A Christmas Betrothal

by Carole Mortimer

  Breton laughed. ‘You make me feel like a spider, waiting for so many fat flies to ride up from London.’

  ‘But that is not the case at all, my dear fellow. I am the spider. You are the bait—if spiders use such a thing. Without you, they will not come.’

  ‘We will be lucky if they come at all. Here in Yorkshire you are quite far out of the common way, Stratford.’

  ‘And you are the son of the Earl of Lepford. There must be a few in London, particularly those with eligible daughters, who would be eager to spend a holiday in your august presence.’

  ‘Second son,’ Breton corrected. ‘No title to offer them. But I am rich, at least. In much part I can thank you for that.’

  ‘Be sure to inform your guests of the fact, should the opportunity present itself.’

  Breton made a face. ‘Talking of money at a Christmas house party is just not done. They will not like it if they get wind of your scheme, Joe.’

  ‘That is why you will do it subtly—as you always do, Bob. They will hardly know what has happened. You may apologise to them for my lack of manners and let them plunder my cellars to the last bottle. Talk behind your hand about me, if you wish. Dance the pretty girls around the parlour while I am left to their fathers. They will think me common at the start. But by the time I leave I will have their cheques in my pocket. To one in business, Christmas must be a day like any other. If your friends wish to invest in this new venture they will see a substantial return to make their next Christmas a jolly one.’

  The door opened, and the housekeeper, Mrs Davy, entered, with an apology for the interruption and a footman carrying a large armful of greenery. As he began swagging bows from the mantel, Joseph stood and quizzed the woman, ticking things off the list in his head as he was satisfied that they had been taken care of.

  ‘Everything must be in perfect order,’ he said firmly. ‘While nearly every mill owner in the district has had some problems with frame-breakers and followers of Ludd, it would reflect poorly on me if my guests see a lack of control over my own household. I cannot fault the cleaning you have done, for I would swear you’ve scrubbed the house with diamonds it sparkles so.’

  The housekeeper bobbed her head in thanks, and showed a bit of a blush. But his praise was no less than the truth. Everywhere he went he could smell the beeswax that had been worked into the oak panelling ‘til it reflected the light from multitudes of candles and fires with a soft golden glow.

  ‘And the larder has been stocked as well, I trust?’

  ‘It was difficult,’ Mrs Davy said modestly. ‘There was little to be had in the shops.’

  ‘You sent to London, as I requested?’

  She nodded.

  ‘There is no shortage of food in the city, nor shortage of people with money to buy it. My friends from the South will not understand the problems here, and nor do they wish to be enlightened of them. If they come all this way to visit me, I mean to see that their bellies are filled and their hearts light.’ He grinned in anticipation. ‘And their purses emptier at the end of the trip.’

  The housekeeper’s smile was firm, if somewhat disapproving. ‘They shall eat like lords.’ She passed him the menus she had prepared. ‘If you will but select the meals, Mr Stratford.’

  Given the bounty she presented, it was impossible to make a choice. He frowned. ‘There must be goose, of course, for those who favour it. But I would prefer roast beef—and lots of it. With pudding to sop up the gravy. Swedes, peas, sprouts.’ He pointed from one paper to the other. ‘Roasted potatoes. Chestnuts to roast beside the Yule Log. And plum pudding, Christmas cake, cheese … ‘

  ‘But which, sir?’ the housekeeper asked.

  ‘All of them, I should think. Enough so that no one will want, no matter what their preference. It is better to have too much than too little, is it not?’

  ‘If we have too much, sir, it will go to waste.’ From the way she pursed her lips he could tell that he was offending her to the bottom of her frugal Northern heart.

  ‘If it does, I can afford the loss. A show of economy in front of these investors will be seen as a lack of confidence. And that is something I will not be thought guilty of.’ He paced past her, down the great hall, watching the servants tidying, examining ceilings and frames with a critical eye and nodding with approval when he found not a speck of dust. ‘All is in order. And, as just demonstrated, you have seen to the greenery.’

  ‘There are still several rooms to be decorated,’ she admitted. ‘But some must be saved for the kissing boughs.’

  ‘Tear down some of the ivy on the south wall. There is still some green left in it, and the windows are choked to point that I can barely see without lighting candles at noon. With that, you should be able to deck the whole of the inside of the house. Clip the holly hedge as well. Trim it back and bring it in.’ He gave a vague sweep of his hand. ‘Have them search the woods for mistletoe. I want it all. Every last bit of the house smelling of fir and fresh air. Guests will begin to arrive tomorrow, and we must be all in readiness for them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  From behind him, Breton laughed. ‘You are quite the taskmaster, Stratford. Lord help the workers in your mill if this is the way you behave towards them.’

  ‘I mean to master you as well, Bob. I will expect you to get up from your chair to help lead the games.’

  Breton looked stricken at the prospect. ‘Me, Stratford?’

  ‘Of course. They are your friends. You will know what it takes to entertain them.’

  ‘I don’t think it is my place.’ The man was almost physically backing away from the task. ‘You are the host, after all.’

  ‘I am that in name only,’ Joseph insisted. ‘I can manage to pay the piper, of course. But in God’s name, man, do not expect me to dance to the tune. There has been little time for that in my life, and I never got the knack of it. I fear I am much better with machines than with people.’

  ‘But I … ‘ Breton shook his head. ‘I am not the best person to stand at the head of the set for you.’

  ‘At best, all they want from me is a hearty meal and a full punchbowl. At worst, they are coming to gawk at what a common mess I am likely to make of a grand old house. They would do without me if they could. For I am—’ he made a pious face ‘—in trade. Too humble by half for the people who have invested in me. But the money draws them like flies. Everyone wants their little bit of sugar, Bob. We will provide it for them. Though they sneer into their cups as they drink my wine, they will not be too proud to swallow it.’

  ‘But must I be a part of it? If they do not want you, then surely … ?’

  ‘You are one of them,’ Joe said firmly. ‘I will never be. I am lucky to have won over Clairemont, and will have his daughter to dance with, of course. If she means to accept my suit then she had best get used to being seen with me. The rest of the ladies I leave to you.’

  ‘And what am I to do with them?’ For all his town bronze, Bob could be obtuse when he wished to be.

  ‘Smile at them. Flatter them. Keep their glasses filled. You could do worse than following my example and taking a wife, you know. Oaksley has three daughters, from what I understand. Perhaps one of them will do for you.’

  There was also the daughter of that firebrand in the village. She had not been invited to the festivities. It would show a considerable lack of wisdom to have that man and his family here, to undermine his success. But she would be a fine match for Bob. She was both pretty and intelligent, and a gentleman’s daughter as well. She was more respectable than he himself would have aspired to be just a few short years ago. Miss Lampett would be perfect for his friend in every way. Although now that the opportunity presented itself to suggest a meeting, Joseph found himself strangely unwilling to voice his thoughts.

  ‘I have no intention of marrying,’ Bob said firmly. ‘Not now. Not ever.’

  ‘Then take advantage of some more earthly pleasures,’ Joseph said, oddly relieved. ‘There will be enough of
that as well, I am sure. I’ve heard that Lindhurst’s wife rarely finds her own room after a night of revels. I hope I do not have to explain the rest for you. Avail yourself of my hospitality as well. Eat, drink and be merry.’

  For tomorrow we die.

  Joseph shuddered. He was sure he had not finished the quote. But he’d heard the words so clearly in his head that he’d have sworn they’d been intoned aloud, and in a voice that was not his.

  ‘Stratford?’ Bob was staring at him as though worried.

  ‘Nothing. A funny turn, that’s all.’ He smiled in reassurance for, though he liked the idea of socialising with strangers no better than Bob, he could not let his nerve fail him. ‘As I was saying. I expect you here and making merry for the whole of the week. I mean to keep my nose to the grindstone, of course. But we have made a success of this venture, and you should be allowed to take some pleasure in it. There is more to come in the New Year. Now is the time to play.’

  Chapter Three

  That evening, as ever, Joseph’s trip to his own bedroom was a little disquieting. Much as he knew that he owned the house, he did not really feel it suited him. It was beautiful, of course. But at night, when the servants had settled in their quarters and it was mostly him alone, he walked the wide corridors to reassure himself that it existed outside of his boyhood fantasies of success.

  The place was too large, too strange and too old. It would not do to let anyone—not even Breton—know how ill at ease he was, or that this late-night walk was a continual reminder of how far from his birth and true station he had come.

  It was not as if a pile of stones could come to life and cast him out. It was his, from cellar to attic. He had paid for it and had got a good price. But when it was dark and quiet, like this, Clairemont Manor felt—for want of a better word—haunted. Not that he believed in such things. In an age of machines there was hardly room for spirits. Clinging to childish notions and common superstition bespoke a lack of confidence that he would not allow himself.

  With a wife and children in it, the house would fill with life and he would have no time for foolish fancies. But since the wife he was in the process of acquiring rightly belonged here, it sometimes felt as though he was trying to appease them rather than banish them. Setting Anne Clairemont at the foot of the table would restore the balance that had been lost. It had been her father’s house, whether he’d been able to afford to keep it or not. Returning a member of the family to the estate, even if it was a female, might pacify some of the ill feelings he had created in the area. It fell in nicely with his plans for the business. There was nothing superstitious about it.

  It was a pity the girl was so pale and lifeless. Had he the freedom to choose a woman to suit himself, it would certainly not be her. He’d have sought someone with a bit more spirit, not some brainless thing willing to auction herself to the highest bidder just to please her father.

  He’d have wanted—

  He stopped in his tracks, smiling to himself at the memory. He’d have wanted one more like the girl he’d seen in the crowd today. Fearless, that one was. Just like her father, that barmy Bernard Lampett who led the rebellion against him. What was the girl’s name? Barbara, he thought, making a note to enquire and be sure. She did not seem totally in sympathy with her father, from the way she’d tried to drag him away. But neither did she support Joseph, having made it quite clear that she disapproved of him. Barbara Lampett knew her own mind, that was certain. And she had no fear of showing the world what she thought of it.

  But it wasn’t her sharp tongue that fascinated him. She was shorter than Anne, curved where Anne was straight, and pink where his prospective fiancée was pale. When he’d been close to her, he’d seen a few freckles on her turned-up nose, and handfuls of brown curls trying to escape from her plain bonnet.

  But it was her eyes that had drawn him in. Her gaze had been cool and direct, like blue ice, cutting into him in a way that simple anger could not. She judged him. It made him doubt himself. For could any cause be wholly in the right if it might result in harm to such a lovely thing as a Barbara Lampett, tramping her casually into the dirt? While he was sure he bore a greater share of the right than the men who stood against him, the truth of what might have happened to her, had he not intervened, weighed heavy on his conscience.

  And so tonight he walked the halls more slowly than usual, thinking dark thoughts and counting the many rooms as though they were rosary beads. If the servants had noticed this ritual, they were too polite or well trained to comment. But he found himself taking the same path each night before retiring, as though he were touring someone else’s great house and marvelling at their wealth. Reception room the first, library, breakfast room, dining room, private salon, stairs, reception room the second, card room, music room, ballroom. And then a climb to the second floor: red bedroom, blue bedroom, master bedroom … There was a third floor as well, and servants’ rooms, larders, kitchens and possibly some small and useful places he had not bothered to investigate.

  It was a sharp contrast to his childhood. When it had been but one room they’d lived in there had been no reason to count. As his father’s business had grown, so had the rooms. A three-room flat. A five-room cottage. A house. They had risen from poverty in the days long before the war, when trade was unobstructed and money easier. But the successes had been small, and the work hard and unpleasant. He had hated it.

  He had broken from it, rebuilt the work in his own image. And now he lived in the grandest house in the county—and was not happy here either. Perhaps that was his curse: to hurry through life reaching for the next great thing, whether it be invention or business. Each time he succeeded he would be sure that this time he had gained enough to please himself. Then the success would pale and he would seek more.

  The thought left him chilled, and he felt the unease that seemed to stalk him through these halls. He remembered again the eyes of Barbara Lampett, who could see through him to his clockwork heart. It made him want to grab her and prove that his blood flowed just as hot as other men’s, and perhaps a little warmer for the sight of her. If the girl were the daughter of any other man in the village he’d have at least attempted a flirtation. But she was too young and too much of a lady to understand the discreet dalliance he had in mind. Even if she was of a more liberal nature it would not do to have her thinking that sharing her charms might lead him to show mercy on her father.

  While he might consider offering a bijou, or some other bit of shiny to a pretty girl, something about Barbara Lampett’s freckled nose and the sweet stubbornness of her jaw convinced him that she was likely to bargain for the one thing that he was not willing to share: clemency for the man who plotted his undoing.

  He shook his head, rejecting the notion of her as the long-case clock in the hall struck twelve and he opened the door to his room. To be sure he would not weaken, it was best to leave all thoughts of her here in the corridor, far away from his cold and empty bed.

  ‘Boy.’

  Joseph started at the sound of a voice where there should have been nothing but the crackle of the fire and perhaps the sounds of his valet laying out a nightshirt. The opulence of the room, the richness of its hangings and upholstery, always seemed to mute even the most raucous sound.

  But the current voice cut through the tranquillity and grated on the nerves. The familiar Yorkshire accent managed to both soothe and annoy. The volume of it was so loud that it echoed in the space and pressed against him—like a hand on his shoulder that could at any moment change from a caress to a shove.

  He looked for the only possible if extremely unlikely source, and found it at the end of the bed. For there stood a man he’d thought of frequently but had not seen for seven years. Not since the man’s death.

  ‘Hello, Father.’ It was foolish to speak to a figment of his imagination, but the figure in the corner of his bedroom seemed so real that it felt rude not to address it.

  It must be his distracted mind playing this tri
ck. Death had not changed his da in the least. Joseph had assumed that going on to his divine reward would have softened him in some way. But it appeared that the afterlife was as difficult as life had been. Jacob Stratford was just as grim and sullen as he’d been when he walked the earth.

  ‘What brings you back? As if I have to ask myself … It was that second glass of brandy, on top of the hubbub at the mill.’ When he’d rescued the Lampett girl he’d been literally rubbing shoulders with the same sort of man as the one who had raised him. The brutal commonality of them had attached itself to his person like dust, sticking in his mind and appearing now, as he neared sleep.

  ‘That’s what you think, is it?’ The ghost gave a disapproving grunt. ‘I see you have not changed a bit from the time you were a boy.’ Then he ladled his speech thick with the burr that Joseph had heard when he was in the midst of the crowd around his mill. ‘Th’art daft as a brush, though th’ live like a lord.’

  ‘And I will say worse of you,’ Joseph replied, careful to let none of his old accent creep back into his speech. No matter what his father might say of him, he had changed for the better and he would not go back. ‘You are a stubborn, ignorant dictator. Two drinks is hardly a sign of debauchery. And I live in a great house because I can afford to. It is not as if I am become some noble who has a line of unpaid credit with the vintner. I pay cash.’ He’d been told by Bob that the habit was horribly unfashionable, and a sign of his base birth, but he could not seem to break himself of it. It felt good to lie down knowing that, though he might need investors for the business, he had no personal debts.

  Although why his rest was now uneasy he could not tell. The bad dream staring him down from the end of the bed must be a sign that all was not right in his world.

  His father snorted in disgust. ‘No matter what I tried to teach, you’ve proved that buying and selling is all you learned. You know nothing of art, of craft or the men behind the work.’

  ‘If the men behind the work are anything like you, then I think I’ve had enough of a lesson, thank you. You may go as well.’ He made an effort to wake and cast off the dream. To be having this conversation at all was proof that he was sleeping. To rouse from slumber would divest the vision of the last of its power.