Christmas Cinderellas

by Sophia James

  He bowed, but did not kiss her hand. ‘Good evening.’

  Her heart sank.

  He looks...closed, somehow. Why?

  ‘I shall announce you both,’ said Jemett.

  Nell, in something of a daze, walked in step with Mr Beresford.

  What ails him? And what does it mean?

  They paused briefly, once inside. A number of the local guests had turned at the announcement of an unfamiliar name, and Nell could see interested gazes—and even a few quizzing glasses being utilised in Mr Beresford’s direction.

  ‘Nell! My dear!’ Mrs Hoskins was the first to reach them. ‘You look ravishing, dear girl!’ She paused, eyeing Mr Beresford expectantly.

  Nell introduced them, and Mrs Hoskins promptly claimed him, inviting him across to meet her three unmarried daughters.

  That set the tenor for the evening. Mr Beresford was fêted, flattered and courted by all the local families. Hardly surprising since he was, as Beatrice kept reminding everyone, brother to an earl, and possessed of a creditable fortune. He was also pleasing in face, figure and manner.

  None of the guests, Nell would swear, had discerned the lines of tension about his face tonight, his slight air of distractedness, the subtle stiffness of his tall frame.

  He is deeply troubled about something and is masking it.

  Quite how she knew this, Nell had no idea. But she was convinced that something had occurred to disturb him. She had no idea what it might be. Remembering their conversations about his history, the truth he had shared with her, she felt her heart ache for him. She hated to see anyone in distress, but Mr Beresford had become so dear to her, so quickly, that she could not help but feel distressed at his pain.

  She had no way to reach him—no way to discover what might have disquieted him today. All she could do was watch from a distance and hope his worries would ease in this pleasant company.

  And pleasant it was. The evening, from many perspectives, could be described as a great success. The house guests mingled easily with the county families, conversing, playing cards, eating and drinking, and finally dancing.

  Nell’s hand was claimed for every dance, and she noticed that Mr Beresford did not sit out any of the dances either. He danced with Lady Cecily, with Beatrice, and with every one of Mrs Hoskins’s smiling daughters. Then, just when Nell was beginning to give way to doubt, he finally approached her.

  ‘Miss Godwin.’

  His expression was grave. Stern, even. As if he had not wished to approach her but had been compelled to do so.

  Perhaps he is fighting against this connection between us?

  The realisation came to her as she glanced up at him.

  She curtseyed. ‘Mr Beresford.’

  ‘Might I have the pleasure of this next dance?’

  She nodded, and preceded him towards the centre of the room. His visage remained unyielding as she turned to face him. But his male beauty, she noted, was undiminished by his unsmiling harshness. Indeed, the air of danger about him served only to heighten Nell’s inner response. He was a fox. A wolf. An unbroken stallion.

  They moved together through the first figure, silently executing the steps with grace, fluidity and perfect harmony. It was easy, somehow—so much so that it seemed to Nell as though they had danced together a hundred times before. And yet at the same time all was new. For the only time in her life to date she was dancing with a man who called to her heart as no-one ever had. Happiness rose within her, and she gave herself over to the moment.

  Gradually, as they moved through the second figure, then the third, she sensed a subtle change in him. The stiffness was leaving his shoulders. His expression was now more open. His eyes clearly showed hunger. The same hunger that had overcome them each time they had kissed.

  Yes! she thought, relief flooding through her. Yes! And yes!

  Before long the dance came to an end, and with it her time with him. He bowed, offered to fetch her refreshment, then excused himself when she declined.

  Nell turned away with equanimity, understanding that he needed to leave her in this moment. She had once more pierced his mask and scored another hit in her assault on whatever fortress it was guarding his heart.

  For the remainder of the evening she carefully stayed away from him, concentrating on all her old friends who were there and giving Mr Beresford the chance to retreat for a time. Inside she felt satisfaction, and confidence, and the renewal of hope. Her heart was singing.

  Chapter Seven

  December 31st

  Tom urged his stallion into a gallop, desperately trying to escape the demons that pursued him night and day. It was late afternoon, the sky already darkening with the coming dusk, and occasional snowflakes drifted in the air.

  On this New Year’s Eve, the feeling of endings and new beginnings was raging within him. Like Janus, the ancient two-faced god of doorways, Tom could see two worlds at the same time, and he knew not which to choose.

  On the one hand was his usual life—familiar, solitary and safe. A life in which he and his brother focused on financial security, consistent with the vow they had made to each other at their father’s funeral. Unlike him, they had resolved to be clever with money—they would rebuild the family wealth, not waste it on fripperies, women and gambling. And they had achieved it. It had been Tom’s dedicated path for years now—a path that focused on success, and comfort, and an understanding that he needed no-one else. He could trust in his own wits to gain him all he needed. He had no notion of marriage—of course not.

  Emotion flooded through him, and he recognised it. Fear. He could never marry. Marriage meant children, and he could not bear the thought of creating a future orphan. Or of hurting a wife through his inability to ensure her happiness. No amount of sleepless nights could change that fact.

  At present, his aim was the purchase of Wyatt House. He would do well to remember that. He had no doubt the widow would sell to him, and owning Wyatt House would be another marker on his journey of success. His brother had the family home. Wyatt House would be a suitable residence for a man of Tom’s gifts and stature.

  But the thought disturbed him, somehow. Confidence in his own talents, along with financial security, had been Tom’s purpose for most of his adult life, and yet today he felt strangely distant from it all.

  Another life, as yet vague and unrealised, was calling to him. A life with Nell. He could no longer deny the compulsion within him. Never had he been so drawn to any woman. She haunted both his nights and his waking thoughts. His days were a constant battle of wanting to be near her, yet resisting the urge. The hours of darkness were torture, as he fought with himself about his future direction.

  It made little difference anyway, he acknowledged, for he watched Nell constantly, hung on her every word even while pretending to converse with others.

  She was exceptional in every way. Her beauty was driving him to madness—the thought of her skin, her luxuriant hair, that divine form, those haunting eyes... And he was also drawn to her character. She lit up a room just by being in it. He noticed her accomplishments, her quiet assurance, her generous heart. The children loved her. Sensible people like Lady Cecily were drawn to her.

  She was discerning in her own friendships, choosing Lady Cecily over the more vacuous young ladies present at the house party. She conversed in a well-informed way on a range of topics, being firm in her opinions without seeking dissent with others.

  To spend his life with her would be bliss—yet how could he, when the notion of becoming a father filled him with fear? They were both orphans, he and Nell. Although she had enjoyed her father’s company until recently, and even her mama had lived until she was well in her childhood. Yet still he saw how lost she was—adrift among strangers, friends and servants, with no-one she could truly rely on.

  Gritting his teeth, he had endured Nell’s tale of her father’s
unexpected marriage, and the efforts she had made to welcome the bride who had arrived so unexpectedly during one of the most difficult episodes of Nell’s young life.

  What a fool her father must have been! Why had he not seen that Nell needed him, not a bird-witted bride who disturbed everyone’s comfort?

  His anger on Nell’s behalf was heightened each time she spoke of her papa—or reported, with determined good humour, the latest incident with Beatrice. It had become clear to him that the new Mrs Godwin was incapable of household management, and preferred Nell to carry that burden.

  She had also spoken to him of her father’s death. It gave Tom real pain to think of what she had endured these past years, and it had reawakened in him old, unfinished feelings of loss and grief from his own childhood.

  Each time he thought of Nell he faced an inner assault of grief, regret, desire and pain. He could not sleep, and had spent the past few nights in frustration and an agony of mind. During the day he was struggling to concentrate, and he felt sleepy and distracted much of the time.

  It was too much.

  I cannot live like this. I must turn away from this madness.

  The wildness within him had to be tamed.

  I must take back control over my life. She is simply a girl I met at a house party. I have known her for little more than a week.

  His thoughts returned to his purpose in coming here—the purchase of Wyatt House. If Mrs Godwin agreed to sell it to him, then perhaps Nell could have a fresh start somewhere, with a stepmother who no longer had to worry about money.

  Once I am gone from here the purchase can proceed. I will return once the house is secured and the Godwins are gone. I need never see her again.

  Summoning all his inner strength, he resolved to end this fascination with Nell.

  No more.

  The door was closed, the decision made.

  The snow was now falling thickly. Noiseless and remorseless, it covered everything, living and dead, in a blanket of silent, frozen white.

  Wheeling around, he turned the horse back in the direction of home. Wyatt House.

  The party were all gathered before the fire, as New Year’s Eve tradition demanded. It lacked only half an hour until midnight, and the enormous Yule Log that had been burning since Christmas Eve had diminished to a small remnant, now covered with new wood. Nell was seated alongside Lady Cecily who, like her, had lapsed into silence, gazing at the orange sparks as they disappeared up the chimney.

  All around was the hum of contented conversation. Beatrice and her guests were enjoying another pleasant evening, and on the surface all looked well.

  Nell, however, was concealing inner turmoil. Something had changed with Mr Beresford. He had disappeared this afternoon—riding out on that magnificent stallion—and had been gone nigh on two hours. Much longer than she had anticipated. When he had returned it had been almost fully dark, and she had been relieved to find he had not suffered any injury.

  But he had come back changed.

  Nell could not say exactly what was different. She simply knew that the connection they had shared was somehow sundered. She was as aware of him as ever, but this evening he had not so much as looked at her.

  Shaken, she had subtly put herself in his way as they had moved towards the dining room earlier. He had been perfectly polite, but there had been nothing in his eyes. No emotion, no struggle, no passion. Instead she had felt a cold emptiness, as if the snow outside had taken hold of his heart and left him hollow and cold.

  This was entirely different from his previous attempts to avoid her, which had been part of the passion for her that had sprung up in him as surely as it had blossomed in her. No, this was an absolute absence. It was as though she were of no more import to him than a piece of furniture or an item of clothing. He could no longer be reached.

  He is lost to me! her heart cried.

  But how? And why? What had happened to make him put her aside before they had properly begun? All evening—throughout dinner, chatting with the ladies, and playing card games when the gentlemen had joined them, Nell had been racking her brain—to no avail. As far as she knew, she had not done or said anything to make him withdraw so completely.

  Inwardly, she felt a terror she had never before experienced. To have met him was a miracle. To lose him would be the worst hell imaginable.

  Forcing her hands to remain still in her lap, she pretended to yawn in order to cover up her silence, which was bordering on rudeness. There he was, not five feet away, yet he might as well be as far away as London. He had been conversing easily with two other gentlemen, but as she watched he rose and went to sit with Beatrice.

  Something about him—an air of purpose—alerted Nell’s senses. What was he up to?

  Whatever it was, he seemed to be taking his time. Straining her ears for snatches of their conversation, Nell could hear only banal comments about dinner and the weather. It had been snowing heavily all evening, causing the guests to exclaim in wonder. Safe within the warm, cosy house, and with no need to travel on the morrow, they could enjoy the spectacle in comfort.

  Laying her hand on his arm, Beatrice now seemed to be asking Mr Beresford something. After a moment’s surprise, he nodded.

  What has he just agreed to?

  She soon had an answer.

  ‘It is time, everyone!’ Beatrice stood, pointing at the clock. It lacked only a couple of minutes until midnight. ‘And Mr Beresford has kindly agreed to open the door to the New Year.’

  She still favours him, thought Nell helplessly. Cannot she see he has no real interest in her—in anyone?

  There was a murmur of excitement and, with the others, Nell walked to the front door. They all gathered round, and the men compared the time on their various pocket watches.

  ‘In Wyatt House,’ she announced firmly, ‘we always welcome the New Year to the chimes of the clock in the front parlour.’

  She opened the parlour door and they waited.

  This is Papa’s task. It was always Papa’s task, she thought, digging her fingernails into her palms so she would not disgrace herself.

  Last year she had defied tradition and gone to bed before midnight, pleading a headache. This year, with her heart and mind distracted by Mr Beresford, she could not leave even a moment early.

  Finally, the clock began to chime, and Mr Beresford opened the door, ushering out the old year. There was a glad cry from the assembly, and much embracing. Nell was hugged by all the ladies, and managed to smile and behave appropriately. The gentlemen hugged their wives and daughters, shook each other’s hands, and saluted the other ladies appropriately.

  Nell got a bow from Mr Beresford, given with that same empty-eyed gaze. The shiver that went through her was more to do with his coldness than the frozen scene outside.

  As the clock chimed on they formed a semi-circle around the open front door. Outside, the warm light spilled onto a picture of perfect winter beauty. The snow had stopped falling, lying pure and crisp and absolutely level. There was an air of stillness that contrasted with the crackling fire and the conversation indoors. It was serenely beautiful, with the starry sky gently illuminating the snow-covered scene.

  For a fleeting moment Nell imagined being alone with him in the perfect whiteness, kissing him under the stars. The thought sent pain arcing through her, as the loss of him once more reverberated through her. She stared unseeingly at the perfect lethal beauty outside.

  There is peace out there. Dangerous peace.

  ‘Will there be more snow, do you think?’ Miss Bridgeton, ever hopeful, had directed her question at Mr Beresford.

  ‘Perhaps towards morning. But the skies are clear at present, and it is too cold for more.’ He softened his words with a slight smile—more than Nell had received from him all evening.

  The clock chimed for the final time and Mr Beresford closed the do
or.

  Nell felt the finality of it in her bones.

  They drank, then—tea and wine and brandy—and they danced. Nell, who was in no mood for dancing, offered to play for the others. That way she was better able to avoid seeing Mr Beresford dancing with various young ladies.

  Lady Cecily twice offered to replace her at the pianoforte, but Nell was adamant. ‘I have no desire to dance tonight,’ she averred, adding a brittle smile which she hoped would fool her friend.

  Lady Cecily’s frown suggested otherwise.

  Somehow she survived it all without losing her fragile control.

  It was near morning before the party finally broke up. In the salon, they clustered around the pianoforte while Nell played ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and they all sang along. Afterwards, as the guests began filing out, Nell stayed behind to tidy the music sheets back into their box. Some had been written in Mama’s neat hand.

  Oh, Mama! What have I done wrong? I have lost him!

  She lifted her head, suddenly conscious of hearing voices through the open door.

  ‘Wyatt House,’ Beatrice was saying, ‘is such a divine little establishment. I declare it would pain me to part with it.’

  ‘I am sure,’ Mr Beresford replied, his voice slicing through Nell’s heart like a knife. ‘And we must come to some agreement about the price that reflects its true value to you. But, in principle, you are open to the notion?’

  Nell stood stock-still, unable to believe what she was hearing.

  She will sell Wyatt House? My home?

  Beatrice tittered. ‘You must know I have lived here only a couple of years, Mr Beresford. However, that does not mean you can bargain me down. I will drive a hard bargain, I assure you!’

  He chuckled. ‘I do not doubt it. Let us discuss the detail on the morrow. A new year and a fresh beginning for everyone. Er...’ He paused. ‘I assume there are no mortgages or other restrictions on any sale?’

  ‘Nothing you need be concerned about, Mr Beresford. I am Miss Godwin’s guardian and trustee, and therefore I have the final say on these matters.’