Regency Romp - Happy Christmas Mr Jones (Regency Romps)

by Sole, Linda

  50

  Regency Romps

  Book One

  Happy Christmas Mr Jones

  Linda Sole

  This book is the copyright of Linda Sole, 2012. It is illegal to copy this in any format other than those authorised by the author or publisher.

  All characters are born in the imagination of the author and apart from historical figures used as reference bear no resemblance to any person living or dead.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration used with the permission of its creator, Jane Odiwe. Jane Odiwe creates lovely Christmas cards. You can find out more at her website.

  Chapter One

  ‘Only two weeks to the Christmas Ball,’ Lydia Savage said and sighed as she looked at her sister and cousins. ‘I do love Christmas so and it seems an age in coming this year.’

  Jane Savage, at nineteen, older than Lydia by one year, smiled and nodded as she lay down the scissors she had been using to cut out silhouettes. Mary and Annabel were also nodding their agreement, because, of course, it had been a distressing year for them all.

  ‘It will not be the same this year,’ Lydia said, her eyes moist. ‘With Mama’s passing and us coming here to live…’ She blinked hard for though nine months had passed since that terrible day, they had all felt the cloud of unhappiness that hung over the Savage household. ‘Not that I don’t like living here at the Manor with you, Mary and you, Annabel. It is just that one thinks too much at this time of year…’

  ‘We know that it cannot be the same for you and Jane,’ Annabel said sympathetically. ‘We miss Aunt Isabel too, you know. She was almost a mother to us after Mama died.’ Lord Savage’s two daughters had been left motherless four years previously and so were in a position to understand their cousins’ grief. ‘But Papa has promised that the ball will be an end to our months of mourning. I do not say it will ease your grief, cousin, but you will at least be able to go into company.’

  ‘We are both grateful to Uncle Simeon,’ Jane said, because Lydia was still sighing over her work. ‘He was so good to Mama when we lost Papa all those years ago. Had he not brought us here to the dower house and given us a home, I do not know what would have become of us.’

  Jane and Lydia’s father had been addicted to gambling at Newmarket and other horse racing venues. He was in any case the younger son and his fortune had not been large, but he had run through it by the time he was seven and thirty, and most of Mama’s portion too. She had only eight hundred a year, which had been secured to her in her marriage contract, and the girls knew that they would have fared ill had their uncle not been so generous. With Mama’s passing they now had only one hundred pounds a year each, which was a trust put in place at their birth and nowhere near sufficient to allow them to continue in their normal way of life. Had their uncle not insisted that they come to the Manor the girls would have had to find employment, which neither of them had been fitted for.

  The girls had been reared as young ladies, with the purpose and intent of finding husbands of their own class, who would keep them in a manner befitting their birth. The only problem was that neither of them had a large dowry. Uncle Simeon had promised he would do something, but with two daughters and an expensive son, he could obviously not promise very much. They were pretty girls, fair-haired with blue eyes, though Lydia’s were more green than blue, and their uncle had assured them that husbands would be found for them in good time.

  Mary and Annabel were also very attractive girls, though of very different colouring; they had their father’s dark hair and brown eyes, though here again one sister had eyes more hazel in hue than brown.

  Sitting together, they made a pretty picture and got on well, despite the odd quarrel from time to time.

  ‘We must not give way to despondency,’ Mary said. Of a cheerful disposition, she was always the one to lift their spirits. ‘I think that we should use the time between now and the ball to find ways of helping others. If we set our mind to it we could make and deliver gifts to the elderly and poor in the village. It would give a purpose to our days – and nobody could object to our visiting people who need us.’

  Lydia looked up, her interest caught. ‘What a good idea, Mary. I was just thinking that I needed a project…this is so boring…’

  ‘I agree with Mary,’ Jane said at once. ‘In helping others less fortunate we shall feel better and the time will pass much quicker.’

  ‘But who shall we visit – and what can we give them?’ Annabel asked. ‘I suppose we could knit scarves and gloves for some of the elderly folk. I have a quantity of grey wool that Jane gave me, whichI could use for making garments of that kind.’

  ‘We could hem some linen to make handkerchiefs,’ Lydia said, because she was better at embroidering than knitting. ‘And, if we were nice to Cook, she might let us make some sweets or biscuits.’

  ‘I like making truffles and almond fingers,’ Jane said. ‘First of all we should make a list of the people we intend to give gifts to – and then perhaps we should ask Uncle Simeon if he would give us a few things to add to what we make.’

  ‘I am certain Papa would encourage us,’ Mary said and smiled. ‘We can make up a small box or a basket for each of the people on our list – and Papa might supply tobacco or a ham or some such thing.’

  ‘Let us begin the list at once,’ Lydia said. ‘We must put Nanny at the head of the list, of course, for she was good to all of us – but I suggest that Mr Jones should be the next.’

  The girls nodded. Mr Jones had been one of the head gardeners at the Manor and he had often given them juicy strawberries or raspberries as a treat when they visited him at work in the kitchen gardens. He was a pleasant, friendly man and they knew he had lost his wife two yeas previously. His son was away serving in the army and Lydia had visited him only the previous week, taking him a bag of boiled sweets she had purchased in the village shop. He was one of her favourite people and she was quite prepared to hem two handkerchiefs for him, and she was certain he would appreciate a warm scarf and some mittens if they could be managed.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mary said. ‘Mr Jones should definitely be on our list.’ She stood up and went over to the desk standing near the window and took a sheet of paper from the drawer. She dipped her pen in the ink and began to write. ‘Nanny and Mr Jones…now who should be next?’

  The next hour passed pleasantly for the girls as they tried to remember anyone they thought either in need or deserving of an act of kindness.

  By the end of that time they had fifteen names written down in Mary’s copperplate hand. It was a formidable task they set themselves for if everyone on the list was to have at least one gift they had made, they would be very busy.

  ‘Papa is delighted with us for our thought for others and he will provide tobacco for all the men on the list and a bar of scented soap for all the ladies – and each person shall have two shillings beside.’

  ‘How generous of him,’ Jane said. ‘We must make certain that each of our beneficiaries has some sweets and either a handkerchief or a scarf.’

  Lydia thought privately that she would make a kerchief and a scarf for Mr Jones, who was her favourite, though it was obvious that they could not do the same for everyone for the time was too short.

  Annabel and Jane were to be the cooks and make sweets and little almond cakes, but they could not be commenced until a few days before so in the meantime it was decided they should help with the knitting.

  ‘I fear we shall not have enough wool,’ Jane said. ‘I think we shall need several more hanks, which I shall purchase for I have some money left over from this month’
s allowance.’

  ‘I will put in two shillings,’ Lydia said. ‘I think we should buy a colour for the ladies, Jane. Your grey will do very well for the men, but I am sure Nanny might prefer blue or pink.’

  Jane was in agreement and the two sisters decided to walk down to the village and purchase what was need that very morning, for after all they had no time to waste. Nine scarves would take some knitting, as would six handkerchiefs take much hemming and embroidery.

  Lydia had said nothing of her intention to knit a scarf for Mr Jones as well as hemming a handkerchief for him, with his initials in the corner. She would purchase some wool for him, deciding that he should have a red scarf to make it different from the others.

  It was chilly as the two young ladies set out to walk to the village that morning, but they had wrapped up well in warm paisley shawls and thick gloves lined with wool. Their bonnets were smart, newly-trimmed this past winter and looking as fashionable as they could make them from their slender resources, for though their uncle was very generous neither would ask for a new bonnet if an old one could be refurbished.

  The sun had come out from behind the clouds and it was a pleasant morning despite the bitter wind. Talking of their purchases and feeling pleased with the world, neither took much notice of the horse and carriage coming up behind. Even when it passed them, they gave it only a passing glance before continuing their conversation. Both were surprised when it drew to a halt after passing them and the door opened. However, their attention was caught as the gentleman got down and approached them.

  ‘Good morning, young ladies,’ he said and doffed his hat, revealing a head of thick dark blond hair. ‘I wonder if I may ask – am I on the right road for Widdicombe Village?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jane replied. ‘We are walking there ourselves. If you continue down this road you will come upon it in a few minutes.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss…?’

  ‘Savage, Jane Savage,’ she said. ‘You are very welcome, sir.’

  ‘I am trying to find Mr Ernest Jones. I believe he has a cottage either in the village or near by?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, he does,’ Lydia said and dimpled at him. He was a very attractive man, his eyes as blue as a summer sky and her breath caught in her throat as he smiled at her. ‘However, you need to go beyond the village for about half a mile and there you will see four cottages together close by the church. They were built as almshouses and Mr Jones has one, because he was a warden at the church in his spare time – and has been a good and honest man all his life.’

  ‘Clearly you know him well,’ the gentleman said, hesitating before adding, ‘I suppose you would not allow me to take you up in my carriage to show me the way? Coachman seems to have been going round in circles all morning and it is important that I speak to Mr Jones as soon as possible.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Lydia asked, sensing the anxiety in the strange.

  ‘I have news for him and it is not the happiest…’

  Lydia frowned, recalling that Mr Jones’s son was serving in the army. ‘Has Harry been injured, sir?’

  ‘I cannot answer you, Miss…’

  ‘Savage. I am Jane’s sister Lydia. I do not ask you to break a confidence, sir.’ She glanced at Jane. ‘I shall go with this gentleman for I think he means me no harm. I will show you where Mr Jones lives, sir – and if I can be of further service…’

  ‘Just as far as the cottage and then coachman shall return you to the village. I am Captain Milliband of the Light Dragoons – and until recently Harry’s officer. I assure you I mean you no harm and would be very grateful for your help.’

  ‘I shall meet you at the haberdashers, Jane.’

  Jane looked anxious. ‘Do you think you should?’

  ‘Captain Milliband is an officer and a gentleman. I shall be quite safe – and you will hardly know I am gone.’

  ‘Your sister shall be returned to you soon, Miss Savage.’

  Captain Milliband bowed, offered his hand and assisted her into his carriage. It was a very smart carriage, obviously the property of a wealthy man, but it was not his wealth that attracted Lydia. He was as charming as he was attractive, speaking to her of the countryside and asking her what the hunting was like in the neighbourhood.

  ‘I believe it to be good, sir. My uncle is very fond of hunting, though my cousins and my sister do not care for it. I think I should enjoy the chase – but I am not sure I would care for the end result.’

  ‘One may always ride away before then if one wishes,’ he said. ‘There is nothing like riding hell for leather in the fresh air – and the hounds add excitement to the exercise. Besides, foxes need to be culled, Miss Savage.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps,’ Lydia said, still doubtful. ‘It is a gentleman’s sport – though some of my friends often join the hunt.’

  ‘I dare say you prefer dancing?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I love to dance – though we have not for some months, not since Mama…our mother died last winter, sir.’

  ‘I am very sorry for it. I lost my own mother when I was but a boy – and my father some six years ago.’

  ‘Then I am sorry for you, sir. It must have been hard to lose your mama when you were just a boy.’

  ‘It was,’ he agreed and a shadow passed across his face. ‘I think it was almost worse to lose my brother though…’ He shook his head. ‘We shall not speak of these things. Though I fear they lay heavy on my mind since the news I bear is not good for Mr Jones.’

  ‘I should be very sorry to know that his son had been killed.’

  ‘Forgive me, I must not say – he will tell you if he wishes.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Lydia said. ‘Look out of the window. You should see the cottages I spoke of just ahead.’

  He pulled the sash and the window slid down so that he could look out. ‘Ah yes, I see them. Thank you for accompanying me, Miss Lydia. It has helped me – in more ways than you may imagine.’

  The carriage was ordered to stop. Captain Milliband got down and the coachman was ordered to return to the village.

  ‘Thank you again, Miss Savage,’ Captain Milliband said. ‘I hope your sister is not too anxious or cross with you.’

  ‘She will not be cross and there is no reason to be anxious.’

  Lydia leaned forward to look out of the window as he walked towards the cottages. She had told him which one belonged to Mr Jones and, as he approached, the door opened and the elderly man came out.

  Lydia sat back. She did hope that Harry Jones was not dead. It would be bad enough if he were wounded – but if he had been killed…Suddenly, the treats she had planned for the old man paled into insignificance. It would not be a happy Christmas for Mr Jones if he had lost his son.

  The carriage stopped in the main street of the village and Lydia got down, walking swiftly towards the haberdashery shop. She would still buy that red wool for Mr Jones’s scarf and hope that the news was not as bad as she feared.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Mr Ernest Jones?’ Tomas Milliband asked, extending his hand. ‘You do not know me, but until recently I had the honour to be your son’s commanding officer. May I come in please? I should like to talk to you.’

  He saw the colour ebb from the elderly man’s face. Harry had told him that his father had married late, taking a young and lovely wife when he was well into his forties. Millicent had been a young woman of twenty, but in need of a home and someone to care for her. By all accounts it had been a happy arrangement against the odds, until her untimely death of the smallpox at the age of forty-one. Harry was his father’s only child – his only living relative.

  ‘My son…is he dead?’ Mr Jones asked, his hands shaking. ‘You would not have come all this way unless the news was bad…’

  ‘It is bad, sir, but not the worst,’ Tomas said, looking grave. ‘Harry was wounded saving another man’s life. He is recovering but…I am sorry, there is no way I can put this easily to you. He has lost a leg and will be given an honourabl
e discharge from the army.’

  ‘My poor boy!’ Mr Jones seemed to stagger a little. ‘The army was his life. Now he is crippled and will find it hard to do any kind of work…’

  ‘He will learn to walk in time, sir. I am paying for him to be nursed, and he will be fitted with a wooden leg when he can bear it. For the moment the pain would be too much to bear, but in a few months…and I shall find him work on my estate. Harry is intelligent. He can work in my agent’s office.’

  ‘He would not want charity, sir.’

  Tomas smiled. ‘I would not offer charity. When he is well enough to work he will be expected to pull his weight, which I have no doubt he will – but do not think of what I give as charity. Were it not for your son I should not now be standing here. I too was wounded, blown off my feet and knocked unconscious in the face of the advancing enemy. Harry carried me over his shoulder for more than a mile before he found a wagon to transport me back to camp. Had he left me behind I think I should probably had died, trampled beneath the horses and wheels of a retreating army.’

  ‘Thank you for coming to tell me, sir,’ Mr Jones said. ‘Where is my son lying now? In which infirmary have they placed him?’

  ‘He is not in an infirmary. I was sent home at the same time as Harry and arranged for him to come to my home, where we have both been nursed and looked after very well by my sister.’

  ‘Your sister has been nursing my son?’ Mr Jones was astonished. ‘Surely that is not fitting?’

  ‘Angela is a widow and nothing would do for her but to nurse the man who had saved her brother’s life,’ Tomas said, smiling. ‘Now, sir – will you allow me to take you to Harry? He is recovering but I feel that he would do better for seeing you – and I am sure you would wish to see him for yourself.’

  Tears rushed to the elderly man’s eyes. ‘You are too kind, sir. If you would wait but a moment I will gather what I need…’

  ‘You shall be brought home again, sir. I promise,’ Tomas said. Privately, he thought it might be a good idea for Mr Jones to live with his son in the cottage he intended to provide, but he knew the old man’s pride would not accept so much all at once. It was a matter that needed delicate handling.