Whitney Park was a sprawling manor house, looking more like a Palace than a stately country home, and it was a shining example of the 18th century Baroque Architecture. Many in the area wondered if the new duke would ever reopen the grand house and take up residence here rather than constantly remaining in London, as his mother preferred.
She walked past the pretty holly trees, bordering the Estate, and passed the hedge maze and Gardens. Slowly, she made her way toward the Greek Temple folly. The river was a short distance away, and in the summer the beauty of the place quite literally stole her breath.
In the winter, it lost some of its shine but still remained quite glorious. Equipped with a stone bench she’d spent many hours there reading and daydreaming, thinking of better times—happier times.
She sank down upon the stone bench and looked wearily toward Whitney Park. She closed her eyes and imagined the grand ballroom as it must have been during her mother’s youth. She’d told Caroline that she’d danced with many suitors before finding her father.
Once he swept her out onto the dance floor she told her that her mind was made up. Her parents had frowned on her desire to marry someone with no fortune and no title to inherit, as her mother had been the daughter of an earl whose fortunes were also a windmill dwindled to a nutshell, and so therefore hoped for more for their eldest daughter.
If only her father could afford to send her to London to attend the balls where so many other young ladies found their future husbands. She’d never officially been on the marriage mart as she hadn’t been to any real social engagements and so her prospects were quite dim.
Of course, she’d attended a few soirees in the Buckland Assembly Rooms but they were a far cry from the majestic ballrooms of London. She knew her Aunt Georgia had begged her father to allow her the privilege of paying for Caroline’s coming out in London and had even told him that she would make the trip from Boston to be her chaperone and would incur any of the cost needed for such a Season, as she had married a man with extremely impressive coffers. Unfortunately, he’d denied her aunt’s help to Caroline’s detriment.
His pride had gotten in the way—she knew it, and he knew it. Her aunt had not made it for Margaret’s funeral as she’d been heavily pregnant with her sixth son at the time. Nothing stopped her from making the sea voyage now, and Caroline often wondered if her aunt would summon up enough energy to do so.
Secretly, she wished she would. If she did, Caroline could finally escape the clutches of Gertrude for she would dare not intervene with Lady Georgia coming to whisk Caroline away. Besides, she’d be in awe of the wealth that Georgia commanded as her husband was as rich as a King, commanding a vast shipping fleet.
Reaching for her book, she cracked it open. The words blurred in front of her as tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t bear going through another Christmastide without her dear sweet gently natured Mama.
There would be no festive merriment in the house. Gertrude even frowned on bringing in the greenery to decorate the house, and burning the Christmas Candle. She frowned on anything that would bring Caroline joy.
Gertrude had scared those that came Wassailing away last year, and she doubted they would get a visit from them this year. She was a literal dragon lady.
Oh how her mother had delighted in hearing them sing, and she would always invite them inside to warm up by the fire while she treated them with cider and Christmas pudding.
The mummers would also not make an appearance because her step-mother had called them useless beggars last year and told them she would not have them cross her doorstep for fear of the disease they carried. Nor would she give them any kind of charitable handout. They could go to the poorhouse for all that she cared, she’d told them rather maliciously.
The Christmas Feasts hadn’t been the same. The Roast Beef, Christmas Goose and platters of potatoes, squash, carrots and Brussels sprouts, no longer tasted the same. She didn’t know if it was the lack of their old cook that made it taste so horrid or if it was because there was no joy in Christmas for her anymore. Still, thinking of how the food used to be, made her mouth water.
Their old cook, Mrs. Laurens had been a wizard in the kitchen. The luscious mince pies, trifle, freshly baked gingerbread and butter shortbread. All of it had combined to become the scents of Christmas and even now if she smelled any of those foods, her mind instantly went back to Christmases of years gone by.
As a child, her particular favourite treats had been sugar plums and ginger nuts. The best part about the holiday feasts? Having her family with her. They would all sit down as a family and revel in the love they all shared.
The Christmas Pantomime would be no more as well. Oh, how Fanny and she had delighted in doing their own performances, and they had included their brothers and sisters in on the deal. Her father had only been able to afford to take them to one theatrical production of a Christmas Pantomime in Cheltenham when she’d been a young child. She barely recalled it but she could still remember her mother’s infectiously gay laughter echoing throughout the theater.
Knowing that their father could not afford to entertain them that way every Christmastide, she, her brothers, Fanny and her two sisters and two brothers had decided to produce their own production. While Fanny played dramatically at the pianoforte, she, Christopher, Arthur, Jean and Joan had dressed up and performed various fairy tales and other stories that they themselves had written.
Fanny’s little brothers Rodney and Randall had also played in the production even though they’d been much younger than the rest of them.
She could still hear her mother roaring with laughter when Arthur and Christopher had appeared for the first time on their makeshift stage wearing their mother’s old dresses, and hats. They’d gone so far as to paint their faces to see how long and loud their father and mother could laugh.
Even Fanny’s mother had been amused, and had proudly declared that her Fanny was a most talented musician.
Afterwards, they would make up the Snapdragon, in her mother’s famed Christmas Bowl, and when the brandy was lit and the room darkened, they would all reach quickly into the bowl to see if they could emerge victorious with their treasure—a hot raisin!
She lost herself in her memories and wished that she could return to those simpler times when everyone in her family was gloriously happy.
Wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, she reached for her spectacles. She always forgot to put on the infernal things when she had to read. Settling them on her nose, she returned her attention to the glorious pages of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, a play that she read every single year at this time—fortunately they owned two copies, allowing her to share the experience with Mrs. Finch this year.
She lost herself in his lively prose, and smiled contently as her memories warmed her heart. Feeling the presence of her brothers and mother, she shivered against the cool air and decided that she would stay out past the sun setting if she so pleased. She had no desire to return home—none whatsoever. She felt so peaceful here at Whitney Park, so comforted.
In fact, if a man happened into her life that wanted to marry her, she would gladly accept, as anything had to be better than living with Gertrude.
The odds of that happening were about as likely as Gertrude deciding that they would celebrate the Yule Season the way that her mother had always done.
And as Gertrude hated any mention of Lady Margaret and how she would run the house at Christmastide, that was highly unlikely.
Chapter Two
Edward Henry Rochester, the 4th Duke of Whitney looked out at the vast lands of the ancestral seat of The Rochester’s. They’d been landlords over this area stretching back to the Doomsday Book.
Servants scurried around him as they prepared to reopen the House. His mother had had a fit of the nerves and had adamantly refused to return to the Country so close to the beginning of the Season, a time during which she could not be absent.
She insisted that London simply wouldn’t survive
without her during that period. There were many young ladies to launch onto the Marriage Mart during her balls that no other Lady could possibly compete with, and while she hosted personal balls—of which her masquerades were notorious at Whitney House in London, she was also a Patroness of Almacks.
This was why he had to return to Whitney Park. He couldn’t abide the brainless twit like women who were clamoring to marry him. They were fortune hunters of the worst sort, as he was a rare breed among the haut ton these days, he had title and fortune.
The latest simpering young girl was the daughter of a bosom chum of his mother’s. His mother insisted he marry Lady Myrtle so they could unite their families. He’d rather fight Napoleon again.
He needed some fresh air. Walking out of the house, he made his way toward the Gardens, dragging in lungful’s of the crisp cold air. It had been his father’s favourite spot and he knew why. It boasted one of the best views of the grand house and was also close to the river.
Hugh Rochester loved going and sitting by the river in the Folly his father had built.
As he neared the folly, a woman with vibrant red hair caught his attention. She wore an emerald green cloak and ringlets of hair peeked out from the green hood which she wore over her head. Sitting on the stone bench under the enclosure of the Folly, she looked like a Christmas Nymph.
He stopped, suddenly mesmerized. With his hands crossed behind his back, he simply admired the beguiling sight. It warmed the cockles of his heart and made him feel something quite foreign for him. It was a breathtaking sight, he would gladly get his brushes and paint out for. What a charming portrait it would make. He was quite smitten.
He didn’t recognize her and wondered why she was sitting there out in the crisp cold. It was far too chilly for a woman of her delicate build.
Still, she had to have an independent personality to have the gall to wander onto his Estate and sit there like she owned everything in sight. He wanted to stand and stare at her forever. She had the kind of beauty he’d always been attracted to. Simple and yet it had a bit of the ethereal to it—almost as if she was a fairy from another land.
She wore spectacles and held a book. That explained it. She was a bluestocking. Most men were scared off by such liberal-minded creatures, believing that a woman who could think deeply was a threat to their way of being.
As if she could feel his gaze burning into her skin, she glanced up from her book, and her eyes widened perceptively. Her already reddened cheeks from the cold, turned an even brighter scarlet, and her mouth opened in a gasp he could not hear as he was still too far away.
She hastened to put her book in the basket that sat beside her, grabbed her reticule and stood up. He couldn’t allow her to get away without first finding out who she was.
He whistled for his Great Danes and smiled as they barked and started to run toward them. Seeing the lovely young lady, they did what he knew they would do—they headed straight for her. They were quite fond of the fairer sex, much like he was fond of the ladies.
If she were terrified of dogs, he’d just made a colossal blunder. He could only hope she was a woman fond of dogs because he could not bear a lady that despised dogs. That was one of the reasons why he had to stay away from Lady Myrtle at all costs. She called dogs ghastly beasts and preferred the company of her cats.
She stopped as her feet left the folly. Turning back toward him, she looked in astonishment at the large dogs that happily ran toward her.
He held his breath as he dashed toward her, fearing that she would shriek out in fear and run like the very hounds of Hades were after her. Instead, she held her ground and laughed happily as Zeus and Apollo ran up to her and demanded a head rub.
Zeus was attempting to stick his head into her basket, which meant she had food in her basket.
“Hello,” he called out.
She stopped petting Zeus and Apollo and settled her amber coloured eyes on him.
Her hands started to shake with nervousness, and that was all that Zeus needed. He’d wrestled the basket away from her, and it fell to the damp ground. He raided the basket and only stopped when Edward called out to him.
“Zeus, stop that! You leave that nice lady’s basket alone!” Ever obedient, Zeus stopped. “Come here you two,” he ordered, as the dogs ran to his side and flanked him.
He glanced back at her. She still looked inclined to flee.
“I didn’t realize that anyone was in residence at Whitney Park,” she said, her voice small and shaking.
He now stood quite close to her and had the time to inspect her from head to toe. She wore clothing that had seen better days. Her boots looked as if they would leak if it started to rain. Her green velvet cloak was in better repair and the green dress she wore underneath looked as if it had seen better days. Still, she was too delicate of a build and constitution to be out sitting in the cold. She required the comfort of a roaring fire, and he fought the strong urge to put his arms around her and draw her close to his warm body.
“My name is Edward Rochester,” he said, bowing gallantly to her.
At this proclamation, fear truly took hold of her, and she pivoted on her heel to dash away. Reaching out, he grabbed her glove hand, and started at the thrilling bolt of energy that traveled up his arm.
“Please, don’t go,” he said, causing her body to go rigid. She turned back slowly to look at him. Reluctantly, he released her hand.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she said breathlessly, awkwardly curtsying to him. “I wasn’t aware that you and the duchess had returned from Town.”
“I am alone. I decided to reopen Whitney Park without my darling mother. Besides, she prefers the hustle and bustle of London, and I tired of it. I yearned for the simplicity of life here at Whitney Park.”
“It’s a beautiful place,” she murmured, looking adoringly over at the Grand House.
“I know,” he whispered.
She looked ill at ease. “I’ve been coming here since my brothers went off to war. The Old Duke never seemed to mind. I am sorry if I overstepped my bounds.”
He laughed. “I welcome you coming here whenever you like. You were quite the vision sitting out in the Folly. You looked quite enchanting.”
“Thank you,” she looked furtive.
He doubted she would return, she would most likely think it improper to be so close him when his mother was not in residence. Anyway, she looked like a scared little bird. No, he’d have to figure out another way to see her in the future.
“I should be going, sir. My father will wonder where I am.”
“And who is your darling Papa?” he asked.
She let out a nervous laugh. “I…that is…My name is Caroline Griffiths.”
“Ah,” he said. “So you are Lady Margaret’s daughter.”
At the mention of her mother, sadness filled her eyes, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she looked as if she was going to start bawling. Guilt rendered him silent. He couldn’t bear having a woman cry in his presence.
“Yes,” her voice shook noticeably. “I was Lady Margaret’s daughter.”
He hung his head. He’d been away for so long that he hadn’t realized. His mother took little notice of life away from London, and he’d been away for so long after the Peninsula War had ended, he hadn’t the time to reacquaint himself with life as it pertained to the locals.
“I’m very sorry to hear that. I remember meeting your mother when I was a young lad. She’d come to Whitney Park to see my father. They were very fond of each other you see.”
“My mother had lovely memories of her days as a young girl attending the balls your Dowager Duchess used to throw, but I wasn’t aware that their friendship extended past the point of when they both married.”
“My father always told me that Lady Margaret was the one that got away. He pursued her relentlessly you see, and in the end as my father put it, not I, you understand, he told me she married a penniless scholar that was beneath her touch.”
His
blunt yet honest admission raised fire in her eyes. She sucked in a lungful of air, and pursed her lips shut as if she was attempting to stop herself from responding just as honestly to him.
“My father loved my mother until the very end. He did all that he could for her. He worshipped her like she was a Queen. He devoted his entire life to her—so you will understand if I take offense at the notion that someone else believed my father not worthy of my mother. And so that you know, she loved my father in return, wholeheartedly, in fact. No one made her marry him. She did it because her heart belonged to him. While I understand that your father was probably a good man if he kept the friendship of my mother, he had to be, I do not like the fact that he besmirched my dear Papa in such a way.”
“Your parents enjoyed a love match. Aye, my father told me he could not win your mother’s heart, though he lavished her with jewels, love letters and anything else she could possibly desire. She sent back the jewels, and the letters. Upon my father’s death, I inherited it all. I never thought my father was such a hopeless romantic until I read some of the poetry he wrote just for Lady Margaret. Because you have such a dim view of my Papa, I’m sure you won’t believe what else I have to tell you about the last meeting between my father and your mother.”
Curiosity lit her gaze. She chewed her lower lip nervously. He could see that she remained against her better judgment and yet, she couldn’t leave without hearing the whole story that he had to tell her concerning their parents.
“I would like to hear it. Whether I believe it is another story entirely.”
“They wanted us to marry each other. In fact, your mother was quite adamant on that subject. She told my father that she feared she wouldn’t be around for much longer, and she worried what would happen to you once she died. She begged my father to take care of you, and asked him to make the match as soon as I returned home. Unfortunately, as you know my Father died four years ago, but I hadn’t heard of your mother’s passing.”
His Christmas Nymph Page 2
