One Candlelit Christmas

by Julia Justiss

  He must not have heard the lad correctly.

  ‘Tillotson?’ He bent a stern eye on his diminutive tormentor. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘’Course I’m sure,’ said the boy scornfully. ‘I can even write if for you, if you like. I know all my letters,’ he boasted, puffing out his chest, ‘and I can reckon up my numbers. Mama says next spring she’s going to get the Reverend Byatt to start me on Latin, if she can sell enough eggs, and if she can’t she’s going to take in laundry.’

  Carleton bent down, peering closely at the boy who reminded him so much of himself as a youth, asking, ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Seven, come spring. That’s why I got to start learning the Latin.’

  Seven. He straightened up, swallowing down the bitter taste of bile that rose in his gorge. That was too much of a damned coincidence. There was only one more element necessary to explode this serene vision of England into the hellish reality that being a prisoner of war entailed. And that was to hear him claiming to be Helena’s child.

  ‘What is your mother’s name?’ he grated, bracing himself for the answer.

  But in the event the boy just shrugged, and declared, ‘Mama.’

  He felt ill. Really ill now. ‘I need to lie down,’ he muttered, groping for the lad’s shoulder as the garden dipped and swayed round the edges of his vision.

  He had no idea if this was real, or a nightmare, but one thing had just become crystal-clear. There were still obstacles barring his return to his Garden of Eden. And a serpent in residence he would have to tackle once he made it back there!

  He laughed mirthlessly to himself. He had focused so completely on getting back to Lambourne Hall that he had pushed aside all thoughts of what had driven him from it in the first place. Or rather who.

  Helena, that was who. His bitch of a wife. She would be there right now, with her bastard son, queening it over his servants while he did not even have the means to procure a horse to ride home and confront her. Or, if he did, no strength left to mount it.

  He had tottered to within five feet of the kitchen window when the sound of raised voices halted Harry in his tracks. Since Carleton was leaning on him so heavily, he had no choice but to stop too.

  ‘You have no choice, woman!’ a male voice thundered. ‘Not if you want to keep a roof over your head!’

  He felt Harry shudder.

  ‘Viscount Lambourne,’ he muttered darkly, as though he were uttering a curse.

  ‘No…’ Carleton whispered, swaying on his feet. The man in there could not be Viscount Lambourne. He was Viscount Lambourne. At least…He raised a hand to his brow in an attempt to wipe away the confusion. At least that was who he had been when last he was in England.

  Staggering up to the kitchen window, he gazed in—and saw the angel who had nursed him sitting at a plain table with her hands clasped tightly together on its surface. She was gazing imploringly at a man who was striding up and down, the skirts of his coat whirling to dominate the confined space at each turn. His anger was like a tangible force, reaching out to Carleton through the cracks in the windowpanes.

  ‘No—please!’ he dimly heard the woman say. ‘You could not be so cruel!’

  But the man calling himself Viscount Lambourne was so saturated with rage that he was impervious to the appeal in the woman’s eyes. He ceased pacing and banged his fist down hard on the table, making her flinch.

  Carleton’s legs began to shake so much he had to grip the sill for support. How could any man use such threatening behaviour towards such an obviously defenceless woman? And how dared he do so in his name? He must put a stop to this!

  He raised his hand to rap on the window, but found his movement curtailed by Harry, who had grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and was hanging on with grim determination.

  ‘Get down here with me,’ he whispered. Harry dropped down beneath the lip of the window ledge, the unexpectedness of his action pulling Carleton down beside him. ‘Then you can hear it all without them seeing you.’

  Two things registered almost at the same time as his legs buckled beneath him.

  One was that this young rascal must be in the habit of eavesdropping, and ought to be reprimanded for it. The other was the crushing realisation that he was in no fit state to do anything to help the poor woman who had done so much for him.

  ‘Christmas be damned!’ the man in the kitchen was bellowing. ‘Do you think it makes any difference to me what season it is?’

  Carleton sucked in several deep breaths, whilst grinding his clenched fists into the pebbly soil on which he sat.

  The man who was calling himself Viscount Lambourne was an utter disgrace to the name! Threatening to evict a woman and her child, no matter what the season!

  Just who was he? Carleton thumped his hand hard into the frozen soil yet again, forcing his fogged brain into action.

  News must have reached England, he supposed, that he was dead. And the next in line to inherit his title must have stepped into his shoes. That next in line, he recalled, had been his cousin Peregrine.

  His heart began to pound.

  He could put the whole thing right in a matter of minutes. Peregrine would only need to take one look at him to know exactly who he was. All he had to do was walk into the kitchen, inform his cousin that the report of his death had been made in error, and he could have his old life back. Peregrine was bound to have some form of conveyance nearby. Peregrine would take him home!

  But first he would explain how this woman had taken care of him, and whatever she had done that had so enraged Peregrine—perhaps she was behind with her rent?—her generosity in caring for him would surely cancel out any amount of debt…

  As he pulled himself to his knees, he bent his ear once more to the conversation taking place indoors.

  ‘All I am asking you to do is make sure Carleton stays dead!’

  ‘But he is not dead!’ his angel protested.

  ‘He would have been if you’d only had the sense to leave him lying on your path!’

  Carleton felt as though he had been turned to stone. Peregrine appeared to be angry with his guardian angel because she had helped him.

  ‘Look—’ he heard the sound of a chair scraping across the floor ‘—it is only going to cause everyone a deal of unpleasantness if you persist on taking this line with me. For a start there will have to be a lengthy legal case just to re-instate him. A costly legal case. By the time it is over the estate which I have worked so hard to restore will be sadly depleted again. Hardly anything left worth inheriting!’

  The woman murmured something so low Carleton could not hear what it was, but it had a stringent effect on Peregrine.

  ‘I know you have no great fondness for me, but surely you cannot hate me as much as I know you must hate your husband? Helena—Helena, for God’s sake see sense!’

  Helena? Carleton shivered convulsively. Who hated her husband? The woman in there, the woman of whom he had just felt so protective, was Helena? It was fortunate he was already sitting down, or hearing that the woman inside was his wife would have felled him.

  ‘Perhaps I have not been as generous with you in the past as I might have been.’ Peregrine’s voice took on a wheedling tone. ‘Perhaps I could do something for the boy? That is what you really want, is it not? How would it be if I promised that if you take care of this for me, I will always take care of your boy?’ He began to sound more sure of himself. ‘Provide him with the very best education. Stand sponsor when he decides upon a profession. Think what that would mean for him!’

  In a choked voice, the woman he had come to think of as his guardian angel, the woman he now knew was in fact his faithless, grasping wife, said, ‘But I am not a murderer!’

  ‘No.’ Peregrine’s voice turned cold. ‘Just a whore.’

  Beside him, Carleton felt Harry stiffen.

  ‘If it were not for the fact that I decided to shield you from public censure, you and your bastard son would be on the streets already!’ Peregrine was per
sisting. ‘Consider your options, madam, and then tell me it would not be far better if you were to just slip something into his food that would send him into a sleep from which he would never wake up.’

  Carleton heard a chair overturn. Then Peregrine said, ‘Yes, we can show him more mercy than he showed you, on the day he condemned you to a living hell by repudiating your marriage and your child.’

  There was a flurry of pebbles at his side as Harry shot to his feet. He looked down at Carleton with pure loathing.

  For a moment, man and boy glared at each other. This was Helena’s brat. The child Nicholas Malgrove had sired on her not two months after she had married him!

  ‘You’re Carleton Tillotson, aren’t you?’ Harry bit out. ‘The Viscount before that one!’ His grimy finger stabbed viciously in the direction of the kitchen window. ‘You’re…you’re my…’ His face contorted, his cheeks turning red.

  But before Carleton had the chance to deny there was any possibility Harry could be his son, the boy had turned and run down the path and out through the back gate as though all the hounds of hell were after him.

  Inside, Peregrine was chuckling softly.

  ‘I will return in a few days, when I have obtained some poison. Call it my Christmas present to you, Helena.’

  Cold slithered up Carleton’s spine from the stony ground on which he sat. He had never felt more alone and afraid in his life. He had made for this cottage, thinking he would find an elderly lady who would be only too glad to help the grandson of the man she had loved so much. Instead he had fallen into the hands of his two worst enemies.

  Peregrine, who seemed so determined to hang onto the title he would ruthlessly commission his murder.

  And Helena. A woman devious enough to trick a green boy into matrimony so that she could get her sticky paws on his money.

  And he was too weak to even attempt to escape them.

  Very well. The years had taught him some things. Even when a man had nothing else to rely on, he could still hang onto his pride. Though it took him three attempts, he got to his feet, and with head held high made his way back into the cottage to face the worst they could do to him.

  Chapter Three

  For several minutes after Viscount Lambourne had left, Nell sat at the table with her head in her hands.

  From the moment she’d accepted Carleton was still alive, she’d known he would be trouble.

  But she had assumed it would only be her foolish heart at risk. She knew it was stupid to have revelled in the sensation of holding him in her arms. Fanciful of her to think that the way the firelight had played over his torso as she’d sponged his feverish body made him look like some marbled god of ancient legend. For he was no statue, but a leanly muscled man, with the calluses and broken nails that bore witness to a life spent doing hard manual labour. Even more vital than that perfect slender youth, with the carefully manicured, soft white hands, who had once broken her heart. Already it was a constant tussle to remember she was supposed to be nursing an invalid, not indulging in daydreams of what might have been!

  And now this!

  Who would have guessed Peregrine was so amoral that he would rather have his cousin murdered than relinquish his title?

  She would have to warn Carleton as soon as he was well enough…But, no, no…even if she could make him believe Peregrine wanted her to kill him—and she was finding it hard enough to credit herself—there was no telling how long it would be before his fever abated enough for him to attempt to escape on foot. And it would have to be on foot. She had gone through his pockets before laundering his clothes, and he had not a penny on him. And she had never had the money to hire a horse, or any other means of conveyance to spirit him away.

  Anyway, even if he did get away safely, where would that leave her? Peregrine would be furious with her for thwarting him. And his wrath would fall on her. And Harry.

  Her stomach gave a lurch as she considered what her options seemed to be. Murder her husband or face eviction.

  She sat up, and spread her work-roughened hands palm-down on the scrubbed tabletop. Carleton might not be a good man, but for some reason God had spared his life. She had not taken him in and nursed him just to become his executioner.

  And, speaking of nursing, it was well past the hour she should have taken her patient some more nourishment. Her face set, she went to the pot she kept simmering on the stove, ladled out a portion of chicken broth, and marched with it to the front parlour.

  She halted on the threshold, the tray almost tipping out of her hands. For Carleton was awake and in his right mind.

  ‘Helena,’ he bit out, leaning back on the sofa, pale-faced and bristling with hostility.

  She’d been bracing herself for this moment. Even when in his delirium he had smiled at her, told her she was an angel, she had warned herself he could only say such a thing because he had no idea who she was.

  How glad she was she had not yielded to the temptation to respond to what had been burning in his eyes and kissed him that night! Because if she had he would no doubt be accusing her of taking advantage of his weakened, confused state.

  Mindful of his true station in life, and hers, she dropped him a curtsey and murmured, ‘My lord.’

  For all that Peregrine Tillotson held the title, Carleton was the real Viscount Lambourne.

  ‘I have brought you some more broth,’ she said, indicating the tray she held. And then, when he switched his glare from her to it, went on, ‘I know it must be getting a little boring, but it is all I have to offer you. And so far it has done you nothing but good.’

  He took a breath, as though he meant to speak, then appeared to think better of it. He subsided into the cushions and watched while she set out the bowl, spoon and napkin on a low table which she had drawn up to the sofa for his convenience.

  When he did not immediately reach for the spoon, Nell asked, ‘Do you still require help, my lord? Shall I feed you?’

  His face contorted into an expression so fierce she flinched.

  ‘I will eat it myself!’ he spat, taking the spoon in a hand that she noted still trembled a little.

  He had taken several mouthfuls before it occurred to her that there was no real reason for her to linger. Not now he was beginning to manage for himself. It was blatantly obvious he had no wish to have her hovering over him now he knew who she was. How he must hate the discovery that the woman upon whom he had been forced to rely was none other than the wife he would do anything to be rid of!

  She could not bear it. After all this time it should not bother her at all, and yet it still felt like a knife sliding between her ribs when he treated her with such contempt.

  But as she began to sidle away he paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth, and said, ‘Where are you going?’

  She had got as far as the door, and was fumbling for the latch. ‘I have chores I should be getting on with. You do not need me here any more. I should—’

  ‘Wait!’ he barked at her. ‘I have some questions to ask of you.’

  She blinked in disbelief.

  ‘Is it not a little late for that?’ The time for them to speak had been when they had first married. She had tried to talk to him then, but he had not listened. Instead he had…

  ‘It is never too late. That is one thing I have learned over the past years. Sit,’ he commanded her, waving his spoon at the armchair which faced the sofa across the table.

  When she had taken the place he had indicated, he said, his eyes narrowing, ‘I cannot quite comprehend what you are doing here. Or why you have taken such pains to nurse me. Why you did not simply leave me lying outside on the path, for the cold to finish me off.’

  She huffed. ‘I would not leave a dog outside in weather like this.’

  He took another mouthful of broth, frowning at her. ‘You are a puzzle, Helena. The way you have nursed me over these last…’ He raised his eyebrows in enquiry.

  ‘Three days,’ she explained.

  He nodded. ‘Yes
, that feels about right. But what does not feel right is the gentle, proficient way you have been caring for me since I fell into your hands. I confess I am surprised to find that the years have changed you so much.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘I have not changed at all.’

  ‘Come,’ he reproved her. ‘When you were a girl you thought nothing of compromising me into a marriage I did not want, and when I would not consummate the union you took your revenge by taking a lover and trying to foist your child off as mine.’

  ‘I did none of those things,’ she gasped, lurching to her feet.

  ‘Sit down!’

  She paused, her fists clenched at her sides. ‘You cannot order me about in this house, Carleton. You have no rights over me any more. You cast me aside, left me at the mercy of—’

  ‘And that is what puzzles me the most.’ He cut through her tirade. ‘Why are you living in such poverty?’

  He had soon worked out why he had not recognised her on sight. In his mind she had stayed a girl. A girl, moreover, whom he had spent the last few years imagining disporting herself in silks and lace, while he shivered in rags. She had matured, filled out, grown weather-beaten and was dressed like a farmer’s wife. And after the initial shock of discovering he had fallen into her hands had worn off, the questions as to how she had ended up here, in Barstow, had begun to mount up.

  ‘Why are you not at Lambourne Hall, enjoying your status as my widow? Or, if you found living in the countryside too restricting for a woman of your ambition, why did you not hire a house in London with the jointure I settled on you? And snare another rich lover who could pander to your appetites?’

  ‘I have never snared anyone! And as for why I am living here—in poverty, as you put it—I have never felt so well off in my life! I answer to no one. I do as I please. I grow my own food and look after my child…’

  ‘And what do you tell him about his father?’ he inserted silkily.

  Too angry to mind her tongue, Nell blurted out, ‘I tell him the truth, of course. That his father got caught up in the war and was hanged for spying…’