A Christmas Bride

by Viveka Portman

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said stoically. ‘Thank you.’

  Mr Sneddon’s face crumpled into a smile wreathed in wrinkles. ‘Excellent, we couldn’t have you attending alone, of course.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Ellen replied, when honestly she hadn’t planned on attending at all. ‘You really are too kind.’

  ‘Well, Miss Smith, goodnight,’ he said and shuffled to the front door and latched it securely as Ellen fled upstairs.

  When she reached the first landing, she was near tears.

  Spending Christmas with the Sneddons! What a terrible thing! Even though her mother had been impoverished by her father’s death, at least she’d been exemplary company. Her mother had been a lively, bright spark, until consumption had leached the spirit and life from her. Her mother had been so unlike the Sneddons, who although meant well, were as dry and dusty as the rugs they beat, and the mantels they polished.

  Ellen bit her lip, cursing her uncharitable assessment of the elderly couple who had shown her nothing but kindness. She sniffed and walked into the dark dormitory to ascertain to whom the left clothing belonged.

  It was cold up there, the fireplace burnt out and empty. If she hadn’t known better, she could have thought the room had been abandoned months, not mere hours before. The thought depressed her.

  The oil lamp sent a warm halo of light around the room, making shadows dance and disappear as she moved forward towards the row of wardrobes to assess the forgotten clothing.

  Her fingers grasped the icy brass knob of the first wardrobe, and she pulled the door open. It gave a loud protesting squeak, but was empty.

  The second revealed more of the same. Finally, she came to the third wardrobe and pulled it open. Inside there was a beautiful gown, one that most likely should have been taken home with great care, rather than folded in luggage. Perhaps that was why it had been left to hang, and then overlooked in the rush to depart.

  Even in the dim light Ellen could see that the gown was deep brown, striped with gorgeous gold thread. It was Miss Pickering’s gown, she recalled; the young lady had worn it out on an evening excursion to the orchestra a few months before. She had admired it then, and admired it more now. The young lady would certainly be missing this dress if she didn’t send it home on the morrow. Ellen’s fingers lingered over the long gold threads. Miss Pickering was about her height, and well developed for girl of ten and five.

  Ellen bit her lip guiltily as she assessed it for size. She knew the gown would fit her just as well as the young Miss Pickering, or perhaps even better.

  It was a terrible shame she could never afford a gown so fine. Indeed, her best gown was positively dowdy by comparison, yet had cost her months and months of wages to save for.

  And even if I had a gown such as this, where would I wear it?

  Nowhere, that was where.

  She had no chaperone and no great means to be invited to the occasions that might warrant such a dress.

  Yet she couldn’t force her fingers to quite let go of the fine material, or ease the mounting beat of her heart at the notion of trying it on.

  The thought was fanciful, ridiculous. What if she were discovered doing such a thing? The humiliation would be devastating.

  Although ... it was unlikely that she would be discovered. Mr Sneddon and Mrs Sneddon had a cottage at the rear of the schoolyard, and were unlikely to return to the schoolhouse once Mr Sneddon had locked up.

  Her heart beat a little faster. The wicked opportunity to try it on was so tantalisingly close it was maddening.

  What harm would it do?

  She could simply try it on, then take it off again.

  After all, she may never have another opportunity to try on a gown such as this. Tomorrow she’d have to ask Mr Sneddon to send it back to Miss Pickering.

  She bit her lip and her breath quickened with excitement.

  No one would ever be the wiser, and what harm would it do?

  Quickly she closed the door to the dormitory, and placed the lamp on the bedside table, then hurried back to the wardrobe. Without allowing her conscience to put in another complaint, Ellen pulled the dress from the wardrobe and draped it over the bed nearby. It looked even finer out of the wardrobe, the gold glittered brighter in the lamplight and her skin prickled in anticipation of feeling the smooth cloth slip over it.

  With fingers that trembled slightly, she unclasped the front clasps of her own gown. She’d long dispensed with gowns that required a maid to lace or button at the rear. There was no room in the life of a schoolmistress for maids.

  She had noticed buttons on the front of the beautiful gown immediately; small, pearl and gold, they were a stunning feature to the bodice.

  Her own prudishly high-necked schoolmistress’s gown slipped from her shoulders and she pulled it from her arms. The cold dormitory air licked around her body as the rest of the gown fell to the floor and she stepped from it. Now, dressed only in her chemise, the cold truly began to sink into her bones, soaking through the thin muslin despite the snug fit of her quilted stays. Gooseflesh erupted over her suddenly exposed arms and Ellen moved swiftly to lift the beautiful gown over her head and slip it on. It was not as easy as she had hoped. Despite its front-facing buttons, this gown was indeed made for someone with a maid to assist in dressing. Still, after a momentary struggle, Ellen pulled her way through the layers of gown and slipped her arms through, finally emerging and pulling the gown down straight. The scent of the Miss Pickering’s perfume still lingered on the fabric as Ellen deftly re-buttoned the gown. As she looked down she admired, just briefly, the full swell of her blue-veined breasts as they rose and fell over the gold fringing of the bodice. Her body clenched unexpectedly at the sight of them. She had always known her figure was a fairly fine one, and secretly lamented the fact it would never be explored by a husband.

  Really! She cursed herself, you do think the most vulgar things.

  Slowly, Ellen lifted her head and looked across the room at her reflection in the mirror. The mob-cap, an enormous white thing that Miss Brampton insisted all female staff wore, clashed with the deep brown and golds of the gown. With more than a little pleasure, Ellen pulled it from her head, allowing her hair to cascade free in a riot of golden curls.

  For a long few moments, Ellen stared at her reflection, finding herself almost unrecognisable, even to herself. Her body was embraced by the magnificent gown, its palette of colours complementing her creamy complexion, whilst her hair, always hidden by the muslin and lace of her cap, shone free in the flickering lamplight.

  It was vanity, to be sure, to admire herself so. Still, God may strike her down there, and at least she’d make a pretty corpse.

  Ellen did a little twirl in front of the looking glass to see just how fine she appeared.

  The figure in the mirror moved with grace and a style she hadn’t quite known she’d possessed. What a pity it was to be locked in here, unable to shine, even if just for one night.

  Circumstance had made sure that Ellen had always been neatly, if not well dressed. Her mother could not afford fine gowns; instead Ellen had always been supplied with sturdy clothes that would last and keep her warm. Her uniform at Miss Brampton’s was no different. Well-made and comfortable, her school dress was the image of practicality. Quite the opposite of this one. The magnificent autumnal gown was made to draw the eye and make the wearer feel like a princess. Designed for the cooler autumn weather, the sleeves were long, and the rich fabric heavy. Ellen sighed, wishing she could, just once, wear such a fancy gown out and perhaps capture the eye of a smart gentleman, who would fall desperately in love with her, marry her, and whisk her away to live in his large estate in the country.

  Such dreams were silly. She was an impoverished schoolteacher, hardly a desirable catch.

  Still. A lady could dream.

  What would it feel like to be seen in such a fine dress?

  What excitement would rush through her veins when she caught the admiring flash o
f a gentleman’s eye?

  She laughed softly to herself and swayed once more in the mirror.

  It would be a very nice Christmas gift indeed, to be looked at with admiration rather than pity.

  Slowly Ellen’s gaze drifted to the window and its thickly drawn curtains.

  She could just take a very quick turn about the street, couldn’t she?

  What harm would it do?

  It was not so late that it would be dangerous, not near the school at least. She could hear carriages rattling by and the chatter of people going about their business before the lamps were extinguished. She knew for certain that the teashop next to the pub would still be open, catering to those returning from the opera or theatre.

  She bit her lip; was it silly to want to go out, dressed finely and pretend, for just one moment, she was someone other than Miss Smith, schoolmistress at Miss Brampton’s?

  She knew the answer, yet it didn’t stop her from grabbing her reticule and a few coins from her room and slipping back down the stairs to unlock the front door.

  Chapter 3

  Mrs Mathers, the housekeeper, had taken Penny upstairs to bed, and Robert reclined in the sitting room of his luxurious St James Street terraced home. He sipped his whisky thoughtfully, then placed it down, rose and walked to the fire. He stood before it and stretched his hands out, feeling the warmth lick at his palms as the orange and gold flames danced and jumped.

  He was bored.

  So bored.

  Penny’s return had been a delight, but she’d fallen asleep halfway through supper, and it wasn’t right to keep the poor child awake simply for his own entertainment.

  The mantel clock tick-tocked with tedious monotony.

  It was not yet late, and it was too early to retire for the evening.

  Robert supposed he could take the hack to Mr Thomas Porter’s home and have a game of cards. Thomas was wild for cards. Yet the thought of listening the gentleman’s long vulgar litany of recent sensual conquests didn’t inspire him.

  Especially since he had not had any conquests, sensual or other, since Mildred had died.

  Guilt swooped in his belly. Mildred.

  How often he thought ill of his departed wife.

  Truthfully, she’d been a good wife. Good in that she’d lay with him when he wished, bore him a healthy child and had kept a good home. She did not deserve his scorn, yet her death had left him desperately yearning for something more than the stale, dull drudgery that he had known to be marriage.

  He knew he needed to marry again, to mother Penelope, to beget an heir for his household, and to ease his own sensual frustration, but he could not, would not, lock himself into a purgatory of boredom again.

  He walked to the window and stared out at the streets. There were a number of gentlemen’s clubs on the street, and most were opening for their night of business. He felt the familiar frustrated burn of lust stir in his breeches. It would be so very easy to go there and slake his need on a willing courtesan or whore.

  He shook his head and reached over for his whisky and sipped it again.

  No, he was a man of morals and integrity. He would not pay for sensual favours. Perhaps a walk would clear his head.

  Yes. That would do nicely.

  Without any further deliberation, Robert rang the bell. Mr Potts, the butler, arrived moments later.

  ‘I am going for walk,’ he declared. ‘I need to stretch my legs and get some fresh air.’ The butler looked sceptical, but nodded.

  ‘Shall I get your coat and hat, sir?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Robert said.

  A few moments later, Robert found himself briskly walking the streets of London. It was busy, there were street sellers still abounding and music poured from the doors of public houses and gentlemen’s clubs, making him feel more alive than he had in years.

  Over an hour passed as Robert meandered through London, taking in the sights and sounds, finding himself drawn deeper in the city. He was about to turn around when he recognised Miss Brampton’s School for Ladies. Lost deep in maudlin musing, he’d walked nearly four miles. He rubbed his chin and glanced up at the dark windows of the school. All the students would have returned home, and the staff would be abed no doubt. He mused, his mind drifting to the sweet-faced Miss Smith, before dismissing it curtly.

  Clever but passionless, he reminded himself.

  It was foolish for him to have walked this far, the evening was getting late and no doubt the lamps would be out soon. He glanced about, considering hailing a hack. Many people still strolled the streets, and the night, though cloudy, was still clear. He inhaled, smelling pipe smoke on the cold air, and decided to walk home instead.

  Robert slowly walked down the street. He walked past a teashop; a few patrons still sat in the warm glow of the store, sipping tea and eating cake. The sight made him realise he was quite parched from his exertions. Beside the teashop was a public house, cheerful fiddling music beckoning him in from the cold. A nice ale would set him up nicely for the long walk home, he reasoned, and the brew would likely help him sleep when he finally did retire for the evening.

  Robert stepped up into the pub, and he was met by ribald laughter and much chatter. He gazed around the room; it was very dimly lit indeed. Only a few oil lamps lit the bar, but in the corner he could see the musicians playing for a rapt audience and a small group of dancers.

  Robert walked to the bar and greeted the bartender. The barman was grizzled, with wild bushy eyebrows that collapsed at Robert’s appearance.

  ‘Your finest ale,’ Robert said over the music.

  The barman nodded and poured a tankard of rich amber fluid.

  ‘Your musicians are doing a fine job,’ Robert commented and handed over a few coin.

  ‘Aye,’ the barman agreed, ‘it’s not every night we get ’em in, but tonight we’ve even got people dancin’,’ he said. ‘Good to see them young folk dancin’.’

  Robert wasn’t entirely sure how one would dance to the fast-paced fiddling, but he took his tankard and began to walk towards the dim corner where musicians and dancers were surrounded by crowded tables. It was then he saw a vision.

  Golden hair flashed in the lamplight as a young woman spun wildly in time to the music, causing hoots and cheers from the onlookers. Robert smiled at the sight and sank down on the nearest stool and watched. The woman was clad in a fine gown, clearly a lady of some means. Her dress hugged the curves of a perfectly formed body. Robert sipped his drink, but found his throat thick when the young woman lifted the hems of her dress and began a complicated series of folk steps in time to the music.

  Robert felt his groin swell at the sight of fine and narrow ankles. It was a rare pleasure to see a woman enjoy herself so honestly. He looked about to see who was chaperoning the woman, but any number of the women or gentlemen watching could hold the position.

  He watched entranced as she danced on, swaying, tapping and moving to the fast-paced rhythm with absolute abandon.

  Finally, the reel ended and the young woman took a sweet curtsey. Robert found himself cheering her efforts and clapping with other patrons.

  The woman took a second curtsey and moved towards a table. Robert glanced at the other onlookers, noting he wasn’t the only one watching her so intently. Several of the other gentlemen’s eyes followed her with avid attention.

  She began to move through the crowd. Her features were shadowed by the poor lighting but Robert was under no illusion she was very pretty indeed.

  A young man, dressed in worn but well-kept attire, rushed forth and took her hand and led her to a table. The young lady sank down and mopped her forehead with the back of her hand as she accepted an offer of a tankard of ale.

  A surge of concern, and perhaps a little jealousy, swelled in Robert’s chest. His waistcoat grew tight. What kind of chaperone would condone a lady drinking ale? Certainly none of his acquaintance. He looked around the congregation, trying to decipher to whom the young lady belonged. No one appeared overly
concerned for her welfare and the irritating sense of concern swelled again. Perhaps this was quite the usual circumstance on Hackney Road? He was, after all, far from his side of London.

  ***

  Ellen’s head was spinning, she knew she ought not partake in any more ale. Yet what a treat this was! The music, the gentleman and the dancing, she’d never thought life could be so much fun. The young man offered her his hand, but she shook her head and patted her forehead again to dab at the perspiration that glowed there.

  ‘Where are you from, miss?’ The young man asked. ‘I ain’t seen you abouts afore.’

  Ellen was about to answer something particularly witty when she looked up and caught a handsome pair of eyes at a distant table.

  The man, heavily disguised by the dim lamps, was watching her with a hungry, hooded stare.

  Her body thrummed. This night was a night of firsts. Until now, she had never received such appreciative and suggestive glances and though her mind didn’t quite know how to comprehend them, her body seemed to respond in the most primal and thrilling way.

  She bit her lip, unable to tear her gaze from the gentleman at the distant table. There was something familiar about the hooded eyes and the angle of jaw, but she couldn’t quite place it. Lost in thought, Ellen couldn’t hear the continued conversation of the young man and her ale remained untouched. Under the gentleman’s continued gaze, moisture filled her mouth and down below her waist; her secret most feminine flesh seemed to heat and melt.

  Goodness!

  Even when she lifted her eyes boldly to meet him, the gentleman did not defer his gaze. Instead, he lifted his own tankard and raised it to her. The liquid glinted as he tilted it, sloshing a little over his long fingers. A dark signature ring glistened in the lamplight.

  The man’s lips curled into a smile and, he brought the tankard to his lips and gulped long and hard.

  Her stomach leapt into her throat. The man was familiar—it was Mr Carring!

  Heat and fear rushed through Ellen’s body all at once.