The Wallflower's Mistletoe Wedding

by Amanda McCabe

  But not everything had stayed the same. Under the folds of her green-velvet cloak, he could see the small bump of a child, one of the growing brood of Bancroft Park.

  He remembered how once Barton had seemed as crumbling and lonely as Hilltop, and the Bancroft sisters had raised it back life. It gave him a spark of hope now to think of it.

  ‘Oh, Harry!’ Emma cried, her gaze flickering over his scarred face and then quickly away. ‘How perfectly wonderful to see you home. We all so feared for your health when—well, when we heard what happened and...well—’ Her words broke off and she blushed under the brim of her feathered bonnet.

  He smiled down at her. ‘I left one or two bits behind on the battlefield, but am now in good health, thank you, Emma. As I see are you. You are quite blooming.’

  She laughed, turning even pinker. ‘Oh, yes! In a few months, Bea here will be a sister again. You do remember Miss Beatrice Marton, my stepdaughter?’

  The girl dropped a shy little curtsy as Harry bowed. She was a pretty thing, with dark hair smooth under her hood and sweet eyes; one day she would surely break hearts. ‘Of course. How do you do, Miss Marton?’

  ‘I am quite well, thank you, Captain St George.’

  ‘I couldn’t do without Bea’s help at home and here at the shop,’ Emma said proudly, taking Beatrice’s hand. ‘Especially now that Christmas is so near. I do hope we will see you at Barton.’

  ‘I’m afraid there is still much to do at Hilltop,’ he answered. Christmas was for family and good cheer, not for staring at wounded soldiers. He did not want to be the ghost at the feast.

  ‘Oh, but you must,’ Beatrice said warmly. ‘There can surely be nothing merrier than the holiday Aunt Jane has planned. Games and sleigh rides and plum pudding...’

  ‘Oh, Bea, I’m sure Captain St George knows how he wants to spend his holiday,’ Emma said, squeezing her stepdaughter’s hand. ‘But do know you are always most welcome at our homes, Harry, any time at all.’

  ‘Thank you, Emma. That does mean much to me.’ He impulsively handed her the bouquet of greenery he had bought. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  He turned and walked away, but when he glanced back Emma was watching him with a thoughtful frown. She quickly smiled and waved the bouquet, the red ribbon a banner of brightness against the grey day.

  * * *

  Unlike the village, Hilltop did not bustle with holiday preparations and cheer. The windows were blank in the gathering twilight as Harry rode up the overgrown lane; no smoke curled from the crumbling chimneys. There were, however, a few more fallen roof slates on the portico and in the tangled flowerbeds.

  As Harry swung down from the saddle, he studied the house and for just an instant he remembered what it had been like in his mother’s day, with the flowers blooming and bright against the pale grey walls, curtains elegant in every window. He could imagine a lady like Rose Parker in such a house, but not this one.

  Then he blinked and the fantasy of a smiling lady welcoming him home was replaced with reality once more.

  He left his horse with the young stable lad, one of the few servants left at Hilltop along with their ancient butler Jenkins, and hurried up the front steps into the darkening house. The doors to the drawing room and music room were firmly shut, the few pieces of furniture in the hall shrouded in dust cloths. Yet it was not quite as silent as he expected. The door to the library was half-open, and a bar of amber-gold spilled out. He heard the clink of heavy crystal, as if a decanter had just been plonked down on a table.

  Curious, and not a little irritated that someone would break into his solitude uninvited, Harry tossed his hat and gloves on to the nearest canvas-covered table and strode towards the library.

  The room was just as he had left it, half-empty and dusty, most of the books sold or packed away, but his brother, Charles, sat behind their father’s desk. His dark gold hair was over-long and mussed, his buff travel coat dusty and a half-empty brandy bottle sat before him.

  He looked up and Harry saw that his blue eyes were rimmed with red. He remembered the last time he’d seen Charles, when his brother was leaving for the Continent. To paint, he said, but more likely to get away from their father. ‘My brother! The returning hero,’ Charles called, raising his almost empty glass. ‘Let me pour you a drink. You probably need it after meeting with old Mr Wall. That’s where Jenkins said you were, anyway.’

  Harry sat down across from him, stretching his long legs before him. He had learned long ago not to wonder about Charles’s comings and goings. ‘I’ve just come from the tavern and it looks as if you’ve already started the celebrating.’

  Charles examined his glass. ‘So I have. ’Tis the merry season, after all.’

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me. Where have you been lately, Charlie?’

  ‘Oh, here and there. Italy mostly. Then some German spa towns. Until I heard you were home.’

  ‘Not doing your art, then?’ Harry asked. Charles had always been a masterful artist, one who could be a professional in Harry’s uneducated opinion, though their father had scoffed at it all.

  Charles frowned. ‘No, not really. Too busy with other matters.’

  Harry nodded, but he said nothing. He didn’t really want to know what those ‘other matters’ were.

  Charles poured them each another measure. ‘What did Wall say?’

  Harry took a deep drink of the brandy. It was the last of their father’s stock and not bad at all as it burned down his throat. ‘About what you would expect he would say. Mother’s money was spent long ago and there are debts on the estate.’

  Charles sighed. ‘I think there is only one solution, then, my dear brother.’

  Harry laughed. ‘Sell Hilltop and go back in the army? They don’t want a one-eyed captain. Maybe you could get a job in the City?’

  Charles shuddered. ‘Lud, no. How appalling. I could never have a job, and I certainly don’t want my brother nearly killed again.’

  ‘I’m glad you care.’ Harry thought of how it was when they were children, running together through the fields, jumping into the pond. And how far apart they were now.

  ‘’Course I do. You’re the only brother I have. And I don’t think we can sell Hilltop.’

  ‘Indeed not. Even if it weren’t entailed in the St George family, no one would want it.’

  ‘Exactly. Ghastly old pile.’

  ‘Then what is your solution?’

  ‘Very simple. You must marry an heiress,’ Charles said.

  Harry laughed even harder. ‘You always did have a fine way with a joke, Charlie.’

  Charles scowled. ‘I am absolutely serious. A lady, one with style and a fine dowry, would fix things in a trice.’

  Harry shook his head. Even before he was wounded, his wooing skills had not been the greatest. To think of trying to win a fair, rich lady now—he laughed again. ‘Who would you suggest, then? Has a blind heiress come on to the market, perhaps? One who could tolerate a scarred old soldier?’

  ‘You’ve always been far more handsome than you would admit, Harry. And now you’re a wounded warrior. Ladies love that.’ Charles paused to stare down into his glass. ‘Helen Layton is recently widowed, you know. They say her husband left her well set-up indeed.’

  Harry’s smile faded and he swallowed the last of his drink. ‘You know that was over long ago. I think you are the one who will have to find an heiress, Charlie. You always enjoyed society much more than me, anyway. You could take up painting again. Or you could go back to the Continent to look among the spas and casinos.’

  ‘I doubt we would have to go so far. This came while you were out.’ Charles slapped a letter down on the desk.

  Harry gave it a suspicious glance. ‘What is it? Another dunning letter?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s an invitation to a Christmas house
party at Barton Park. Jane says there will be several ladies there, old friends and new.’

  ‘Ah,’ Harry muttered, pushing aside his glass. Games and sleigh rides and plum pudding. ‘So that’s what she meant.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘I saw Emma Marton in the village, she said something about Barton for the holiday. Thought it might be a good distraction.’ And it might, he thought through the slight haze of the brandy as he studied the crumbling plaster of the ceiling. Anything would be better than looking at this room any longer.

  ‘Well, I suppose somehow, some way, we have to try and save Hilltop,’ Charles said. ‘I know I’ve always been a useless wastrel, but...’

  ‘No,’ Harry said decisively. ‘I am the eldest and this is indeed our family’s home. We do have to save it and everyone who depends on it along with it. I will find a way.’ No matter what.

  Chapter Three

  We are having a true, merry, family sort of holiday here at Barton Park, where we hope to see all our old friends.

  We have not seen you seen you since Lord Fitzwalter attended Lord Fallon’s funeral and we hope that your mourning will not deprive us of your company.

  Her mourning. Helen, Dowager Lady Fallon, laughed as she dropped Jane Ramsay’s letter at the side of the bathtub. She sank deeper into the rose-scented water and stared up at the painted tile ceiling of her bathing room in her London town house. Everyone had thought it so extravagant when she’d had it built on to her dressing room, with its marble walls and painted fireplace. But it was her favourite place, a small, cosy space where no one would bother her.

  She had once thought being Lady Fallon would be a grand thing indeed, a life of ease and grandeur, full of pretty gowns and parties and fun. So different from her own family, their façade of liveliness and prosperity that hid a distinct lack of funds. She had given up Harry St George, so handsome and gallant, to marry a man thirty years older in order to get that life. But being Lady Fallon had not been what she’d expected.

  It hadn’t been worth it.

  Helen sat up in the tub, the water frothing around her, and caught a glimpse of herself in her gilt-framed mirror. Her golden hair, curling with the damp air, her pink and white skin, it was all still youthful and beautiful. And she did have old Lord Fallon’s money now, too. Surely it was not too late for her?

  She reached for the letter again. Old friends. Did that mean Harry St George would be there? She had heard he had returned to England, more heroic than ever. What could she not do in society, with her new money and a war hero at her side?

  Maybe a Christmas in the country was just what she needed.

  * * *

  Charles St George swirled the brandy in his glass and stared out into the darkness of the night. Winter clouds had lowered, extinguishing the stars and moonlight, but that was good. In the darkness, the shambles of the garden at Hilltop, the garden their mother had once so loved, that he had painted so many times, could not be seen. It was just a blank, like everything else.

  It was quiet, a lot like the way he felt inside, Charles thought as he took another drink. As if he watched the world from a great distance, not caring particularly what happened one way or another.

  That was the real reason why he had drifted around the Continent for so long. Their father had so often declared him useless, why not be so? Harry had escaped it all in the army. Charles had once tried to escape in art, which he loved but could not ultimately find fulfilling, and then in spa towns.

  But now, back here at Hilltop with his brother again, he found he did care. And it ate at him. Harry had given so much; he deserved more than a wastrel brother and a falling-down house that had once been loved. He just wished to heaven he knew what to do.

  Perhaps Christmas at Barton Park would be a good thing. A bit of merriment amongst other people, other families, away from the constant blankness.

  ‘Fa-la-la-la-la...’ he muttered and finished off his brandy.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Barton Park is just ahead, miss. Nearly there now,’ the coachman called out as they slowed at the crest of a hill.

  Rose leaned out the window, eager for a glimpse of the house of which she had such happy memories. It hadn’t been an unpleasant journey, with a valise full of books to read and no Aunt Sylvia shouting out demands, but it had been a cold one. The winter wind did like to nip through her mended gloves and snatch at her cloak. Surely there would be a good fire waiting at Barton.

  But she found she was a bit nervous as well. It had been years since she saw her cousins last—what were they like now? What would they think of her?

  They passed through an open iron gate, beautifully wrought and crowned with a gilded B. The drive was a long, winding one, designed at the height of the craze for picturesque landscapes under Jane and Emma’s scholarly father, and Rose was enchanted by the view. Even in winter, with all the trees bare and frost thick on the ground, it was lovely.

  As the coach meandered past groves of trees and hedges, she glimpsed pale marble statues, like ghosts in the grey day. In the distance, she saw the chinoiserie peaks of an old summerhouse and the stone walls that marked off Rose Hill, Emma’s husband’s estate next door. She remembered playing on those grounds as child, looking for treasure in the medieval ruins of the cold castle.

  Suddenly there was a fork in the lane and they turned off to find the house itself.

  It was not a large house, but it was a romantic one, warm and welcoming with its time-mellowed red-brick walls, its grey stone front steps and inlaid stone patterns around the windows. Smoke curled from the chimney in fragrant, silvery plumes. The doors were decorated with green wreaths tied with golden bows and evergreen plants lined the portico in silver-stained pots.

  Much to Rose’s surprise, as the coach rolled to a stop the front doors opened and a veritable herd of children tumbled out. The two tallest were obviously the twins, William and Eleanor, and they led two smaller children, probably Emma and Edward, and Eleanor held a toddler by the hand whose golden curls looked like those of her mother, Emma Marton. They were bundled against the cold in a bright, jewel-like cluster of green-and blue-velvet coats and cloaks.

  The coachman lowered the steps and helped Rose to alight, and as soon as her boots touched the gravel the children launched into song.

  ‘“Good King Wenceslaus looked out, on the feast of Stephen! When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even...”’

  Rose couldn’t help but laugh in delight at the sweet sound of their voices, carried by the cold, clear air. It seemed to encourage them to sing even louder, until they reached the end on a long, carrying note.

  ‘“...gath’ring winter fu-u-uel!”’

  ‘Welcome to Barton,’ the tallest girl said. She stepped forward with a little curtsy, presenting Rose with a mistletoe bouquet.

  Rose curtsied back, charmed by the song—and, she admitted, a little relieved, after the stories some of her friends who were governesses told about wild children ransacking workboxes and setting loose mice.

  ‘That was most beautifully sung,’ she said. ‘I am sure not even one of the royal princesses could expect a finer welcome.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve been practising for days and days!’ the oldest boy said. ‘We have a different song for every guest. You’re the first one to arrive. Would you like to hear another? Mother said you’re very good at music.’

  Jane appeared in the doorway and laid a gentle hand on her son’s shoulder. She did not look like a grand countess, Rose thought, with her hair pinned up in loose curls and a soft Indian shawl wrapped over her muslin day dress. She looked like the cousin she always remembered. ‘William, dearest, I am sure Miss Parker is weary from her journey and wants to come in from the cold.’

  ‘Oh, of course!’ young William cried and the children surrounded her to sweep her in
to the hall. It had the same air of elegant informality as the outside of the house, with its black and white tiled floor softened by bright rugs. The balustrade of the staircase that swept up to the next story seemed bright and newly gilded, lined with a blue and gold carpet runner, the blue silk-striped walls were lined with blue satin chairs tossed with red cushions. A marble-topped table held a large bouquet of holly and ivy, which cast their fresh, green scent into the warm air.

  Jane kissed Rose’s cheeks, clasping her hands in welcome. ‘Rose, my dear, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you again! And how grateful for your help. With a houseful of guests on the way, I would not know how to manage with this pack of ruffians.’

  Rose untied and removed her grey bonnet, studying the smiling, rosy-cheeked children around them. ‘They look civilised enough to me.’

  Jane laughed. ‘That’s only because they are on their best party behaviour at the moment. These are my eldest, the twins, William and Eleanor, who is quite the budding musician,’ she said, as the children made their bows. ‘And little Emma and my baby Edward, who is not such a baby now. The littlest is Emma’s girl Martha. Emma has gone into the village with Beatrice, her lovely stepdaughter, to see about her bookshop, but will be here for dinner with her husband later.’

  Rose smiled as she watched them, remembering their song and their promise of more. ‘William said guests will be arriving soon?’

  ‘Oh, yes, most of them by teatime, I hope. You are the first,’ Jane said. She reached out and straightened the vase of greenery. ‘So you will have plenty of time to rest before the merriment begins in earnest! I told Hannah, our old housekeeper, whom I am sure you remember, to make sure you have a good fire and some tea in your room. Perhaps a warm bath? I do hope the journey was not too chilling.’

  Rose’s head was whirling with all the information. ‘I—not at all, Lady Ramsay.’

  ‘Oh, Jane, please! We are family.’

  ‘Jane,’ Rose answered carefully. She remembered Jane’s letter, how it had asked for her help with the children, especially in teaching them music, but it felt like she was being welcomed at Barton as another guest. ‘Are the children to make an appearance before dinner?’