The Yuletide Countess: Harriet's Traditional Regency Romance

by Alicia Quigley

  The Yuletide Countess

  Harriet's Traditional Regency Romance

  By Alicia Quigley

  Text copyright © 2014 Alicia Quigley

  All Rights Reserved

  Harriet’s story is dedicated to all those who hope for their own Christmas Happily Ever After. It’s never too late…

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 1

  Dearest Pippa,

  We set forth tomorrow on our annual journey to Scotland, and I take this opportunity to once more have Lord Wereham frank a letter for me before our departure. As you know, I always eagerly anticipate our annual sojourn in the northern heath, with the gorse, the heather, and the hills, as lovely backdrops to our summer. Such a winter and spring it has been! I vow the solitude of Isobel’s delightful cottage will be a welcome change, what with all the visitors we have had of late! Between both Lord Francis Wheaton and Lady Morgan descending on us at Kitswold this past spring, and then Lady Morgan’s company in London at the beginning of the Season, it seems as though I have scarcely had a moment to myself since last Christmas.

  Wagons laden with tools for Isobel’s everlasting digging, and the books she has not copies of in Scotland, as well as much of our baggage, have all gone on ahead of us, so we have only to take with us what we need for the few days on the road. We will travel in Isobel’s comfortable chaise, which is such a blessing, and her maid will travel with us as well, a much cherished convenience, although she, poor thing, must ride with her back to the horses all those weary miles.

  My great disappointment as we depart on our annual pilgrimage to Ballydendargan is that no engagement was forthcoming between Isobel and Lord Francis. I would wager a pretty penny that there is far more between them than meets the eye, although I cannot say exactly what that might be. I am almost certain he has made her an offer and been turned down, but there is something else about them that eludes my understanding. Perhaps the next two months will give me the time to winkle it out of her, though Isobel is notoriously close-mouthed about her personal doings.

  It grows late, dearest Pippa, and my candle is guttering, so I will close here. I will write to you this summer, but not so often as the past months. The post charges from Scotland are so heavy, and I will be without a frank to save you the pennies for postage. Give my best love to all of the family and most especially little Lizzie, whose little pink cheeks I love so.

  Affectionately, Harriet

  The northern summer sun was still high in the sky when an elegant post chaise, its shining black lacquer panels covered in mud and dust from a long journey, rattled down the short span of cobbles that was the main road of Ballydendargan village. Harriet Walcott peered out the window, delighted to see the familiar scene.

  “Here we are in dear Ballydendargan again!” she exclaimed. “How beautiful it looks in the summer sun. These long days are perfect for travel, and we are so fortunate to have arrived without the need for another night at an inn.”

  “That is one of the charms of these very long northern summer days,” her companion agreed. Miss Isobel Paley leaned forward and looked out the window, a smile curving her well-formed lips. “It looks much as it did last year. How good it is to be back.”

  “Oh yes,” Harriet agreed fervently. “I look forward with enthusiasm each year to our time at Dargenwater Cottage. Scotland has such a place in my heart that I wonder if some long forgotten ancestor hailed from these Hibernian hills.”

  “You are never more poetic than when you speak of Scotland,” Isobel laughed. “How fortunate I am to have a companion who loves it as much as I do, although for very different reasons.”

  “I will never understand your fondness for those diggings and the little bits of stone and metal you find, but I am glad for my sake that you pursue your studies in a place so beautiful and welcoming,” Harriet responded.

  Isobel turned away from the window and sat back against the cushioned seat with a sigh. “Now for the longest part of the trip,” she said. “These last two miles to the cottage seem endless, just when one wishes most heartily to be out of the carriage, and enjoying a cup of tea.”

  Harriet had no response, and the two ladies fell silent as the horses plodded through the village and down the valley to Dargenwater Cottage. As they pulled up to the entrance to Isobel’s summer home, the rays of the evening sun were gilding the front of it, and the pretty cottage ornée looked its most welcoming. Summer blooms tumbled over one another in the beds before the house, and a miniature lawn welcomed them in front of the graveled drive. Such a small house, used only a few months of the year, had a similarly sized staff, and only two manservants, three maids, and a cook appeared to welcome them. The steps were let down, and Harriet and Isobel emerged, a trifle travel-stained, but very happy to be at their destination.

  “Oh, it is too lovely,” breathed Harriet. “Each year I am surprised by how beautiful it is here at Dargenwater Cottage! I always tell myself that I will remember, but somehow I always find myself delighted again!”

  Isobel threaded an arm through hers, and squeezed it affectionately. “It is lovely,” she agreed. “And I can hardly wait to begin my excavations. I wrote ahead to make sure that laborers were employed, so that I might begin immediately.”

  Harriet chuckled and shook her head. “All I can think of is the beauties of Scotland and enjoying the summer breezes and long days, and you do nothing but worry about your antiquities! We are an odd pairing indeed!”

  “But a happy one,” said Isobel. The two women entered the small but charmingly appointed hall of the cottage, while the servants bustled about, fetching the luggage from the carriage. Isobel took off her dashing hat and laid it in on a table.

  “See that tea is brought to the drawing room,” she said to the hovering footman. “And tell Mrs. McGreavey that we will want dinner later. It need not be anything fancy, as she did not know the exact date of our arrival. And make sure that the workmen are notified to be at the excavation tomorrow.”

  The servant bowed, and Isobel and Harriet entered the drawing room, where Harriet sank down into a comfortable chair with a sigh. “How lucky I am, Isobel,” she said. “Truly, I cannot think of anything else in the world that I might need to make me happy.”

  Isobel laughed and sat down across from her. “Not even a cup of tea?” she teased.

  “Well, perhaps that,” said Harriet. “I am very thirsty, I must admit. Not that I should complain; the dryness of the roads has made our journey much easier. Only think if it had rained! We might have been several more days on the road!”

  “You shall have your tea shortly, and then you will need nothing more to be happy,” said Isobel. “And I will be very happy as well, for I will have not only tea, but the prospect of some months of work ahead. London during the Season is lovely, but I sometimes begin to wonder if anyone there thinks of aught but ball gowns and car
riages!”

  Harriet gave her a sidelong glance. “Surely not everyone in London is so lacking in intellect as you seem to think, though I vow that many of the young women presented this Season appeared to want for common sense. What of Lord Francis Wheaton? It seems to me that the two of you had some lovely conversations about literature and Greek art.”

  Under Harriet’s interested gaze, Isobel turned a bright pink. “Lord Francis is all very well,” she said hastily. “He can speak intelligently about some things if he has a mind to, but I fear he is far more interested in—in frivolity,” she said sternly.

  “Do you think so?” asked Harriet. “I had rather thought he was a gentleman with a serious turn of mind, who yet managed to see the ridiculousness that is so often thrust upon us. But you, of course, know him far better than I do, my dear. I must concede to your superior knowledge of Lord Francis.”

  “It is not that I dislike him, of course,” said Isobel airily.

  “Oh, of course not,” said Harriet. “I once thought that Lord Francis took a very particular interest in you, but perhaps it is just as well that he did not make you an offer. It seems that you are determined the two of you will not suit, and it may be true that Lord Francis has need of a woman who would take his interests more to heart.”

  “Are you saying that you think I would make Lord Francis a poor wife?” asked Isobel, peeved despite herself.

  “Oh, not at all, my dear, you would make any man a wonderful wife if you so chose,” said Harriet hastily. “You know how very much I admire you, my dear. It is only that you are so firm that you will not wed, and, while Lord Francis seemed to take to you very particularly, I’m far too fond of the young man to wish upon him an unwilling bride! I do think highly enough of Lord Francis to wish him an enthusiastic and loving helpmate! Do you not agree?”

  “Of course I agree,” said Isobel, a touch shortly. “He will no doubt find himself an acceptable bride sometime soon. You seem uncommonly interested in Lord Francis this evening, Cousin.”

  “Do I? I suppose it is because we spoke of being happy. That is my one regret, you know, that I never married. Oh, do not feel sorry for me, child,” she said, as Isobel made a sympathetic face. “I do not sit about mourning something that could not be, and I am very pleased with your company and our amusements. But if I were some years younger—well, I suppose I might well set my cap at Lord Francis myself. He is very handsome, and so charming—and even you, Isobel, cannot deny that!”

  “I do not deny it,” began Isobel with a touch of temper, annoyed to find herself so put out by their conversation. She looked around as the door opened and a maid entered with the tea tray. “And here is the tea!’ she announced gratefully.

  Harriet smiled slyly as Isobel busied herself with the teacups and the two women soon fell to planning the next day’s activities.

  Chapter 2.

  The next day was bright and sunny, and, as Isobel had already disappeared, intent on beginning her excavations as soon as possible, Harriet decided that a brief walk down to the Dargenwater would be a pleasant way to spend the morning. She would take her sketchbook, and enjoy the music of the rushing stream while recording the beauties of the countryside. She added her small box of watercolors and a few brushes to the satchel along with the sketchbook, and with the between stairs maid carrying her bag, as well as the hasty addition of an easel, a blanket, and a folding chair, she set off. The morning was every bit as lovely as it appeared from inside the house as they walked along the path that led to neighboring Glencairn Castle.

  Part of the way to Glencairn, another, smaller trail led down a gentle slope to the stream, its broad banks covered in grass. The water chuckled over the rocks in the stream bed, the sunlight glinted off its surface, and innumerable blue harebells dotted the grass, their heads bobbing in the breeze. Harriet sighed happily.

  “Nan, I will set up the easel. Do open the chair and spread the blanket,” she said.

  “Aye, Miss,” the maid replied, moving quickly to obey the order.

  Harriet struggled a bit with the easel, but soon it was upright, the chair placed next to it. She surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. “Spread the blanket for yourself, Nan,” she added. “I don’t wish to be here alone, so you will stay with me.”

  The maid spread the blanket with alacrity and sat down, promptly dozing off. Harriet gave her sympathetic glance, knowing that rest of any kind was limited for tweenies, let alone the luxury of a late morning nap. Harriet sketched contentedly for some time, intent on capturing the idyllic scene before her. She had just finished filling her jar with water, opening her watercolors, and putting the first color to her paper, when young voices filtered through the music of the brook. She looked up, startled by the sudden noise amidst the whispering breeze, the gurgle of the water, and birdsong.

  Two children, a girl and boy, and a lady of the same indeterminate age as Harriet emerged from the trees on the path to the river and walked into the sunlight. Harriet realized instantly that these could only be the progeny of Lord Glencairn and their governess. The two children, seeing the easel from a distance, were unable to resist the temptation of seeing the painting and broke into a run, leaving their governess behind, following at a more sedate pace. As they approached her, Harriet rose from her chair and smiled.

  “What are you painting?” the girl asked.

  “This lovely view of the stream and the woods,” said Harriet. “I am enchanted by the scenery hereabouts.”

  The girl eyed the sketch critically. “I have begun taking watercolor lessons,” she said. “I find it rather dull.”

  “I remember when I was first taught watercolors; I found it dreadfully dull as well, perhaps because it was yet another lesson,” said Harriet cheerfully. “But now, because no one is forcing me to do it, I enjoy it a great deal. It allows me to capture beautiful days like this one, and it is a wonderful excuse to be out of doors, rather than inside, tending to household duties.”

  The girl had been joined by her younger brother, who chuckled. “I must say, she seems to be a good deal better at this than you are, Sophy,” he said.

  “She has probably had a great deal less practice,” observed Harriet. “I’m sure she will paint delightfully soon.”

  The children watched as Harriet dipped her brush in the paint and began to add color to a rock sketched on her canvas. Just as she added the first wash of paint, the governess walked up to the little group.

  “Douglas, Sophy, you should not be imposing on a lady with whom you are not acquainted,” she chided them.

  Harriet turned toward her with a smile. “I love children,” she declared. “I’m delighted to have the chance to make their, and your, acquaintance.” She held her hand out to the governess. “I am Miss Harriet Walcott. I live in Dargenwater Cottage during the summers with Miss Isobel Paley.”

  “Miss Catherine Dalburn, governess to Lord Glencairn’s children,” said the woman in a cultured voice. “This is Douglas Learmouth, Viscount Kincraig, and Lady Sophia Learmouth.”

  An exchange of sympathetic glances passed between the two women, an acknowledgement and understanding of their mutual genteel poverty, and the need to seek employment suited to a gentlewoman of limited means. Miss Dalburn was taller than Harriet, and lean where Harriet was rounded, but friendly brown eyes gazed down to her blue ones, and Harriet immediately felt pleasure in meeting another woman in the vicinity of Dargenwater Cottage with whom she might occasionally enjoy a comfortable coze.

  “Won’t you and the children join me for a few minutes?” Harriet asked politely. “I’d be very happy to let them attempt a dabble with the water colors.”

  “Won’t you wish to finish it yourself, after the effort you have put into the sketch?”

  “Not at all. I’m a mere amateur, and came out this morning more to enjoy the sunshine and birdsong than with the aim of producing a watercolor. ‘Tis primarily an excuse,” Harriet replied. She handed the brush to Douglas. “Here dip it in the wa
ter, then the color, and see what happens.”

  “Yes, do show us how much better you are at watercolors than I am,” teased his sister.

  The boy carefully followed Harriet’s instructions and succeeded in applying a wash to the paper, but appeared to be in imminent danger of painting his shirt as well. She gently grasped his straying forearm saying, “Be careful of your clothes, Douglas. Miss Dalburn won’t wish to bring you home quite dirty.”

  “As to that, Miss Walcott, Lord Glencairn is more likely to worry if the children return looking too neat. He is a great one for seeing the children outdoors and active.”

  “And does Lady Glencairn agree with him?”

  “Lady Glencairn died ten years ago, God rest her kind soul. She is very much missed.”

  “How sad for the children and his lordship both. It’s difficult for children to be so long without a mother’s care.”

  “The earl feels the loss of her very much. She was much younger than he, and quite lovely. He was very fond of her. Douglas does not remember his mama, and so has grown used to her loss. It is harder for Sophia, as her memories of Lady Glencairn were more formed.”

  During their conversation, the maid had woken from her sleep, and somewhat sheepishly roused herself, and now stood behind the little party. Harriet beckoned to her.

  “Nan, please walk with Lord Kincraig and Lady Sophia along the stream while Miss Dalburn and I become better acquainted,” she requested.

  Nan’s morning away from her usual duties was proving longer and more entertaining than she had expected, so she complied readily. Catherine and Harriet watched the trio walk toward the stream, the children already cheerfully squabbling with each other about their relative talents as painters. Harriet smiled.

  “What beautiful children,” she said. “How long have you been employed in Lord Glencairn’s household?”

  “I came two years after Lady Glencairn’s death. Sophia was old enough to start real lessons, and though Douglas still required a nursemaid for a year, it was decided that with the loss of his mother, it was better for him to spend more time with his sister and a genteel woman at an earlier age.”