Kitabı oku: «Once Upon A Regency Christmas: On a Winter's Eve / Marriage Made at Christmas / Cinderella's Perfect Christmas»

For the Quayistas Mark 2—

Linda, Jenny, Janet and the Significant Others.

You know why.

Chapter One

When had she last seen snow? It must have been at least nine years ago, before she had left England. Remembered in the heat of a Bengal summer, it had been pretty and fluffy. Not like this, heavy with a subtle, beautiful threat. The great billowing drifts, like ocean waves, were poised to swallow the coach whole. Oh, this was such a bad idea.

There was a convulsive movement beside her, a blurred reflection in the breath-misted glass, but when Julia turned her stepdaughter was smiling, even as she shivered.

‘Miri, darling, I am sorry it is so cold. I didn’t think, I just wanted to be away from that dreadful woman.’

‘Aunt is strange, isn’t she? I suppose she was angry that Father didn’t leave her anything in his will.’ Miri shrugged, slender shoulders struggling to lift the layers of rugs. ‘And I didn’t expect her to like me, but she did offer us a home while you arranged your affairs in England.’

Of course Grace—parental optimism in the naming of her had been severely misplaced—Watson did not like her niece. Miriam was illegitimate, half-Indian and beautiful. What was there not to hate for a bigoted woman with a plain daughter of her own to launch?

‘Did you not realise? My sainted sister-in-law was selling introductions to me, the indecently rich nabob’s widow who must, of course, be in need of a man to relieve her of her wealth.’

‘No! You mean those parties and receptions were to set you out like goods on a stall? No wonder you are so angry.’

‘Too angry to explain properly to you. I am sorry, you must have thought I had lost my mind, dragging you out of there at five o’clock yesterday morning.’ Julia did not often lose her temper, it was not a profitable thing to do, but when she did she was well aware that it was like wildfire over the grass plains of the Deccan, sweeping everything before it.

Miri had meekly held her tongue and left Julia to a fuming silence broken only by curt orders to servants, coachmen and innkeepers. ‘I must have been a perfectly horrid companion yesterday, I should have explained. I overheard your aunt agreeing terms with Sir James Walcott on what he would pay her if I were to wed him.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘I lay awake all night brooding and the thought of seeing her sour face over breakfast was too much.’

‘I rather liked Sir James.’

‘So did I,’ Julia agreed grimly.

‘You are very rich.’ Miri sounded as though her teeth were clenched to stop them chattering. There was only so much that fur rugs and pewter hot water bottles could do against the Norfolk weather on a late December day.

‘Oh, indecently so.’ Julia’s own teeth were gritted, but not because of the cold. ‘And it is a well-known fact of life that indecently rich widows are fair game for any impoverished gentleman who fancies lining his pockets. After all, marrying money is not the same as lowering oneself to engage in trade and actually earn it.’

There was silence as the coach lurched through another drift. It gave Julia ample time to rue allowing her temper to land them here.

‘So what will you do now?’

‘See what this house your father left me is like. I have no hopes of it, but, if it at least has a roof, then we shall stay there for Christmas and by the New Year I will have a plan.’ She always had a plan and usually they were rather more successful than her bright idea of leaving India and returning to England with her stepdaughter and a fortune, expecting to find it easy to make a new life.

She had wanted to give Miri everything a restricted upbringing had denied her stepdaughter, find her a husband to love her. Now she suspected that Miri would have been much happier in India with a dowry, making her own choices. Had she dragged her along because of her own desire for companionship? She had been so lonely throughout her marriage that if it had not been for Miri’s warm affection when her father brought home his young bride she would have gone mad, she thought.

Nothing is easy. Nothing. In England money seems to be a curse for an independent woman. Or perhaps expecting to be independent is the curse in itself.

‘It will be very pleasant to have a real English country Christmas.’ There was that at least to look forward to. ‘Plum pudding, mulled wine, decorating the house with evergreens, sitting around roaring log fires. We will give the staff Christmas Day off and listen to them singing carols. You’ll love it, Miri. I remember it all so well from my childhood. Christmas is wonderful for children.’ She trod firmly on that image and imagined instead a fatherly old butler, a rosy-cheeked cook, cheerful, willing maids and footmen… ‘But whatever else we do, remember that we are two ladies of modest means.’

‘Very well.’ Miri gave a determined nod. ‘We will dress simply and warmly and leave our jewels in their cases. After all, I am not looking for a husband and you do not want one who desires you only for your money.’

That ruled out all the gentlemen of England. Who would want a sallow-faced widow of twenty-five with no connections for any reason other than her money? It was a good thing that seven years of marriage had removed any romantic delusions she might ever have nurtured about the institution. As for Miri, if and when she found a man she wanted, Julia would do everything in her power to make her dreams come true. If this mythical lover deserved such a pearl. And if that meant losing her, seeing her go back to India, then of course she must go. She could not be selfish and hold on to her.

But meanwhile they were shivering in a wasteland. ‘How much longer is this going to take?’ Julia jerked on the check string and dropped the window glass, letting in a blast of dry, frigid air and a dusting of snowflakes. ‘Thomas?’

‘My lady?’ The coachman leaned round and down to face her, his face red with cold.

‘How much further?’

‘A mile or so, I reckon. The snow makes it difficult to judge distance at this pace.’

‘We will stop at the next inn. Miss Chalcott is becoming very cold.’

‘There’s nothing ahead of us now but Chalcott Manor, my lady. It’s a dead end.’

‘It most certainly is.’ She sighed as he straightened up on to his seat, then leaned back down before she could raise the glass again.

‘My lady, there’s someone on the road in front of us. A man on foot.’

‘In this weather? We had best take him up.’

The man turned as they approached, seeming larger and more monstrous the closer they got. Squinting against the snow, Julia could see that the thick white crust covering his head and shoulders added to his bulk, but he was also holding some large black object to his chest.

‘You there!’ Thomas hailed him. ‘Are you in difficulties?’

‘Difficulties? Not at all.’ The response was sarcastic, the voice deep and confident. Julia felt her lips twitch. ‘I am unhorsed and lost and have no feeling in my extremities, but otherwise I am enjoying a country stroll.’

‘My lady bids me say that you had best get into the carriage, sir.’

She opened the door, then gasped as the man turned to face her. ‘What on earth is that?’

‘A turkey, ma’am.’ He hitched his burden up further in his arms and a hideous red and blue head on a wrinkled, naked neck poked out from the front of his greatcoat and produced a raucous gobbling cry.

‘It is alive!’

‘Yes, ma’am. I had noticed. Might I enter? The snow is blowing over your rugs and my boots may freeze to the road if I stand still much longer.’

‘If we wrap it in this, you can lift it in.’ Miri, ever practical, held out a rug.

The man looked up from under his snow-laden hat and his jaw dropped, just a fraction.

Most males were rendered dumb for minutes at a time by their first sight of her stepdaughter. It was wearily predictable, but she supposed she could not blame them. ‘Get on with it, please, before we are buried in snow.’

The turkey succumbed to the rug after a few seconds of frantic flapping and gobbling, the man heaved it on to the seat and climbed in, slamming the door behind him.

‘Drive on, Thomas.’ Julia yanked up the glass and flapped the snow off her skirts. ‘There is no village ahead, sir.’

‘I was coming to that conclusion. My horse went lame some way back. There was a byre with a herd of cows and fodder, so I left it there, hid the saddle in the rafters and walked in the hope of better shelter.’

‘There is nothing along this road but my house, Chalcott Manor. You are welcome to shelter there until the weather lifts. I am Lady Julia Chalcott. My stepdaughter, Miss Chalcott.’

‘Thank you, Lady Julia. Miss Chalcott.’ He managed to look at Miri without actually panting, which raised him a notch in Julia’s estimation. ‘I am Giles Markham, late Captain in the Twelfth Light Dragoons. Is Lord Chalcott at home? He must be anxious with you travelling in this weather.’

‘Sir Humphrey Chalcott is deceased, Captain Markham.’ She saw the question he was too polite to ask. ‘He was a baronet. I am the daughter of an earl and chose to retain my title.’ It was the only thing she had managed to keep from her early life. ‘Why do you have a live turkey, Captain?’

‘I found it in a snowdrift. It’s a very fine Norfolk Bronze, with a label on its leg reading “Bulstrode, Leadenhall Market”. I assume it escaped from captivity on top of a stagecoach bound for the City of London. Christmas is, after all, only six days away.’ He took off hat and gloves and pushed his hand through his hair, which was brown, straight and in dire need of a crop.

Without his hat he should have looked smaller. He did not. Nor any less male and sure of himself. That would be the army, she supposed. A serving officer was unlikely to be a shrinking violet. Although one of those would certainly take up less room. Her skin felt…strange. Julia wanted to shiver even though, quite suddenly, she was not chilled. Odd. Perhaps she was sickening for a cold, which would just about put the crown on this disaster of a journey.

What were we talking about? Oh, yes. ‘And the entire point of turkeys at Christmas, Captain, is to be dead. Dead, plucked and roasted. Not shedding feathers all over the interior of my coach.’

‘I have some sympathy with his daring escape, Lady Julia. I have dodged the French often enough to have fellow feeling.’ Judging by the thin scar on his left cheek he had not always dodged successfully. Captain Markham’s voice was deep, amused and as smooth as warm honey.

Oh, pull yourself together, Julia. It is a man. A large, handsome, masculine creature who is cluttering up your carriage. They are two a penny and all equally mercenary.

‘This is a fine coach, if I may say so.’ Even in the gloom the interior with its mahogany, plush upholstery, brass fittings and heaped fur rugs murmured of luxury and the wealth to support it.

It was almost big enough for him, Julia thought, covertly watching his efforts to keep his long legs under control and his sodden boots away from their skirts and rugs. Men did fill the space up so. This one was a gentleman, the educated voice attested to that. But he was a rangy specimen with a straight nose, a stubborn chin and an excess of stubble. After the smooth, groomed males inhabiting the drawing rooms of Mayfair he was something of a shock to the system. That was all this flustered feeling was, reaction to such a virile creature at close quarters.

‘We were lent it,’ Miri said demurely, lying without a flicker of her long lashes. ‘It is very different from the carriages we are used to in India.’ At least she was keeping up with the conversation and not allowing a pair of long legs to turn her brain into mush. This was what came of indulging immodest and improbable fantasies: they climbed into your carriage at the least convenient moment.

‘India?’

‘We arrived in England three weeks ago, Captain.’ That was better, cool and polite.

‘And are returning to your family for Christmas.’

‘No. We have no family in England, except for the most distant cousins.’ To describe her sister-in-law as family stretched Julia’s willingness to mangle the English language. ‘And you, Captain? Are you on your way home?’

‘Home.’ He said the word as though it tasted of something entirely new and he was not certain that he liked the flavour. ‘I suppose I am. It is a very long time since I set foot in England.’

‘You have been in the Peninsula, sir?’

‘For several years. I have just sold out.’

Why? The war is still going on and he doesn’t appear to be suffering from some disabling wound. The coach turned sharply to the left and Julia caught a glimpse of gateposts. ‘We have finally arrived, it seems.’

‘You are not familiar with the house?’

‘No. It is the only thing my husband left to me. As I met him in India I have never seen it.’ From what Mr Filbert, her solicitor, could tell her, the possession of Chalcott Manor was not going to give anyone the impression that she was rolling in money.

They stopped and all looked out at the redbrick house that loomed through the snow. As a piece of architecture it appeared to be without merit, except for the possession of a roof with no visible holes in it and a number of chimney stacks, both features that were at the top of Julia’s desiderata for a house, just at the moment. A light showed in one of the semi-basement windows, so at least some of the promised staff were present, but there was no rush to open the door. Perhaps the snow had muffled the sound of the carriage.

Paul, the groom, opened the door and let down the step. ‘The snow’s deep, my lady.’

‘Let me.’ Captain Markham jumped down beside him. ‘We’ll trample a path through. Put an arm around my shoulders.’ The two of them moved forward, stamping in unison.

‘What a good thing we found the Captain,’ Miri observed, watching their progress.

‘Thomas and Paul would have managed between them.’ At least the man did not have expensive clothing to ruin. She had noticed the worn boots and the roughly mended cuff of his greatcoat. If he had sold his commission then he ought to have bought himself some respectable civilian clothes with the proceeds and not be traipsing around the countryside in that state.

He came back to them, leaving Paul pounding on the front door. ‘It’s as cold as Satan’s ar—as cold as the devil, ma’am. I would wait there until someone answers.’

‘I am not shivering in a coach on my own doorstep, Captain.’ Or being managed by a man. She climbed down, ignored his outstretched hand and started up the trampled path. Behind her she heard him offering his arm to Miri, who murmured her gratitude. Then her right foot shot up, her left foot skidded to the side and she was falling backwards.

‘Oh—’ The very naughty word in Urdu clashed with a small scream from Miri, then an arm lashed round her waist and she was lifted off her feet and into Captain Markham’s arms. Really, the man’s reflexes were astonishing. So was the strength of his arm—Julia knew she was no lightweight, not with all five feet six inches of her bundled in layers of winter clothing. ‘Thank you, Captain, you may put me down now.’

‘Best not.’ He adjusted his grip, raising her higher against his chest and getting one arm under the crook of her knees.

‘Captain!’

‘No call for alarm, I have you safe.’

That was an entirely new definition of safe. Certainly her heart rate had kicked up in alarm. ‘I am not a turkey to be lugged about.’

‘No,’ he agreed, striding up to the door. ‘You are much easier to get a grip on and you aren’t shedding feathers.’

The door creaked open before she could think of a retort. The light etched a thin ribbon of gold on to the snow.

‘Yes?’ The voice wavered eerily.

She shivered and the arms holding her tightened in response. Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is not some Gothic novel! ‘I am Lady Julia Chalcott. This is my house. My solicitor wrote to say that I was coming to stay. Now kindly open this door properly and show us to the drawing room.’

‘Maa…’ It was a bleat. Which, as it issued from the mouth of a man who looked more like a sheep than anyone decently should, was appropriate. ‘Ma’am? We never heard from no solicitor.’

She felt decidedly at a disadvantage and gave a wriggle. An amused huff of breath warmed her temple. ‘You address me as my lady, and who are you?’

The man retreated into the depths of the dark hall as the Captain strode forward. ‘Light some candles immediately, please.’

‘Yes, maa… Sir. My lady. Smithers, my lady. The drawing room is there, but the fire isn’t lit.’

Nor were the covers off the furniture or the curtains drawn. Captain Markham set her on her feet and waited while she released her grip on his sleeve before he removed the candle from Smithers’s unsteady hand and walked round setting the flame to every candle in sight, then dropped to one knee and thrust a hand into the kindling laid in the hearth. ‘Dry, although I’d not take a wager that the chimney will not smoke.’

‘Er…’

That was an improvement on bleating, but there went her daydream about a cosy house and equally cosy staff. Efficient, cheerful, staff. ‘Tell Cook that we need tea, Smithers. And sandwiches and cake. Then send the footmen to bring in the luggage. I require bedchambers for myself and Miss Chalcott, a maid to attend on us, a chamber for Captain Markham and accommodation for my coachman and groom. Hot water. We will dine at seven.’

‘But there’s only me and Mrs Smithers, my lady. And the Girl.’ He somehow managed to give the word a capital letter. ‘And I don’t rightly know as how we’ve got any cake, nor anything much for dinner, my lady. Just the rabbit pie and the barley broth.’ Smithers’s face was a mixture of bafflement and deep apprehension.

The butterflies that had been flapping around ever since Captain Markham picked her up turned into a lead weight and sank in her very empty stomach. ‘Oh. The beds are aired, are they not?’ It was foolish optimism, she knew as soon as she spoke.

‘Er…’

No, that was not, after all, an improvement on bleating. ‘I had best speak to Mrs Smithers.’ She waited until he shuffled out of the door and turned to the others. ‘Captain, please will you light the fire? We must risk the smoke.’

‘Me lady?’ Julia turned, praying not to be confronted by another sheep, and was rewarded by the sight of Mrs Smithers, a birdlike woman in a vast apron, a ladle clutched in one hand. Over her shoulder could be glimpsed a freckle-faced child of about twelve. The Girl, presumably.

At least the ladle promised food of some kind. ‘Mrs Smithers. Good afternoon. As I explained to your husband, we require beds—aired beds—made up in three chambers. Fires lit. Hot water. Dinner for seven o’clock and accommodation for the coachman and groom.’

The other woman stared, her mouth working, then she plumped herself down in the nearest chair, threw her apron over her head and burst into tears.

Julia took a deep breath and turned to Captain Markham, the shredded remains of her Christmas fantasy fluttering around her like so many falling leaves. ‘Are you skilled at bed-making, Captain?’ she enquired sweetly.