A Christmas Betrothal

by Carole Mortimer

  With a little smile, she drew aside the curtain—only to hear a gasp, and the rustle of clothing falling back into place as the couple inside sprang apart.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I had no idea … ‘ She turned quickly, shielding her eyes.

  Anne stumbled forwards into the hall. Mr Breton acted almost as quickly to thrust her back into the recess and step in front of her, as though it were possible to shield her from view. He cursed very softly, and ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to compose himself. Then he bowed. ‘I am sorry you were a witness to my disgraceful behaviour, Miss Lampett.’ He bowed again to Anne. ‘And that you had to experience it, Miss Clairemont. My actions were totally inappropriate, and no apology can be offered for them other than an excess of alcohol.’

  He looked back at Barbara, knowing that she had seen him, sober as a judge, at the breakfast table, less than an hour ago.

  He gave a helpless shrug. ‘My fate is in your hands, miss, as is the honour of a lady. Though I would not wish what has occurred here to be known, I cannot demand that you keep my secret. Know that I will be leaving Mr Stratford’s home early in the New Year and returning to London. There will be no further risk of another incident.’ Then he walked hurriedly away from them, down the hall.

  The moment he was gone Anne rushed forwards, seizing her hands. The polite pretence of soft, smiling apathy had disappeared. ‘Please, Barbara. Please. I beg you. Say nothing to Joseph of this. I know that I have no reason to ask your help. My family has treated you horribly for a thing which was no fault of yours. But, please, say nothing.’

  For a moment the frozen woman before her melted into the image of her lost sister, into something much more human than she had been: a woman with desires who was at least capable of making mistakes, if not yet able to admit to them.

  There was so much that Barbara was not speaking of already. Why should there not be one more thing? ‘I saw nothing, Anne. Nothing at all that I wish to remark upon to anyone. But just for a moment can you not be honest with me? Was this all his doing? Or is there feeling on both sides?’

  And Anne, normally so reserved and in control, burst into tears in her arms.

  Barbara glanced around, relieved to see that there was no one there to witness the outburst. Then she took a firmer grip on Anne’s hands and dragged her back into the alcove, to sit on the bench, pinning back the curtain to allow some light into their sanctuary. ‘Come, now. If you cannot get hold of yourself, then at least come where fewer people might see you. Now, tell me. Do you love him or not?’

  Anne gave a hesitant nod. ‘He is leaving. Even before you discovered us he was threatening. Now he will go for sure.’

  Barbara stifled surprise. She had meant to ask about Joseph—the only man whose future mattered. She corrected herself. ‘You will lose Mr Breton, if you do not cry off your engagement.’

  ‘How can I?’ Anne looked up at her from watery blue eyes. ‘I am the only daughter left. Everyone is depending on me to do exactly what is needed. Joseph wishes a lady for the manor. My father wishes to get his foot back in the door. He would rather stay here as a doting father-in-law than learn to be comfortable in new surroundings.’ For a moment there was uncharacteristic bitterness in the sweet voice. ‘No one is particularly interested in what I want. I had thought, since I had no real objections to the character of the man, that it would be enough to be comfortable and back in my own home. But, Barbara. Oh, Barbara.’ She smiled. ‘That was before I met Robert. I did not know that I could feel like this. And now it will end.’

  Then she was crying again, and Barbara could find nothing to do other than offer her shoulder and pat the girl ineffectually on the back. Would it do her any good to be assured that her future husband did not care about her either?

  That could not possibly be a comfort. Though she did not seem to expect it of him, Barbara doubted that the girl in her arms wished to know the extent of his uninterest, or that an old friend was a co-conspirator in her betrayal. Love was not her reason for marrying. And there was nothing Barbara could say that would make the Clairemonts’ desire to regain the manor any different than it was.

  ‘There, there,’ she said, and could not manage to sound the least bit enthusiastic about it. Success for Anne meant failure for her.

  There was no way, in good conscience, that she could talk the girl into crying off. ‘Would it help,’ she asked cautiously, ‘if I spoke to Mr Stratford for you? Perhaps if he understood how unhappy you are … ‘

  ‘No.’ Anne gripped her arm. ‘You mustn’t. He would be furious. So would my father.’

  Barbara doubted that would be totally true. Though Lord Clairemont would be angry at having his plans thwarted, she’d seen no evidence that Joseph would be similarly affected at the loss of his impending marriage.

  But then, she had seen no evidence to the contrary. In all that little time they’d spent together he’d said nothing about Anne, either positive or negative. She was sure that he’d said not a word about terminating the engagement.

  ‘Very well, then. I will not expose you.’

  Anne gave her a watery smile. ‘I am sorry again for how my family has treated you. How I have treated you as well. You are good and kind. I will do anything I can to help you in the future if you will keep my secret.’

  With secrets of her own, Barbara could feel nothing but sympathy for the sister of her dearest friend. ‘I will do nothing to hurt you, I promise. And if I can find a way to help you, I will do so.’

  ‘I can ask for nothing more than that,’ Anne said, carefully drying her eyes with a handkerchief.

  ‘Miss Lampett?’ Mrs Davy the housekeeper called from the end of the hall. ‘The carriage is ready to take you to the village. Dick says you had best leave soon, or the roads will turn to mud.’

  Without another word Barbara dropped the curtain into place, pretending that she had been alone. ‘Of course. I am ready.’ She walked quickly to the front of the house, wondering if she was obligated to say a farewell to her host. She decided against it. He knew very well how she felt, and the reasons for her leave-taking. ‘You will give my regards and my regrets to Mr Stratford, of course,’ she said politely to the housekeeper.

  ‘That will not be necessary, miss. He is waiting to see you off.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said weakly, forcing her steps not to falter on the way to the door.

  He was waiting there, just as the housekeeper had said, looking more like a professional mourner than a party host, a few flakes of snow lying unmelted in his dark hair.

  She nodded at him, trying not to show the fear she felt that he would try to stop her. If he revealed even one moment of true feeling she was likely to turn back on her plan and go meekly to the room he had given her.

  ‘I’ve come to see you off,’ he said, without expression. ‘I am your host. It is appropriate, I think, to wish you well and see you safely from the premises. People will wonder, otherwise.’

  ‘And it is appropriate for me to thank you for your hospitality,’ she answered back. But she said nothing further.

  ‘Well, then. Go.’ He said it gruffly, as though he could turn her decision into his own wish.

  ‘There is no reason to stay,’ she said firmly.

  He sighed, his composure breaking. ‘And yet I do not want you to leave.’ That was at least said with some tenderness, as though he actually meant it.

  ‘You know I must. There is nothing for me here.’

  He reached out and touched her arm. ‘There is always tonight.’

  ‘You think that because of last night I will allow you to make a habit of coming to me in secret?’

  ‘There could be no other way. I cannot cry off from Anne without disgracing her.’

  There. He had finally said it. He could not hurt Anne, but he thought nothing of what he might do to Barbara Lampett, who had far less protection than the daughter of the most honourable family in the area.

  ‘You are horrible,’ she said. Despi
te how wonderful she had felt, his touch now was torture. It made her want to cry. She pulled her arm from his grasp.

  ‘You said you loved me.’ He said it softly, urgently.

  ‘And you have never said the same to me. Not even as a lie. I was foolish to tell you. And foolish to feel it as well. For you are unworthy. Cruel and selfish, just as my father tried to tell me.’

  ‘It is not as you think,’ he said.

  ‘But you offer no further explanation to tell me how it might be, if it is not exactly as it appears. You are using me, and you will marry another.’

  ‘I did not intend to,’ he admitted. ‘But I could not sit alone in my room, waiting for the end.’

  ‘The end? That is a tad melodramatic, Mr Stratford. I suppose next you will tell me that you are afraid of the dark.’ She laughed scornfully, hoping that it might hurt him just a little, so that he might feel some part of what she felt whenever she looked at him.

  His look in response was strange. A little blank, a little panicked. And clearly saying that she had discovered some part of the truth. ‘That is it, isn’t it? You are afraid to sleep alone in a darkened bedroom. You used me for a night to solve the problem.’ She shuddered. ‘That is all I was to you. A warmer for your bed and a candle on a dark night.’

  ‘It was more than that,’ he said. But still he would not say what.

  ‘I ruined myself in the hope that there was some affection on your part. But I could have been anyone at all.’ Without his help, she heaved herself into the body of the carriage and tried to close the door.

  ‘Barbara. Wait.’ He was just behind her, his shoulders blocking the entrance.

  ‘I have waited too long already.’

  ‘Do not leave me.’ He sounded almost plaintive now, as though he were actually afraid of facing another night alone.

  ‘Tonight you must go to Anne for your comfort. It would make more sense. I am sure you have much to talk about.’ She bit her tongue then, to keep back the spiteful revelation that she had been almost ready to share. ‘But of course you will not, will you? She is a lady, and deserves better than to be treated as a receptacle for your carnality. And I? I was a lady once. But no longer, now that you are through with me. Now I am through with you. Good day, sir.’

  She sat facing carefully forwards, ignoring his presence, until with an oath he slammed the door and signalled for the coachman to drive.

  Chapter Fifteen

  How much had the coachman heard? she wondered, huddling beneath the coach robe and pulling her shawl around her shoulders. How much had the grooms guessed? Between the bunch of them they would piece together the bits of her argument with Joseph and their secret would be no secret at all. The tragedy involving Mary had been the talk of the village for a while. Then most had decided that it could not have been helped, and that even if the Lampetts should have known better than to allow company in a sickroom, they’d meant no harm by it.

  But now she would be infamous. The people would expect no less of Joseph, for he was a man. He was an outsider, as well, and already reviled. But she should have known better, and society would punish her for her lapse in judgement. Women would cut her, and avoid her mother as well. Her father, if he could be made to understand, would be devastated.

  She would have to leave. As soon as she was sure that there would be no child she would advertise for a position as a governess, or a lady’s companion. Perhaps, if she threw herself on the mercy of the vicar, he would write a letter of reference for her, assuring the world that she was gently brought up and properly educated. Even Lord Clairemont might help, if it was understood that her goal was to get as far away from Fiddleton as she could, so that she could create no further trouble. Her parents would be heartbroken at her leaving, but once she had managed to explain Mother would likely agree.

  The carriage had pulled up to her house now, and a groom helped her down, seeming at a loss that there was no package or bag that she might be helped with. She thanked him, and went up the walk alone, without turning back.

  Her mother greeted her in the front room, eyes sharp, discerning, not willing to let her pass without a challenge. ‘I have sent your father to the bakery to get us bread for supper,’ she said. It was an obvious ruse so that they could be alone, for Barbara had seen to the baking only yesterday. ‘Did you enjoy your visit to the great house, then?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We stayed the night because of the weather, but I was not feeling quite myself this morning, and thought it best … ‘ She had dropped her head as she spoke, unable to meet her mother’s gaze. That was her undoing. She showed her guilt plainly by hiding the expression that she could not let her mother read.

  ‘One of the maids from Clairemont has been to the market and gone already. But on the way she visited her mother, Mrs Stock. The entire family is in service up at the house. And they do like to gossip.’

  ‘I gave them no reason to talk.’

  ‘Do not try to lie to me, Barbara. You cannot trick me with words, like your father and his speeches. The maid says that there was a man in your room last night, sharing your bed. Who was it?’

  The plans she had made as she’d ridden towards the village had not included this first, most difficult conversation. If she was to manage any of the scandal it would not do to fight now, against another who would bear the shame of it. She sighed and collapsed onto the bench by the fire, hanging her head in embarrassment. ‘It is as bad as you think. Probably worse. I love him.’

  ‘You cannot,’ her mother said firmly. ‘In my opinion, if you meant to lie with the man before marriage, love is the worst reason for it.’

  She stared up at her mother in surprise and wondered just what she might know of such things, and why she was not more shocked than she was.

  Her mother gave her a candid look. ‘You are not some fainting schoolgirl, Barbara. You are a young lady, well on your way to spinsterhood. Sometimes these things happen. If you were seventeen and in your first season it might ruin your chances. Now there are no opportunities left to spoil.’ She sat down beside Barbara and said, more quietly, ‘Who was he? I hope it was not some London dandy. If so, his words were likely false ones, and there is little hope that he will stay past the New Year. Was it that nice Mr Breton I have seen occasionally in the village? He might be persuaded to do the right thing for the sake of your reputation. Or we could write his father and demand a settlement.’ She sounded almost hopeful at the thought, as though there were a way to make something good come from her daughter’s mistake.

  ‘Joseph Stratford,’ Barbara said, with a sinking heart.

  The older woman slumped beside her, as though her last hope had been dashed. ‘I suppose now you will tell me that, while he claims to have feelings for you, he has no intention of crying off from Anne Clairemont.’

  ‘He does not love her.’ But that was no defence at all.

  ‘Neither does he love you, or we would not be having this conversation.’ Her mother stared down at her hands, which were trembling in her lap. ‘Do you understand, even for a moment, the predicament we are in? Your father is failing.’ The last words came in a harsh whisper that made them all the more terrible. ‘When he is gone, there will be nothing to save us from our fate. My own inheritance is running out. I bore no sons. What little we have from your father will go to his brother. Even a bad marriage is quite out of the question for you once it gets round that you’ve been bedded by the most hated man in Fiddleton.’

  ‘I thought to leave,’ Barbara said hopefully. ‘If I take a position, I might send what money I earn back home.’

  Her mother said nothing to this for a time. When she finally spoke her voice was even quieter, as though she was afraid that the house itself might hear. ‘There is another solution—if you are not too proud to take it.’

  ‘I do not understand.’ Until a moment ago Barbara had not thought of herself as hopeless. Now she was not sure what her mother saw as a last salvation.

  ‘Joseph St
ratford has no intention of marrying you—not while he can have the lady that belongs in the great house he’s bought,’ her mother said bitterly. ‘He is little better than a child playing with a dolls’ house. It does not matter if he cares for her. He will have Anne Clairemont because she belongs there.’

  She had not thought of it. But her mother was right. It was a chilling idea that Anne would sit, just as she wanted, in the chair at the end of the great dining table, writing her letters in the morning room, lounging in the salon with the careless grace she had affected with so many years’ practice. But she would be little better than an ornament.

  ‘But Stratford has proven himself to be a greedy and licentious man. He cares nothing for the people here.’

  ‘He’s not like that,’ Barbara said. But, though she believed him to be different, there was ample evidence that her mother was right.

  ‘Of course he is,’ her mother said, more firmly. ‘And isn’t that the argument of every foolish young girl whose head is turned by broad shoulders and a kind word? “To me, he is different.”‘

  But to her, he was. It would do no good to repeat what she knew to be true. But she remembered what it had been like, the previous night, as he’d comforted her when she spoke of Mary. He had needed her as much as she had needed him.

  ‘He’s had you, and there’s little more to it than that, I am sure. He’ll do the same again, if you let him.’

  And now what had felt so wonderful felt wrong and shameful. Her mother was right. Even as she’d tried to escape him he’d been trying to lure her back. She wanted to bathe herself, scrub at her skin until there was no memory of it left. ‘It will not happen again.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it will,’ her mother said, with a sad frown. ‘If you love him, you will go when he sends for you. You will not be able to help yourself. That is the nature of love, after all. In the face of it, my warnings will mean nothing to you.’