” Miss Abernathy took an appreciative sip, then burrowed again into the bag’s depths. Withdrawing a bar of Fry’s chocolate cream, she broke off two segments.

  She and Ursula sat in companionable silence for a few moments, watching through the windows as the Highland scenery whisked by.

  “You’re visiting family?” asked Ursula, having sucked away the last of the soft-centred fondant.

  “Someone’s family, yes—but not my own.” Holding up a piece of notepaper, Miss Abernathy squinted at the close-written script. “I’d intended some time with my sister on the Dorset coast, but this arrived a fortnight ago. A recommendation through Lady Forres. Most unusual, and generous remuneration. My little holiday shall wait until the new year.”

  Ursula smiled politely and drank her tea.

  Of course, Miss Abernathy must be a governess. Not just her costume—of plain, worsted wool—but her manner proclaimed it.

  There, but for my inheritance, go I. Ursula inwardly shuddered. Children were not her forte. The idea of dedicating her life to making them sit up straight and learn their manners was too horrendous to contemplate.

  “The grandson of Earl Dunrannoch.” Miss Abernathy folded the letter away and rested her hands in her lap. “I’ve made a special request for the train to stop at Gorton, on the edge of the moor. I only hope that the carriage is waiting. One can get so cold standing about.”

  Miss Abernathy’s pale blue eyes regarded Ursula. “And you? Family in the Highlands? I know most of the older seats.”

  “A friend.” Ursula was seized by sudden panic. “And her family live very quietly.” She gave a tight smile. “Like hermits. Almost.”

  Urania Abernathy’s eyebrows rose into the quiff of her silver hair.

  “How unusual!”

  She said nothing more, merely settling back to close her eyes.

  The contents of the hip flask must have been rather potent for, the next minute, she was gently snoring.

  Ursula returned her gaze to the great outdoors. She’d always wanted to visit the Highlands, and here it was—looking just as windswept as she’d imagined. Mile after mile of emptiness. Nothing but the moorlands and the mountains and the huge, open sky. Where habitation did come into view, it was modest indeed. The cottages, red roofed and white-washed, looked large enough to contain only a single room.

  What was Daphne’s place called? Kintochlochie? She’d described it many times, bewailing fireplaces that refused to draw—or belched smoke, draughty corridors and windows that rattled with the wind. It had sounded terribly romantic—apart from having to eat haggis, which didn’t appeal at all.

  Daphne’s last letter had mentioned a new beau—the heir to a turkey farming empire, in Norfolk no less. Not a mountain in sight. She’d seemed nothing but excited at the prospect, with no words of remorse at having to leave behind all this wild gloriousness.

  Ursula’s stomach churned, threatening to bring a reappearance of her breakfast.

  Castle Kintochlochie didn’t yet have a telephone, but perhaps she should have asked Tilly to arrange a telegram. At least, then, she wouldn’t be arriving wholly unannounced. Turning up on someone’s doorstep did seem rather an imposition—and so close to Christmas. She’d acted without thinking it through and, now, here she was, hurtling towards a problem—not to mention the sort of weather that gave one chilblains. If Daphne’s family permitted her through the door, what might be in store? Never ending haggis, probably, and men shooting things. She might not be able to go for a walk for fear of being mistaken for some poor creature destined to have its head wall-mounted.

  But what could she do? Soon, the train would reach Fort William, and she had nowhere else to go.

  Perhaps she should confide in Miss Abernathy and ask her advice. Ancient as she was, she must have seen a great deal of life, and she’d made her way without coming to harm.

  She was still asleep however—her head lolling with the motion of the train.

  Where was it she was alighting—Gorton?

  The train had been passing through open heathland cloaked low in mist. Ursula struggled to recall the map. Rannoch Moor was just south of Glen Coe, wasn’t it, and there were several privat
e stations before you reached Fort William.

  “Miss Abernathy.” Ursula leaned forward. “Time to wake up.” She touched her arm. “We’re nearly there. You’ll need to gather your things.”

  She noticed then that Miss Abernathy was no longer snoring. In fact, the older woman was altogether quiet.

  Moving to the other side of the table, Ursula placed her hand over her companion’s.

  Quite cold.

  “Urania!” Ursula gave Miss Abernathy a gentle shake, then squeaked with shock as the old lady pitched forward.

  Pushing her back in the seat, Ursula propped her into the corner.

  Miss Abernathy wasn’t just asleep.

  And she wouldn’t be getting off at Gorton.

  From the front of the train came the blow of a whistle. They were slowing, the brakes jarring on the track.

  Was this the place?

  A strange horror washed over Ursula.

  The train would stop and Miss Abernathy wouldn’t get out. They’d come looking for her and find her, dead.

  Natural causes of course, but the guard would need to speak to Ursula. He’d ask her questions, and wouldn’t the police need to do that too, once they reached Fort William? They’d want Ursula to tell them about Miss Abernathy. They might ask Ursula for her place of residence. They might contact Uncle Cedric.

  Ursula stood up.

  At the other end of the dining car, the clergymen remained deeply in conversation.

  The waiter was still nowhere to be seen.

  Without further thought, Ursula picked up Miss Abernathy’s voluminous handbag.

  I’m sorry, but I have to.

  Darting back to her compartment, Ursula threw her own few possessions into her luggage. She donned her coat and pushed her hat down low on her head, reaching the outer door as the train made its final, juddering halt.

 

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