Table of Contents
On a Midnight Clear
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Regency-era stories by Sandra Sookoo
Author Bio
Stay in Touch
On a Midnight Clear
A Regency Christmas novel
Sandra Sookoo
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the author.
ON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR © 2020
by Sandra Sookoo
[email protected]
Visit me at www.sandrasookoo.com
Published by New Independence Books
[email protected]
ISBN- 9781393975373
Edited by: Angie Eads
Book Cover Design by David Sookoo
Couple:– Period Images
Background images: Deposit Photos
First Digital Edition: 2020
Dedication
To everyone who enjoys the magic and romance of the Christmas season, and who never gives up hope.
Acknowledgement
Oftentimes, authors tend to get lost in our own heads when we write books and we lose focus of things. When this happens, I like to ask for input from friends and acquaintances.
To the following ladies, thank you for telling me what you’d like to see in historical Christmas romances. I hope I’ve done you proud.
Mary Dieterich
Jenny Merchant
Betty Johnson
Lori Quick
Jill James
Robin Calkins
Anna Carrasco Bowling
Margaret Murray-Evans
Roxane Twisdale
Roni Denholtz
Marina Bauman Leonard
Mary Smith
Tana Hillman
Karen M. Llanes
Dawn Roberto
Cyndi Bennett
Dear Readers,
I’m sure you know by now how much I enjoy writing Christmas romances. It’s kind of like a hobby within a hobby for me, and I adore reading and writing about people falling in love during the holidays. There’s just something so cozy about it.
On a Midnight Clear might seem familiar to you because it was in the Lady It’s Cold Outside boxed set. But now I’m releasing it on my own, so please don’t mark me down in reviews because you might have read this before.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy my couple and their situation. This is one of my favorite romances that I’ve ever written. And I hope you have a wonderful holiday season this year.
Sandra Sookoo
Blurb
Sometimes, the greatest truths of life come on a midnight clear.
Major Cecil Stapleton is struggling with his new life as a civilian after nearly twenty years in the military. Wounds received in the Battle of Toulouse left him angry, disfigured, and sent him home to England. All he wants now is to retire to the country and be left alone, especially since it’s the Christmastide season. Finding his old lover in his cottage leaves him at sixes and sevens... and perhaps wanting more.
Widow Sarah Presley has worked hard to conceal her existence in the Buckinghamshire countryside. She’s looking forward to giving her seven-year-old son a special holiday, but that idyllic intention is shattered when a knock upon her door reveals the man she’d shared a night of exquisite passion with eight years ago—her son’s father... and the man she never forgot.
With no other choice, a tentative peace is struck, but memories intrude, as do new and confusing feelings, for their future is just as entwined. When a dangerous secret from Sarah’s past comes back to haunt her, the dynamic with her and Cecil shifts once again. For the love of their son, as well as the sweet romance brewing between them, they’ll need to work together to survive... and a Christmas miracle wouldn’t hurt either.
Chapter One
December 12, 1814
Bath, England
Major Cecil Matthew Stapleton drifted between sleep and wakefulness at St. James the Greater Healing Hospital in Bath, England. The sound of murmured voices in the room with him prompted him to keep his eyes closed, for he wanted to know what the nuns said about him. He’d attempted the same thing throughout his tenure at St. James, and now that his two months of convalescence were over as of today, he meant to find success at it.
“I’m glad he is leaving us this afternoon,” the older woman—Sister Theresa—mentioned as she came closer to his bed. He could almost imagine her round, white face in stark relief against the black of her habit and veils. The whisper of the long skirts of her robes was the only sound that she moved. “I never agreed with the decision of the Regent to lend this hospital out to helping soldiers. It should be reserved for more pious goals.”
Was not helping the unfortunate and needy a pious goal of the church? Cecil fought the urge to curl his fingers into fists. Wasn’t healing the target? Weren’t the servants of God supposed to wish patients—any patients—well? Still, St. James was a fat lot better than St. Thomas Hospital in London, where he’d begun the long road to recovery after injuries sustained in the Battle of Toulouse on April 10th. Where he’d arrived, half dead and weak from blood loss and in pain, barely able to talk, for the journey from France to England had been the height of unpleasant.
That was a day he didn’t wish to remember, and especially not now when he was about to turn a corner in his personal health. Yet the nightmares of his tenure at St. Thomas occasionally bothered him, as did the ghosts of the battle itself. He might have healed physically but mentally...
It was an ongoing fight for normalcy.
Her companion, the younger nun—Sister Grace—tsked her tongue, and the soft sound recalled his attention to the moment. “It’s better to despise the war, not the men fighting it. They only follow orders.” China rattled as she placed a tray with his breakfast on a bedside table. She’d done the same thing for the past sixty days, and never once did she let him thank her. Where Sister Theresa was a hulking sort, Sister Grace was dainty and slight with a heart-shaped face and kind eyes.
“Be that as it may, this one hasn’t benefited from the daily trips to the Pump Room, has he? The waters didn’t help.” Both nuns were no doubt at his bedside staring down at him, and he struggled to keep up the pretense of sleep, for it felt foreign not to speak to them. They’d been his only companions for his two-month stay. “Still retains scarring.”
“Such a shame,” Sister Grace murmured. With a cool hand, she brushed the hair away from his brow. “He was a handsome man, no doubt, before the incident that broke him. Probably a dashing solider, for one doesn’t come by the moniker Captain Fortunate by chance.” Cecil heard the smile in her soft-spoken voice. Yes, he would miss her.
Sister Theresa snorted. “Oh, he is a major now, remember. Battlefield promotion when he was struck down. Some pompous fool came in here a month pas
t with a medal and official paperwork.” Her tone indicated it had been a stupid decision. He would not miss her.
“Yes, I remember,” the other nun said in the same soothing tones. “Major Stapleton must be important to the military, especially if the tales of his valor on the field are true.”
“Is any man important when his intent is to kill?” Obviously, the first nun had no love for anything his life had stood upon, for what he believed in. “He told me once he’d followed the drum since he was a lad of eighteen. It’s been the only life he’s known.”
Again, Sister’s Grace’s fingers combed at his hair then lifted away. “That’s twenty years. No matter how you feel about the military, Sister, that has to be commended, for he was never injured until now. Probably why he stuck with it for so long.” A certain amount of respect echoed in her voice. “And he did his country proud. I only hope he is proud of himself.”
“Well, fate’s played her hand this time.” Sister Theresa harrumphed. “The major will never return to the battlefield, and for that I am grateful. One less man to hold a gun or take a life.”
“One less time he might perish.” Sister Grace’s gentle admonishment had him struggling not to grin.
“Perhaps he should. A man who looks like him does hasn’t a chance anywhere else, and he’ll be haunted besides.”
Cecil burned with resentment from the conversation, but he kept his eyes closed and his breathing even, for it was true. He was scarred and suffered a slight limp, slight hearing loss in his right ear, among other things. To say nothing of the crushing guilt he would always carry.
“Poor man.” Sister Grace sighed. “I hope he is as fortunate as his moniker suggests, for he still has much living to do. Perhaps he has a lady waiting for him at home.”
“He does not.” Sister Theresa’s tone was firm, almost carried a note of glee. “He told me as much a few weeks ago. There is no wife or intended. Never got around to courting. Now it’s unlikely he’ll ever have that with his scarring and the limp.”
His chest tightened as anger built inside him. Despite not giving a thought to leg-shackling himself while he toiled in the military, during his time of healing, he had entertained the possibilities, but had rapidly known the limitations of his injuries and scars. No woman would look twice at him, and he needed to square with that. So he’d dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come.
Bloody hell. What was there left for him if he didn’t have that chance or a career on the march any longer? What the devil will become of me?
Sister Grace made a soothing sound. “He is not a monster, Sister Theresa. I will say extra prayers for him that he finds happiness. It is not his fault fate handed him misfortune. If nothing else, he should have peace.”
“That remains to be seen. War makes monsters of men; it is up to them to forget that even if he’ll look like one for the rest of his life.” She sniffed in contempt.
A muscle in Cecil’s cheek twitched as he clenched his teeth. Perhaps the Lord would meet Sister Theresa in the dark soon and press upon her heart the folly of catty judgment.
“Well, I would rather believe in miracles, Sister Theresa,” Sister Grace murmured, and he could imagine her sweet face wreathed in an easy smile. “Christmastide is nearly upon us. No one deserves the best of all good things more than Major Stapleton. Perhaps the season will grant him a wish or a prayer, but I will miss him.”
Again, the older nun snorted. “You grow too fanciful about certain patients, Sister.”
“It is my nature to sympathize. We should all practice more of that,” was her soft response, and Cecil wanted to chuckle.
Sister Theresa snorted. “We must hurry else we’ll be late for prayers.”
The whisper of their skirts and the clack of the rosary beads at their waists rustled as they quit the room. A slight snick of the door closing behind them left him in blessed silence.
When he finally found himself alone, Cecil opened his eyes and stared at the plastered ceiling of the Spartanly furnished room. Was he so hideous then with the wounds?
They didn’t ache like they had when he’d arrived in London at the end of April. He’d stayed at St. Thomas for five months. It had been pure hell while his broken right tibia was reset and cast in plaster. Shrapnel had needed extracting from seemingly every point in his right side. Burn wounds had been treated and tended to with foul-smelling salves. The damn surgeons at St. Thomas had bled him regularly, as if that would help. It had only served to make Cecil weaker and set back his healing. He’d been forced to learn how to walk again albeit with an uncomfortable crutch, else he’d stay confined to a wheeled chair for the rest of his life. That was something he wasn’t willing to do, so he’d worked at it once the cast had come off. Eventually, he’d mastered the skill, but he would need a cane for any great length of exertion.
He was grateful for that; at least he retained the leg, for the prevailing theory was merely to amputate a broken limb, but he’d begged them to reconsider.
Then, when the doctors had said it was God’s will if he lived or died past what they could do for him, they’d dismissed him, but thankfully, Cecil’s father, who had clout through the House of Commons, had located his superior on the battlefields and together they’d made it possible for Cecil’s transfer to the hospital in Bath for further recuperation.
Not that his father had actually lowered himself to come visit or even send a letter of inquiry. No, Cecil had a brief note, delivered by the general with a medal of commendation—several if he were honest—as well as the official letter of praise. His father had given his best wishes and hoped he’d find employment and fulfillment outside of the military. Perhaps he could come back to London for a visit once he was fully healed.
Which meant he shouldn’t return to Town unless the scars were gone and all trace of the detestable war he’d fought in were covered, for such reminders might stunt his father’s rising trajectory in his political career. Everything unsavory must remain hidden lest the people start to question who’d voted to fund such a war that seemed ongoing and endless.
Bah! He was quite done with people and their agendas that didn’t encompass human kindness. Never once had anyone asked if Cecil had wished to participate in the war to stop the French dictator. Never once had anyone inquired as to the state of his health or whether he might wish for a friendly ear or even assistance with the business of living again. Never once did anyone willingly offer him a hot meal or a comfortable bed or water that wasn’t poisoned to bathe or to drink as he’d made his way back to England.
And why should they? Everyone from France to England felt the same way about returning soldiers, and ones who were injured specifically.
The only good solider was a dead one seemed to be the motto of the people at the moment, and if that solider was half French? They would want to fell him themselves. Cecil’s gut clenched as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. No one wanted war except for politicians, yet why couldn’t people understand the men fighting for the cause—any cause—had feelings too? The vast majority of them hadn’t wished to willingly go to battle, but for the love of King and country, they would endure.
Perhaps it didn’t matter. Any good solider worth his salt followed the commands from another man higher up in rank than he; his life wasn’t his own while in a military capacity. Everything was of someone else’s whim and making. A man on the march was merely a weapon, a pawn in a greater game. Therein lay the fault; the men who made the decisions never had to live with them or their aftermath.
But he’d healed, damn it. More or less, despite the nasty comments and actions of those he’d known since being injured on that battlefield. Two months in Bath taking the waters twice a day and slowly walking the town to regain mobility and strength saw him improved in increments. Now, he would depart the area in a private carriage courtesy of his commanding office at midday to begin the rest of his life.
It had been a long road from injury to recovery, but one
he was anxious to leave. What was he to do with his life now that he was destined for a civilian existence? Anxiety clawed icy fingers at his insides. For the first time in his life, he had no idea what his future held, but he would survive like he always had, and what was more, he intended to succeed at it.
He contemplated the tea tray on the bedside table. Standard white porcelain teapot, cup, saucer, and matching accompaniments. Two pieces of dry toast, marmalade in a tiny pot, plain porridge in a bowl, but nothing else of interest. Did the sisters not believe in giving a man a proper English breakfast for a sendoff on such an auspicious day?
What I wouldn’t do for a bit of ham, perhaps a steak or kippers, even a few boiled eggs. Or a nice bracing cup of coffee. Of which he’d learned to enjoy while with his regiment on the fields, for it was easier at times to come by than tea.
Even in food, he gave thanks, for he wouldn’t need to eat like an invalid after today. Cecil poured himself a cup of weak tea and then dunked a corner of a piece of toast into it to help ease the swallowing. The sisters’ offering was fair, and he’d ingest every scrap as he’d done each day, for a man like him didn’t always know where the next meal would come from, especially if supply lines were disrupted, which they were with alarming regularity, for Napoleon was a cruel man in his rule.
In short order, the humble fare was consumed and washed down by a second cup of tea. He sighed as he replaced the tray on the bedside table. Would this be the last time he slept in a comfortable bed beneath a roof that didn’t leak? He had no idea, for he intended to reach his childhood home in the country two days’ from now. As far as he knew, his father had never visited that residence since Cecil graduated from a course at the Royal Military Academy at Woolrich and was presented a commission in the Royal Artillery. George Stapleton hadn’t set foot out of London since beginning his political run, and as he worked his way up the ranks in Parliament, his son had steadily worked his way up the rungs of hard-won promotions, both driven, but going in opposite directions.
Not that those medals will serve me now unless I pawn them for coin if needed. Though, for the time being the half-pay he’d accumulated since the injury would help, for as soon as he walked out of this hospital, he was officially out of service and therefore no longer a drain to public resources. Once he put his house in order, he’d see about finding employment.
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