“May I make use of it? I shall pay you, naturally.”
“You may, of course you may. It’s just through here, sir.”
Clarissa clutched at his arm. “Who do you need to speak to?”
“Mr Thompson, to let him know to prepare the master suite for us when we get back. And Roger Roundhill, too. I need him to make some changes to my will.”
“Can’t all of that wait? It’s our wedding day.”
He kissed her on the mouth. “Yes, you’re right. The legal matters can be put off until we return to Smallwood, but I do need to talk to Mr Thompson. I shall be back in a few minutes.”
“But I—”
“My dear, what a lovely ceremony. An’ I can’t believe how beautiful you look. I’m so glad ye asked us to be here, such a wonderful day. I cannot…”
James blessed the ever-garrulous Florrie Bainbridge for her timely interruption. As the farmer’s wife regaled Clarissa with her impressions of the day thus far, he was able to slip away into the back room indicated by Albert the innkeeper. He found the telephone and lifted the receiver. “Please can you connect me to St Albans five-one-three,” he asked when the operator came on the line.
It was late afternoon by the time they left the inn, good wishes still ringing in their ears. James drove them in the Rolls Royce, picking his way with care over the still treacherous roads. The snow had thawed and had almost disappeared from the roads themselves, but there was plenty of ice about still. Even so, he thought they might be able to contemplate returning to Smallwood the next day, or the day after.
Clarissa seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion. “When do you think we should go back?” she asked. “Is it safe yet?”
“Yes, probably. Are you anxious to leave?”
She shrugged. “Not especially. I like it here. But we have to return some time. We both have work to do, and people will be expecting us. When did you tell Mr Thompson we would be home?”
“I didn’t.”
“It could start snowing all over again,” she observed. “Then we’d be stranded for a while longer.”
“Might not be such a bad thing.” James peered up into the grey skies but could not discern any immediate prospect of more heavy snowfall.
“We can’t put it off forever,” Clarissa replied.
“Put what off?”
“Victorine,” came the simple response. “She’ll be livid. And goodness only knows what she’ll do next.”
“Whatever it is, she’ll be doing it elsewhere.” He glanced at his watch. “With any luck, she’ll be on the train to Brighton even as we speak.”
“Brighton?” Clarissa gaped at him. “Why? How do you know?”
“I warned her what would happen if she interfered or harassed you again. You talked me out of being rid of her last time, but not again. She’s gone. Mr Thompson and Trudy have their instructions, and they will make sure of it.”
“So that’s why you were so determined to use the telephone today.”
He nodded. “I wanted her gone before we return. As far as I’m concerned, if I ever set eyes on my half-sister again it will be too soon.”
“Poor Victorine. What will she do in Brighton?”
James shrugged, unrepentant. Victorine had had her chances, far too many of them. He was done with her. It was over. He had better things to think about.
“We never discussed children,” he said as he parked the huge car in front of the lodge. “I think at least two. Boys, of course, though if you want a girl to carry on your campaigning, then I daresay I could be persuaded.”
“Children? The ink is barely dry on our marriage certificate and you want to start a family at once?” Clarissa accepted his hand to step out of the car, only to be swept up into his arms and carried over the remaining snow to the front doorstep.
“I thought we might. If you do not object?” He shouldered the door open and carried her inside.
“I daresay I could be persuaded…” She echoed his own words back at him. “Two boys and a girl. Perhaps we should make a start now.”
“My thoughts exactly.” James headed for the stairs, still holding her in his arms. “Let’s go to bed and pray for snow.”
Epilogue
Houses of Parliament, Westminster
December 1, 1919
“Can you see her?”
“No, not yet.” James shifted in his seat, his bad leg stretched out in front of him. Since his injury, sustained almost three years ago at The Somme, he found it uncomfortable to remain in one position for very long. He rarely complained, though. He had been one of just a handful of his regiment to return from that bloodbath, and barely a day passed when he did not wonder at his good luck in still being alive and in reasonable health. So many thousands were not. Those years he had spent in the trenches were etched indelibly on his memory, and though he did not speak of it often, he would never forget.
He had returned home to recuperate from his wounds, just in time to be present at the birth of his second son. He’d spent six months wallowing in domestic bliss at Smallwood before resuming active service. He did not expect to return to his home again. He would not get lucky twice.
Yet here he was. A survivor, a hero, with medals to show for it. And soon to be a father again. Clarissa was expecting their third child in a little under four months. They both hoped for a girl this time.
James adored his family. He was blessed with the most beautiful wife a man could ever hope for and the children he had always wanted. The eldest, also called James in keeping with his family’s traditions, was now a rowdy six-year-old and the younger boy an equally lively toddler. Little Benjamin seemed to have a death wish, and he ran his mother ragged, as well as Trudy and the other servants. Only last week he’d tumbled into the ornamental pond in the gardens and had to be dragged out by William. Bad leg or not, James had resolved to teach all his children to swim before the next year was out.
“Is she here yet? I don’t want to miss her.”
“You won’t. We have front row seats. You can see all the benches from here.”
Beside him, Clarissa sat, her hands clasped, her still lovely features eager and excited. This day was the culmination of a dream for her. Today, Nancy Astor was to take her seat in parliament, the first woman ever to do so. Clarissa had insisted that they must be present to witness the momentous event, to cheer and clap from the public gallery. Only a decade earlier, she had confided, she would never have believed this day would come. But it had.
Not only did women now have the right to stand for election, but Mrs Astor had actually succeeded in winning her husband’s former parliamentary seat in Plymouth.
That was not their only resounding success. The previous year had seen the passing of the Representation of the People Act which granted the vote to all women over thirty years old, provided they owned sufficient property. Not ideal, in James’ opinion. All men, regardless of their wealth, could now vote at age twenty-one, but he was sure this was a temporary setback. The floodgates were open; it was just a matter of time.
Clarissa continued to write in support of the cause and would publish her impressions of this historical event also. The Times had already requested an article, and no doubt there would be others. Clarissa was talking of writing a book detailing the history of the Women’s Social and Political Union and their eventual victory.
James was not minded to disagree that the women’s movement had succeeded, though he did wonder how much the Great War had accelerated events. Mrs Pankhurst had insisted that they ceased their activities immediately war was declared. The country had weightier matters to contend with, and she felt it more important that they still had a country to vote in. Women up and down the land had done their bit towards the war effort, working in factories, in the fields, doing the jobs previously filled by the men who marched off to meet their deaths on the poppy-strewn battlefields of France. And now, peace restored, the world was a different place. Things would never be quite the same agai
n. One way or another, the women had won their place and the recognition they deserved.
“She’s there! Look.” Clarissa grabbed his arm, pointing.
James leaned over the rail and watched as the tall, slender figure of Lady Astor made her way along the Conservative benches. The newly elected member of parliament paused, looked about her, then, with a satisfied nod, seated herself on the green leather.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Clarissa whispered. “And she’s just the first. There will be more, many more. I might even stand for parliament myself. Do you think I might get in?”
“I would vote for you, certainly.” He kissed her on the temple. “Ssh now. Lady Astor is about to take the oath.”
About Ashe Barker
Ashe Barker whiles away her time in the wilds of Yorkshire, England, writing smutty books and drinking Earl Grey tea. She loves writing historical stories and has a particular passion for masterful, take-charge heroes.
When not writing Ashe enjoys digital photography, reading erotic stories, pole dancing (though not especially well), and listening to Bon Jovi. Loud.
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A Spinster at the Highland Court
by Celeste Barclay
Chapter 1
Elizabeth Fraser looked around the royal chapel within Stirling Castle. The ornate candlestick holders on the altar glistened and reflected the light from the ones in the wall sconces as the priest intoned the holy prayers of the Advent season. Elizabeth kept her head bowed as though in prayer, but her green eyes swept the congregation. She watched the other ladies-in-waiting, many of whom were doing the same thing. She caught the eye of Allyson Elliott. Elizabeth raised one eyebrow as Allyson’s lips twitched. Both women had been there enough times to accept they would be kneeling for at least the next hour as the Latin service carried on. Elizabeth understood the Mass thanks to her cousin Deirdre Fraser, or rather now Deirdre Sinclair. Elizabeth’s mind flashed to the recent struggle her cousin faced as she reunited with her husband Magnus after an eight-year separation. Her aunt and uncle’s choice to keep Deirdre hidden from her husband simply because they did not think the Sinclairs were an advantageous enough match, and the resulting scandal, still humiliated the other Fraser clan members at court. She admired Deirdre’s husband Magnus’s pledge to remain faithful despite not knowing if he would ever see Deirdre again.
Elizabeth suddenly snapped her attention; while everyone else intoned the twelfth—or was it thirteenth—amen of the Mass, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She had the strongest feeling that someone was watching her. Her eyes scanned to her right, where her parents sat further down the pew. Her mother and father had their heads bowed and eyes closed. While she was convinced her mother was in devout prayer, she wondered if her father had fallen asleep during the Mass. Again. With nothing seeming out of the ordinary and no one visibly paying attention to her, her eyes swung to the left. She took in the king and queen as they kneeled together at their prie-dieu. The queen’s lips moved as she recited the liturgy in silence. The king was as still as a statue. Years of leading warriors showed, both in his stature and his ability to control his body into absolute stillness. Elizabeth peered past the royal couple and found herself looking into the astute hazel eyes of Edward Bruce, Lord of Badenoch and Lochaber. His gaze gave her the sense that he peered into her thoughts, as though he were assessing her. She tried to keep her face neutral as heat surged up her neck. She prayed her face did not redden as much as her neck must have, but at a twenty-one, she still had not mastered how to control her blushing. Her nape burned like it was on fire. She canted her head slightly before looking up at the crucifix hanging over the altar. She closed her eyes and tried to invoke the image of the Lord that usually centered her when her mind wandered during Mass.
Elizabeth sensed Edward’s gaze remained on her. She did not understand how she was so sure that he was looking at her. She did not have any special gifts of perception or sight, but her intuition screamed that he was still looking. Elizabeth recited the Lord’s Prayer in her head, but after a lifetime of reciting it, she did not have to search hard for the words to play across her mind and it did little to bring her attention back to the service. Try as she might, her mind refused to do anything but command her eyes to open. Once again, she was staring into the riveting eyes of Edward Bruce. He brazenly smiled at her. Elizabeth’s eyes widened and her nose flared. She allowed her head to move this time as she looked at the various members of the congregation. No one there seemed to be looking at either Elizabeth or Edward, but when she looked at the priest, his scowl was aimed directly at her. Instead of bowing her head as she should, she shot her own scowl at the impudent man who continued to distract her. The queen would undoubtedly learn of her impudence from the priest, which meant Elizabeth would be making up for lost time, forced to spend the afternoon in prayer on the prie-dieu in the queen’s salon. The difference would be that the other ladies-in-waiting would watch her in her shame.
Edward, who had seen the priest watching Elizabeth from the corner of his eye, could not hide his smirk when the beautiful young woman scowled at him. His jaded sense of humor made him smile, while his last shreds of decency caused a moment of contrition. Edward realized what Elizabeth obviously did: she would be spending time repenting before his sister-by-marriage, the queen. He considered whether speaking on behalf of Elizabeth would do more harm than good. He looked back at her once again; he could not keep himself from doing so. He was sure he had seen her before when he had been to court. Edward had seen all the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, since they were always in attendance. But there was something different, yet so familiar, about this woman with the mysterious green eyes. His intuition hammered that he might have met her before. A memory niggled, fighting its way into his consciousness. Edward had bedded a number of ladies-in-waiting over the years, but he was sure she was not one of them. He was quite certain he would remember such an encounter, and as his eyes feasted on her figure, he was also certain he would not have let her go. His mind flashed to his mistress, Sinead, who lived in Ireland. His stomach soured as he remembered his last night with her. As far as he was concerned, she was now his former mistress, but he was not convinced the fiery-haired, fiery-tempered woman would agree with her new status. Edward pulled his mind to the present, since looking at the chestnut haired, green-eyed beauty was more enjoyable than thinking of the explosive argument that ended his arrangement with Sinead.
Edward continued to stare at Elizabeth until the memory finally surged forward. It was his turn to have his eyes widen and his nose flare. It was also the same moment the young woman looked at him. His flash of recognition earned him a reciprocated smirk. She clearly remembered who he was, and had more easily remembered their first and only encounter. Elizabeth Fraser. That was her name, and he remembered how she had felt for the brief moment she had been in his embrace. His fingers tingled and his palms itched. He now recalled in detail how they met. The young woman spread an intriguing rumor that she was his newest lover. When he overheard the whispers during the evening meal, he sought out the woman who was willing to demolish her reputation by linking herself, voluntarily, to him. He learned she had a sharp mind and was loyal to a fault. She jeopardized her position at court to create a diversion for her cousin Deirdre and her husband Magnus. When they met on a terrace in the dark, he could not resist the temptation to taunt and, hopefully, tempt her. That was when Edward realized her reserved demeanor was a façade. Elizabeth matched words with him, then slipped away. He followed her into the ballroom, but she entrenched herself with the other ladies-in-waiting, making it impossible for him to claim a dance.
Edward was determined to rectify that situation. If only it were not Advent, the second-most solemn season at court. He was thankfu
l he had come home now, rather than during Lent. At least he had the Christmas festivities to look forward to. That, and a woman to woo.
Elizabeth worked her way through the mass of people leaving the chapel. She tried to be unobtrusive since she had no interest in lingering. She wove around one group, then another, as people stopped to greet each other. She never understood why people liked to mingle when Mass ended, as if they would not see each other during the next three meals of the day. Elizabeth intended to make her way to the queen’s salon, anticipating not only Her Majesty’s arrival but her own inevitable punishment. If she readied the chamber and had everything as the queen preferred, then her attempt at contrition might lessen the time she would be ordered to spend in prayer. She had no remorse, but her knees rebelled at the idea of another three hours spent bearing her weight.
Elizabeth stepped through the chapel doors and took a sharp right directly into a broad, muscled chest. Her nose landed in the small dip in the man’s sternum. Strong but gentle hands cupped her shoulders and helped her to take a step back. The look of shock on the man’s face surely matched hers, except when his morphed into a smile, hers turned to horror. She jerked away and turned in a complete circle as she tried to determine if anyone had seen them.
“No one has looked this way,” the deep baritone murmured, wrapping around her like a fur cloak. “If I had known I would meet you so quickly, I might have paid more attention to where I waited.”
The humor in his voice rang in Elizabeth’s ears, but she failed to find anything funny about the situation.
“Excuse me, Lord Badenoch. I should have looked where I was going.” Elizabeth dipped a curtsy and tried to escape.
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