A Christmas Betrothal

by Carole Mortimer

  ‘I might say the same of you,’ Breton said, looking quite miserable. Then he took a deep breath. ‘That is why I must speak. I know it is not the time or place, but there is something I wish to discuss. I did not get a wink of sleep last night, and I do not think I can stand … ‘

  ‘Not another word.’ Joseph held up his hand to stop the confession that he suspected was coming. ‘I wish nothing more for this Christmas than that you save any difficult revelations for after New Year’s Eve. If you feel the same way—’

  ‘I doubt a few days will change my mind on what I wish to tell you,’ the man interrupted. ‘For I wish—’

  ‘ … after I break my engagement with Anne.’

  ‘ … to go back to London. I … ‘ They’d spoken on top of each other. And now Breton looked as if he wished to suck his last words back into his mouth. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I am going to speak to Anne. We both know that she does not love me. I am quite sure I will not make her happy. No matter how much business sense it might make, it is wrong to catch her up in it and force a union which might be disagreeable to her.’

  ‘There are certain expectations … ‘ Breton said cautiously.

  ‘And they are all about this house. Well, damn the house. I do not want it,’ Joseph said firmly. ‘I would be quite content with something smaller. With fewer rooms, and not so many ghosts.’ He laughed again. ‘Her father can have it off me for a breach of promise settlement. That is what he wants, after all. Unless … ‘ He grinned at Breton. ‘Unless you would be willing to take the thing off my hands? I expect you would be troubled endlessly by Clairemont, of course. He seems to have the daft idea that his daughter shall be mistress, no matter what she wants. You’ll be in his sights for a husband then, I am sure. You’ll likely have to take her with the deal.’

  ‘How dare you speak of her in that way? As though she were property to be traded!’ Breton was simmering with rage and quite missing the point.

  ‘I cannot trade a thing I never possessed, Bob.’ He gave his friend a significant look. ‘I doubt that my leaving will create much heartache for Miss Anne Clairemont. But can there be any doubt that such a lovely girl will be married by spring? I should think there is some gentleman who would wish to fill the void I leave. If I knew of him, I would urge him to act quickly—use the disarray I’m likely to leave in the Clairemont household to good advantage and whatever bait might come to hand to clinch the deal.’

  ‘I see.’ But he did not seem to. Breton’s face was still wary.

  ‘If there is a man who loves her as she deserves, I would wish him well.’ To finish, he gave Bob a hearty clap upon the back, as though to jolt the man out of his lethargy.

  ‘I see. Yes, I think I do.’ The grin spread slowly across his friend’s face as his plans for the future came clear.

  ‘I think you do.’ Joseph grinned back at him. ‘And a Merry Christmas to you, sir.’

  ‘I think it shall be.’

  ‘Now, what was it that you wished to say to me earlier? For I do not think I quite heard it.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Bob said, waving a hand to scrub the air of his words. ‘Nothing at all other than to wish you well.’

  ‘That is good. For this might be a trying day for you. What do you think our London friends are likely to say if I bring the whole of the village back with me for Christmas dinner?’

  Breton thought for a moment. ‘I expect they will be horrified.’

  ‘Well, apparently, it is the custom in these parts. I cannot keep alienating the workers, or there shall be hell to pay.’

  ‘You might lose some investors,’ Breton warned. ‘Feathers are likely to be ruffled on your fat pigeons.’

  ‘Then I shall have to win them back another way. Or I shall find others. But let us see, shall we? I mean to visit Anne next. Perhaps I can enlist the aid of her father in smoothing the way with the Londoners. If he does not throw me bodily from his house first.’

  Joseph’s carriage pulled up to the door of the Clairemonts’ new home and he wondered why he had not taken the place for himself. He had deemed it too far from the mill and rejected it out of hand. But, even with the addition of a wife and children, twelve rooms and a modest staff would be much closer to his needs than the monstrosity he now owned. How had he been so foolish?

  He was admitted, and waited patiently in the parlour for Miss Anne, who was preparing for church, relieved that their current bond would make his appearance seem somewhat less alarming to the household. How they would feel about him in a quarter-hour was likely to be a different story. He wondered with a smile if he should have instructed his coachman to keep in his seat, whip in hand, for the hasty escape they would need to make.

  There was a wild scrambling in the hall, followed by a sudden pause and the sedate entrance of Miss Anne Clairemont. The single curl out of place on her beautiful head and the lopsided bow of her sash were the only evidence that he had caught her unawares. She gave a graceful curtsey, as though allowing him the moment to admire her, and then asked sweetly, ‘Did you want me, Mr Stratford?’

  ‘I have come to ask you the same thing, Miss Clairemont.’ It was a bold question, but his morning was a busy one, and there was no point in beating around the bush. He watched as her pretty face registered confusion. ‘Come, let us sit down and talk awhile.’ He sat. Bob would have been horrified, and reminded him that he could not go ordering young ladies about in their own homes, nor sitting when they stood.

  But this one did not seem to notice his lapse, and perched nervously on the couch at his side, waiting for him to speak.

  He took her hand. ‘Before we go another step on life’s road, Anne, I must know the truth. Do you want me?’

  ‘I … I don’t understand,’ Anne said firmly. But the truth of it was plain on her face—if only he could get her to admit it. ‘In what way? Your visit is unexpected, of course, but not unwelcome.’

  ‘I do not mean to ask if you want me now—this instant. I mean as a husband, and for life. Do you desire my company? I wish to know the reason for our upcoming union.’

  ‘You wish to cry off?’ Now her face was a mix of hope and dread, and a trembling that was the probable beginning of tears.

  ‘I have asked and you have answered,’ he said, as gently as possible. ‘And that is how it will remain, if you truly wish it. Do not think I will cry off and leave you.’ He paused and looked her clearly in the eye. ‘If to have me is the thing that will truly make you happy.’

  ‘Of course I am happy.’ Her face fell.

  If she persisted in this way he would have no choice but to marry her. Or perhaps he should arrange a match between her and the Aubusson. As she was making her heartfelt declaration she could not seem to take her eyes from the rug at their feet.

  ‘You have honoured me with your proposal. My family stands to gain much by it. It will secure my future. Why would I not be happy?’

  That sounded almost as if she asked herself the same question. It gave him reason to hope.

  ‘Then now you must do something for me,’ he said. ‘Consider it a gift for our first Christmas.’

  She looked up, quite terrified. ‘I do not think … After we are married … of course … but now? It is Christmas morning, Mr Stratford. And this is my parents’ parlour.’

  He laughed at her total misunderstanding of him, and at her obvious horror at the prospect of the conjugal act, wondering about how much she might have already learned from his friend about inappropriate acts of passion. If this was her view of him it was quite beyond a display of maidenly resistance, and much closer to active distaste. ‘What I am requesting is nothing like what you expect. If we are to marry, we will be together for a long time. The rest of our lives, perhaps.’

  He should not have said perhaps. He should have been more definite. That alone should have told him of his own heart. For once they were joined there would be no reprieve.

  ‘And I should think, if we can give each other nothing else, we
deserve mutual honesty—to be given without fear of recrimination. I have reason to suspect that you might be happier if you had been able to accept another. And that the primary goal in taking me is to help your family return to the place of social prominence it once held. If that is the truth, there is no shame in it. But would it not be better to state it outright, so that there can be no confusion?’

  She blinked at him, unable to speak. But neither did she offer the quick denial that would have corrected a mistake.

  ‘Now, tell me the truth. In one word. Do you love me?’

  ‘It is not really expected, when one is of a certain class, that one will marry for love,’ she said, as though by rote.

  ‘Nor is it expected that they will give a simple answer to a direct question,’ he countered, but without any real irritation. ‘But am I to assume, from your misdirection, that your answer is no?’

  ‘I respect you, of course. You have many worthy and admirable qualities that would make a woman proud to be your wife.’

  He sighed, for she was not making this easy. ‘Then I am sure, since you have such respect for me, that you will be happy to hear that this morning I have taken the first step towards selling your old house to Mr Robert Breton.’

  There was a moment of blankness on her face, a deliciously unattractive drop of her jaw and a sudden and complete lack of composure. It was the first sign of humanity he had seen in her. Then she spoke—not in the decorous half-whisper that he had grown accustomed to, but a full-throated, unladylike shout.

  ‘Father!’ She stood and shouted again. ‘Father! Come downstairs immediately. I am about to break my engagement with Mr Stratford.’

  Next, the carriage stopped at the first door in the village. His groom made to get down and take a package, but Joseph held up a hand. ‘It must be me, I think. At least for the first few houses. Simply hand things to me, and I will be the one to knock.’

  The first door was opened by a child. Before she could run for Mama, Joseph thrust the basket into her arms and shouted, ‘Merry Christmas!’ and then turned away to receive the next hamper and walked the few steps to the next door.

  There. Not so bad, he told himself. He had half feared that there would be a punch upon the nose and a slammed door before he could get his gift across the threshold. At the next house he saw a wife. After that he found one of the weavers most vocal in opposition to him still in nightshirt and cap.

  Joseph pushed the basket into his arms, with a hurried ‘Season’s Greetings!’

  ‘I suppose this is to make up for the trouble you’ve caused?’ the man said sceptically.

  ‘It is mince pies,’ Joseph answered, lifting the corner of the cloth. ‘And a ham. While it lacks the supernatural power to mend our differences, it will at least be good with warm bread. I believe there is some wine as well. More concrete and useful than an apology, I should think. But you can have one of those as well. The rest can wait until Twelfth Night.’ He turned away to get another basket.

  With the man still standing dumbstruck in the open doorway, Joseph began to walk down the street. From the corner of his eye he saw the man turn as well, shouting back into his house. As Joseph walked he could see the man darting down a side street, and heard a pounding on a back door somewhere ahead of him.

  He delivered his next basket, and the good wife who took it accepted it with a hesitant smile and a nod of confirmation—but none of the surprise that he had seen in the first houses. From then on he could almost hear the buzz as the news preceded him down the street with shouts, pounding footsteps and lads panting in kitchens to relay that the old dragon Stratford had gone mad and was giving away his hoard. A crowd was growing behind him as well, for just as the news ran ahead, out through back doors and down alleys, the consequences were trailing him like a parade.

  At last he came to the Jordan house, and pushed a particularly large package into the man’s hands as the door opened. ‘Mr Jordan,’ he said happily. ‘A Merry Christmas to you. And—’ he lifted the corner of the napkin that covered the gift ‘—a brace of partridge, cheese, oranges, sweets for the children, mince and a bottle of milk with the cream still floating on the top. Children need milk, Mr Jordan. And yours will not want for it once you have accepted the position of foreman at my mill.’

  ‘Mr Stratford?’ The man could not manage anything else, not even a thank-you.

  ‘You needn’t say more right now,’ Joseph assured him. ‘But you might help with the distribution of the rest of the packages in the wagon that is following my carriage. I have another important errand to run that will take me away from it. While you are about it, could you be so kind as to invite your neighbours to the manor this evening? The doors will be open, just as they always used to be.’

  Jordan managed a weak nod.

  ‘There’s a good man. I will see you this evening, shall I?’ Joseph looked at his watch.

  Then he turned and ran.

  The Lampett cottage was on the edge of the village, almost into the country, and set back at the end of a short drive. Joseph could feel the collective eyes of the people on him as he went. It was very near the same crowd as he had seen rioting at the mill. But where he had felt rage and distrust on that occasion he now felt a kind of wary encouragement pressing him forwards. The gifts he had offered had done much to disperse their ill will. But how they felt about him in the future would depend on his reception at this last and most vital of houses.

  And none of it mattered, really. Not for the reasons they thought. While he might argue trade and tariffs until the last trump, he would have to agree to disagree with her father, and manage his troubled mind as well. But as long as they could be in agreement on one thing none of it would matter to him.

  The winter air was sharp, and he ran until he could feel the pain of it in his lungs, in his side. Then he ran further, as he had when he was a boy and had no money for horses and no use for them either. It was good to be alive—to see the robins flitting in the bare branches of the few small trees in the garden, to kick the hoarfrost from the twigs and see it shower to the ground in a sparkle, and to hear the sound of the Christmas church bells growing louder as he neared the front gate and ran through it and up the drive towards the house. He did not stop even as he reached the door, but banged his body against it, striking knees and palms flat against the wood as he might have when playing tag as a child.

  He peeled himself away to knock properly. Then he laughed and hammered on the door with his fists, heedless of the way it must look.

  And then the door opened.

  Chapter Eighteen

  From her bedroom, Barbara could hear the pounding on the door, and then her father arguing with someone in the parlour.

  Why must he act up on Christmas morning? It did not help that she was already feeling quite fragile, nerving herself for the curious glances she was likely to receive in church today. She did not think she could stand a scene from him as well. Mixed in with his rising voice she could hear the chill tones of her mother, who was never able to soothe him.

  She looked in the mirror, straightening her brown merino church dress with trembling hands. She could think of only one thing that would cause such strife and anger to both of her parents. But would anyone be cruel enough to tell tales about her on this of all days? If that was the problem, she had best go and face it herself, for neither parent was likely to be up to the task.

  When she went into the parlour she saw her father standing in the doorway, his shirt collar open, neckcloth in hand. Mr Joseph Stratford was crumpling the linen of Father’s cravat with a vigorous handshake. Her mother stood to the side, looking like nothing so much as an outraged hen when a cat was stalking in the chicken house.

  Joseph glanced past her father to her, smiling as though he had not a care in the world. ‘Good morning to you, Miss Lampett. And a Merry Christmas.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, rooted to her spot in the doorway to the hall. Why could she not stop looking at him
, cross the room, push him out of the house and shut the door? Why did he have to look so well, so handsome and so much more vital and alive than he had after their night together? Did he mean to show her how well he did without her? Surely he must know that she drank in every detail whenever she looked at him.

  Joseph realised that he had not released her father, and let the hand drop suddenly, turning to her mother with a deep bow. ‘And to you, Mrs Lampett. A Merry Christmas. I do not think we have been formally introduced.’

  ‘I know just who you are.’ Her mother said it in a way that would tell him where he stood with the whole of the family.

  He grinned in her direction, as though to say, Just you wait. Things are about to get interesting.

  Remembering how purposely obtuse he could be when he had a goal in sight, how utterly heedless of others, she gave a warning shake of her head.

  ‘I suppose you are wondering why I have come here in this way, at this hour, on this day.’

  ‘I am wondering if I shall have to put you out,’ said her father. ‘I assure you that I am quite capable of it, should you make any more trouble.’

  Father was no more capable of success in that than in flying to the moon. But this was hardly the time to call attention to it, so Barbara put in, as meekly as possible, ‘I certainly hope that will not be necessary.’ She shot Joseph an evil glare. ‘If I could just talk to you outside for a moment, Mr Stratford? We might settle whatever it is that brings you here, and continue our preparations for church.’

  ‘But I did not come to speak to you, Miss Lampett. At least not just yet. I promise I will be brief.’ He gave her the quickest of apologetic smiles, and then returned to her father. And, if she was not mistaken, she saw a twinkle in his eye.

  He was making fun of her. After all that had happened he was amusing himself at her expense. She would be sure he was brief, indeed. The first time he stopped speaking to take a breath, she would haul him by the neck from the room.