A Regency Christmas Carol

by Christine Merrill

  Her father’s rallying cries were lost in the scuffle as men scrabbled in the dirt for pennies. Barbara pushed through them easily this time, until she could lay her hand upon her father’s arm. ‘Come away,’ she whispered. ‘Now. Before this goes any further. You can speak another day.’

  It seemed the mood had left him, passing out of his body like a possessing spirit, leaving him quiet and somewhat puzzled, as though he did not quite know how he had come to be standing here in front of so many people. He would come away with little struggle, and she would have him home before the law arrived. All would be well. Until the next time.

  Directly above her, and removed from the chaos, Joseph Stratford observed—distant and passionless, as though he did not know or care for the pain he was causing. When she looked at him all her father’s anger and frustration seemed to rush into her. If the Lord had bothered to imbue her with reason, then why could he have not made her a man, so that other men might listen to her?

  She turned and shouted up at the dark man who thought himself so superior to his fellows. ‘You blame the men around me. But you should be ashamed of yourself as well. You stand over us, thinking yourself a god. You are mocking a level of hardship that you cannot possibly understand. You act as if you are made of the same rough wood and cold metal gears that fill your factory. If I could see the contents of your heart it would be nothing but clockwork, and fuelled by the coal running in your veins.’

  Just for a moment she thought she saw a change in his face, a slight widening of the eyes as though her words had struck home. And then he gave a mirthless, soundless laugh, little more than a lifting and dropping of the shoulders. ‘And a Merry Christmas to you as well, my dear.’ Then he turned and stepped easily from his perch, dropping to the ground, though it must have been nearly eight feet, and strolling back to his carriage and his nervous grooms and coachman. They came cautiously forwards to open the gates so that the carriage could get through. They needn’t have worried, for the men who had blocked the way had turned for home in embarrassed silence as soon as the money on the ground had been collected.

  She pulled her father to the side of the road so that the horses could pass. But there was the signalling tap of a cane against the side of the box as the vehicle drew abreast of them, and the driver brought it to a stop so that Stratford could lean out of the window and look at them.

  ‘This is not the end of it, Stratford,’ her father said in a quieter voice. Now that the crowd was gone he sounded capable of lucid argument, and quite his old self.

  ‘I did not think it was, Lampett,’ Stratford replied, smiling coldly down at her father, staring into his eyes like a fighter measuring the reach of his opponent before striking.

  ‘I will not let you treat these people—my people—like so many strings on your loom. They are men, not goods. They should be respected as such.’

  ‘When they behave like men I will give them respect. And not before. Now, go. You have lost your audience, and your child is shivering in the cold.’

  I am not a child. She was full four and twenty. Not that it mattered. But she was shivering—both from fear and the weather. The slight made her stand a little straighter, and fight the shudders until she could appear as collected and unmoved as her enemy was.

  It did not seem to bother Joseph Stratford in the least that the weight of the entire town was against him. They had broken his frames once already and sabotaged the building of the mill at every turn. Still he persevered. Barbara wished she could respond in kind with that careless, untouchable indifference.

  The envy bothered her. Perhaps—just a little—she appreciated the man’s sense of purpose. However misguided it might be. When she looked at him she had no doubt that he would succeed. While her father was all fire, he flared and burned out quickly. But Stratford was like stone, unchanging and unmoved. It would take more than a flash of anger to move a man like him once he had set himself to a goal.

  She looked again at him and reminded herself that he was proud as well. That sin would be his downfall if nothing else was. He could not succeed if he reduced all men to enemies and herself to a faceless, valueless child.

  As she watched the two men, locked eye to eye in a silent battle, she was relieved that her father did not own a firearm. Though she thought she could trust Mr Stratford—just barely—not to shoot without provocation, there was no telling what her father might do when his blood was up and his thinking even less clear than usual. She reached out for her father’s arm again, ready to guide him home. ‘Come. Let us go back. There is nothing more that you can do today. If he has truly called for the constable, I do not wish to see you caught up in it.’

  He shook off the embrace with a grunt and stepped back, giving an angry shrug as the carriage moved again, travelling up the road to the manor house. ‘It would serve him right if I was arrested. Then the world would see him for the sort of man he is: one who would throw an old man into jail to prove himself in the right.’

  There was no point in explaining that the only lesson anyone was likely to see was that Stratford sat in a mansion at a fine dinner, while Lampett sat hungry in a cell. ‘But it would make me most unhappy, Father,’ she said as sweetly as possible. ‘And Mother as well. If we can have nothing else for Christmas, can we not have a few days of peace?’

  ‘I will be peaceful when there is reason to be,’ her father acceded. ‘I doubt, as long as that man breathes, we will see that state again.’

  Chapter Two

  Joseph Stratford rode home alone in comfortable, if somewhat pensive, silence. The conclusion to today’s outing had been satisfactory, at least for now. The crowd had dispersed without any real violence. But if Bernard Lampett continued stirring, the town was likely to rise against him. Before that happened sterner measures would need to be taken.

  In his mind, he composed the letter he would send to the commander of the troops garrisoned in York. It was drastic, but necessary. If one or two of them were hauled off in chains it might convince the rest of the error of their ways.

  His carriage pulled up the circular drive of Clairemont Manor and deposited him at the door—so close that the chill of the season barely touched him on his way into the house. He smiled. How different this was from his past. Until last year he’d frequently had to make do on foot. But in the twelve months his investments had turned. Even with the money he’d laid out for the new mill he was living in a luxury that he would not have dreamed possible in his wildest Christmas wishes.

  Joseph handed hat, gloves and overcoat to the nearest footman and strode into the parlour to take the cup of tea waiting for him by the second-best chair near the fire. As he passed the closest seat he gave a gentle kick at the boot of the man occupying it, to get Robert Breton to shift his feet out of the way.

  Breton opened a sleepy eye and sat up. ‘Trouble at the mill?’

  ‘When is there not?’ He lifted his cup in a mock salute and Breton accepted it graciously, as though he owned the house and the right to the chair he usurped. While Joe might aspire to knock away at his own rough edges, affect the indolent slouch and copy the London accent and the facile gestures, he would never be more than false coin compared to this second son of an earl. Bob had been born to play lord of the manor, just as Joe had been born to work. He might own the house, but it was Bob’s birthright to be at ease there.

  And that was what made him so damned useful—both as a friend and an investor. The Honourable Robert Breton opened doors that the name Joseph Stratford never would, and his presence in negotiations removed some of the stink of trade when Joseph was trying to prise capital from the hands of his rich and idle friends.

  Joseph took another sip of his tea. ‘Lampett has been giving mad speeches again—raising the population to violence. Lord knows why Mackay did not run him off before now, instead of allowing himself to be scared away. He might have nipped the insurrection in the bud, and his business would still be standing.’

  Breton shrugged. �
�Anne tells me that Lampett was not always thus. There was some accident when the men fought the mill fire. He has not been right in the head since.’

  ‘More’s the pity for him and his family,’ Joe replied. ‘If he does not leave off harassing me he will be the maddest man in Australia by spring.’

  ‘Anne seems quite fond of him,’ Breton said. ‘Until they closed the school he was a teacher in the village and a respected member of the community.’

  Joseph reminded himself to speak to Anne on the subject himself, if only so that he might say he had. It did not seem right that one’s best friend got on better with one’s prospective fiancée than one did oneself. But Bob and Anne enjoyed each other’s company—perhaps because Bob was able to converse comfortably on subjects other than the price of yard goods and the man hours needed to produce them.

  ‘If Anne respects him, then she has not seen him lately. From what I have observed he is not fit company for a lady. There was a girl at the riot today who must have been his daughter, trying to drag him home and out of trouble. She came near to being trampled by the crowd and Lampett did not notice the danger to her. I rescued her myself, and did not get so much as a thank-you from either of them.’

  ‘Was this before or after you threatened to have the father arrested?’ Breton asked dryly.

  ‘In between threats, I think.’ Stratford grinned.

  Breton shook his head. ‘And you wonder why you are not loved.’

  ‘They will all love me well enough once the mill is open and they are back to work.’

  ‘If there is work to be had,’ Breton said. ‘The Orders in Council limit the places you can sell your wares. As long as America is a friend of France, there is little you can do.’

  ‘They will be repealed,’ Joseph said firmly.

  ‘And what if they are not?’

  ‘They will be. They must be. The merchants are near at breaking point now. The law must change or we are all ruined.’ Joseph smiled with reassurance, trying to imbue confidence in his faint-hearted friend. ‘It will not do to hesitate. We cannot err on the side of caution in this darkest time. If we wish for great profit we must be more sure, more daring, more active than the others. A busy mill and a full warehouse are the way to greatest success. When the moment comes it will come on us suddenly. Like the handmaidens at the wedding, we must be ready for change.’

  Breton shook his head in wonder. ‘When you tell me this I have no trouble believing.’

  ‘Then take the message to heart and share it with your friends.’ Joseph glanced out of the window at weather that was slate grey and yet lacking the snow he wished for. ‘When we have them here for Christmas I will wrap them tight in a web of good wine and good cheer. Then you shall explain the situation, as I have to you. Once they are persuaded, I will stick my hand into their pockets and remove the money needed for expansion.’

  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.’