As the orchestra came to the end of the jaunty tune, Percy bowed to Letitia, whilst she curtseyed, her blanket still around her shoulders. Never had she enjoyed a more perfect dance than this, and as the music began again, so did they.
For the better part of an hour, they danced in perfect, private harmony, in the still quiet of the gardens. The moon looked on with a beaming smile, shedding a silvery spotlight upon the happy couple as they moved in time to the beat of one another’s hearts.
Chapter Fourteen
That evening, Percy had said his farewells without ever entering Hardcastle House, leaving Letitia to go back inside alone. Nobody was any the wiser of where she had been or what she had been up to, though her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glittered with pure joy. Her fingertips tingled where his hand had touched hers, and she could still recall the closeness of him as they had stepped near to one another.
Indeed, with the Ball a success, she had retreated to her chambers and thought only of Percy, as she had changed into her nightgown and snuggled down beneath the covers. Her heart had remained warm, her memories of their intimate dance forcing out the chill that had crept beneath her skin, from the biting frost of the outside world. A knock at the door awoke her. She blinked her eyes open, puzzled to see daylight glancing in through the curtains.
How long have I slept?
“Come in,” she said sleepily, sitting up. The beginnings of a cold were stirring in her nose and throat, but she did not care. That dance with Percy had been worth it.
Agnes peered around the door.
“How are you feeling, my dear niece?” she asked, her tone strange.
An undercurrent of something akin to excitement bristled in her voice, confusing Letitia all the more.
“I am somewhat sniffly, but nothing too serious,” she replied. “Did I sleep the whole night?”
“You did, Letitia. You must have been exhausted from all your good deeds.”
Letitia smiled. “Did Ruth and Robert have a splendid evening?” A yawn stretched her mouth open, her limbs relaxing.
“They did, from what I witnessed. They danced a great deal together, though Robert was courteous and danced with many of the other ladies, also.”
“That is good to hear.”
“Speaking of courteous gentlemen, there is a young man awaiting your audience in the downstairs drawing room,” Agnes said, with that same, strange note in her voice. “Might I help you to dress?”
“A young man?”
“He goes by the name of Mr. Percy Timmins. I believe you know each other,” Agnes replied. “Indeed, I was rather surprised to see him at the door this morning. I thought that he might have come to try to sell me further designs, especially as his initial design has been the best-seller in my shop since I purchased it from him. Although, he seems far more interested in you than any business venture.”
Letitia leapt out of bed and hurried to throw on a pleasant dress of pale-yellow cotton. Agnes helped her, with the two of them descending the stairs fifteen minutes later. She could do nothing with her hair with so little time to prepare, but she found that she did not care. If Percy liked her, as she hoped he did, then he would not mind some unruly curls. His own were rather wild.
Taking a deep breath, she entered the drawing room to find Percy perched on the edge of an armchair. He looked anxious, his eyes wide as his gaze rested on her. Agnes did not follow her into the room. Instead, she stayed outside in the hallway, allowing the couple to speak privately for a moment.
“Mr. Timmins,” she said. “It is a pleasure to see you again, so soon.”
He stood and bowed. “I could not keep away, for my mind was racing with thoughts of you.”
“Mine, too.”
“I am sorry that I did not stay long last night,” he said quietly. “I ought to have danced with you in the ballroom, in the proper manner.”
“No, it was far more magical to dance outside, with the moonlight as our chaperone.”
He laughed nervously. “And you slept well?”
“I did. Indeed, I did not realise it was morning when my aunt called for me. I slept rather soundly indeed, though I feel the cold may have been responsible for that. It inspired me to do some hibernating of my own, like a hedgehog,” she joked, bringing a wide smile to his lips. It filled her with delight, to see him grin in such a way.
Phillip had never looked at her that way, nor had she ever looked at Phillip the way she was looking at Percy in that moment.
“I have spoken with your aunt this morning,” he said, wringing his hands. “I realise that I will need to speak with your mother and father, also, but I could not wait for their reply. If they deny me, then so be it, but I must tell you of my feelings before my courage fails me. Ever since that first meeting, you have never been far from my mind. And so, dear Miss Fitzwilliam, I must ask… I must ask if you will make me the happiest man in all of England, and consent to be my wife?” He looked up at her with hopeful eyes. “More than that, I wish to ask if you will consent to be my partner in all things — in love, in marriage, and in business. Your designs are excellent, and I should like to add them to my own, to bring a new sense of style to the shop. I long for this, more than anything — to go into the future with you by my side, every step of the way.”
Letitia sank down in the opposite armchair and reached out her hands. Percy took them in his, and held them tight.
“It would be the greatest honour of my life to be your wife, and to be your partner,” she replied solemnly, her heart practically bursting with happiness.
It had all been so quick and unexpected, but she had never known love like it. It had snuck upon her when she least expected it, just as Percy had said it would. The truth of the matter was, she had not had her one gift of true love. She had thought it to be Phillip, and she had been woefully mistaken. It had been Percy all along.
“Do you mean it?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
She nodded.
“With all my heart.” She paused, gathering her feelings. “You see, when you first walked into my aunt’s shop, I had forgotten that I was capable of happiness. My heart was broken into pieces, and I never thought I would smile again. And then you came in, and you walked to the table, and when I looked up at you… all I wanted to do was smile. My heart felt light again, for a fleeting moment. All this week that we have spent together, working alongside one another, I have felt that same lightness of heart. Not only that, but a sensation that I have never known before — the feeling of certainty, and of undeniable love. All my life, I have been made to doubt the affections of others, but with you I feel nothing but surety. I know your heart, and you know mine, though we have never spoken of it. Surely, there can be no surer sign of love than that?”
Percy squeezed her hands gently.
“I hardly dared to hope that you might feel the same.”
“Well, you may hope, and you may be sure of my affections.” She felt breathless and giddy. “I will be your wife, Mr. Timmins, and I will be happy to be so.”
“Might I kiss you, Miss Fitzwilliam?” he asked, helping her to rise from her chair.
She nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on his.
“You may.”
He lifted his hands, cupping her face tenderly. His fingertips were warm and slightly rough from years of craftsmanship, his thumb brushing gently against the apples of her cheeks. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as he leaned closer, tilting her chin up.
With agonising, delicious slowness, he grazed his lips against hers. They tingled against his touch, her heart thundering in her chest at the soft, sweet sensation. With a smile, he pressed his lips to hers again, her palms resting on his chest as they kissed. His heartbeat matched hers, as she felt it thud beneath her hand.
“I love you, Miss Fitzwilliam,” he murmured, pulling away slightly.
“And I love you, Mr. Timmins,” she breathed, staring up into his charming eyes.
Epilogue
They were married in
Upper Nettlefold on New Year’s Day, as a confetti of snow floated down from the swollen clouds overhead. A cold wind whipped through the churchyard, sending the flurries spiralling in mesmerising whorls. Everyone stood to attention in their Sunday best, admiring the happy couple. Amongst them were Letitia’s family, who had arrived from St. Alban’s for the occasion, having accepted Percy’s request for her hand in marriage. After everything that had taken place that year, her father had been only too happy to agree.
Even so, an atmosphere of elation settled over the town as the nuptials took place. Although he had apprenticed in London for three years, that time away had not done anything to dent Upper Nettlefold’s affection for Percy, who had always been a well-loved figure in the town as the grandson of Mr Charles Timmins, especially since his grandfather was greatly respected. And, since Letitia was regarded as being ‘one of Cordelia’s ‘girls’’, she had also won the approval of the township, especially after her kind gift to Ruth Hampson. Nobody would forget that in a hurry, least of all Robert Tanner.
Indeed, the only people who seemed put out by the happy day were the other girls of Hardcastle House. Cordelia had demanded that they attend, and they stood in the church, grumbling under their breaths. Letitia could hear them, though she paid them no heed. She was too happy to dwell upon negative words.
“How can it be that she is to marry Percy Timmins?” Liza complained. “She is a newcomer here.”
“It does not seem fair,” another girl muttered.
“There are so few eligible bachelors as it is, and she strides in and takes one of the handsomest,” a third girl bemoaned.
“Silence, all of you!” Cordelia hissed. “If I hear another word about it, I will dispense with the extra staff and have you serve the wedding breakfast.”
They fell quiet, exchanging sour looks as the service proceeded.
Letitia kept her gaze upon Percy as the vicar pronounced them man and wife. With an excited smile, Percy looked deep into her sapphire-blue eyes. In that moment, the rest of the congregation fell away, leaving only the two of them to stare into one another’s eyes.
It reminded her of their evening on the riverbank, when she had finally been convinced of her love for him. It had only grown since then, her heart forever pounding with intense joy. Truthfully, she had not known that such happiness was possible.
“I love you,” he whispered, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek. It was not appropriate for him to kiss her properly, in front of so many people.
“I love you,” she replied, holding tight to his hands.
Turning to the congregation, they began to walk back up the aisle together, out into the winter wonderland as husband and wife for the very first time.
The snow crunched underfoot as they strolled towards the waiting carriage, which would take them back to Hardcastle House – even though it was but a short distance away. The wind nipped Letitia’s cheeks, as she turned and grinned at her husband. They were stepping into the future together, not only as a married pair, but as business partners. Already, they had come up with designs that had proven more popular than any before.
As long as they were together, they could achieve anything. Somehow, against all odds, love had bloomed in the deepest dark of winter, and it would only grow more lovely as the season gave way to Spring, where the hope of new life might bring more joy than either of them could ever have anticipated.
The End
I hope that you enjoyed this story. You’ll find a preview of another of my books, just after the About the Author Section.
About the Author
Lydia Pembroke’s roots go back to England, although her country of birth is Australia.
Her interests include ancestry, and it was the brooch left to her by her paternal grandmother that sparked her interest in the Regency and Victorian Eras. She often held the precious brooch in her hands, wondering what mysteries it held.
Today, she still fantasises, but now she and writes those stories down. Her stories are romantic and sweet. She never kills anyone, unless she really has to.
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Other Books by Lydia Pembroke
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Clean Regency Romance
Lydia Pembroke
Prologue
Lady Marguerite Southwell, the Dowager Countess of Dunsmore, peeled back the heavy velvet curtain of her bedchamber window and looked out on the gloomy town of Lower Nettlefold. The sun was coming up, bronzed fingertips reaching toward a clear Autumn day. A burnished light began to drench the distant hills and fields, but no warm glow rested on the town at the bottom of the hill. The sun seemed to avoid it entirely. Nestled by the banks of the Nettlerush River, it paled in comparison to its twin, Upper Nettlefold. They were more like distant siblings, and this the prodigal child. Where Upper Nettlefold felt cheerful and welcoming, this town sat squalid in its own misery. A heaviness hung over the settlement.
Oftentimes, Marguerite thought it was all of her own imagining— that she saw the town in a way that did not exist, but one had only to walk the grim streets and breathe in the always-bitter air to know that it was not a figment of her imagination. Living in the shadow of a burned-out husk, haunted by the ghosts who had once resided there, how could the town be anything other than grim?
Each morning, upon awakening, Marguerite convinced herself she could still smell the acrid tang of ash and flames. She could certainly still hear the screams and shouts of those trapped within. Although she kept to the only wing that had survived, she too felt the presence of the remaining ruins that adorned the hill beside her abode; the crumbled structure that had once been the thriving epicentre of the household. Those ruins were intrinsic, now, to the very existence of Lower Nettlefold. The tragic fate of the Southwell family rested in the hearts of every inhabitant.
Every Southwell who might have worn the mantle of the Earldom of Dunsmore had died in the fire. Marguerite herself was all that remained; an old woman with no family to keep her warm in the winter of her life. There were no more sons or daughters, nephews or nieces, cousins, uncles, or aunts, to claim the title, be they Earl or Countess. Even the small ones, her beloved grandchildren, had perished.
The eldest, Marguerite, who was her namesake, and the dear twins, Charlotte and Arthur. The Dunsmore House blaze had claimed them without mercy, as it had done her darling son, Charles, her adored daughter-in-law, Rebecca, and even her errant, wayward daughter, Felicity. The behaviour of the latter had undoubtedly been the catalyst for the fire, but Marguerite could not find it in her heart to blame a ghost. What did it matter who was to blame, when the outcome had remained the same?
What haunted Marguerite most of all was the fact that nobody had managed to uncover the bodies of the three children. Buried under so much unstable rubble, it had been deemed unsafe to attempt a recovery. Over the years, she had employed men to attempt the task, but it had always come to naught.
The children could not be found. Not only that, but she feared that moving the rubble too much might crush whatever remained; she did not know what state they might have ended up in, after the blaze had been doused. Charles and his wife, Rebecca, had been found and buried in the appropriate manner, as had Felicity. Her death had broken a thousand hearts across the country, and though she had often been the subject of scandal, the papers had treated her loss with a kindly tone.
The staff who had lost their lives had also been recovered from the ruins of Dunsmore House, and there had been much mourning in the town. Those staff members who had survived the fire disbanded to Upper Nettlefold, r
etreated further afield, or stayed in Lower Nettlefold under a grey cloud of sad reminiscence. It was this melancholy that continued to seep into the veins of the town, the infection trickling down the hill from the remains of the crumbled house.
A service had been given for the lost Southwell children, but Marguerite could not shake the hollow feeling it had brought her. It lingered still, twenty years later. All she wanted to do was bury her grandchildren properly, but that right had been denied her. And so, she mourned them each day, keeping their memory alive. Though many tried to persuade her, she would not rebuild or refurbish the practically derelict house, despite having the wealth to do so. The Dunsmore fortune had not been touched, and she was not about to lay a finger on it.
Mr. Heslop, the old butler, had lived through the fire and remained at her side still. A few maids and servants came and went, but Mr. Heslop was the sole constant. She would not have anyone else around her for long.
He was the only person she could trust, with her being the keeper of such wealth. Rumours abounded that there was buried gold in a secret cellar beneath the rubble, and many suspected that was why she stayed at the house and did not seek to fix a thing or let anyone near the building. They called her ‘the Dragon of Dunsmore’. She’d heard it whispered behind her back, but she did not care for the idle gossip of bored villagers.
They could believe what they wanted to believe, for she knew the truth. Everyone thought she remained so that nobody could get their hands on the family gold or fortune, but it was far simpler than that. She stayed to be near those she had lost.
That did not stop glory hunters coming from far and wide to try their luck, digging in the rubble in the dead of night. Over the past two decades, such endeavours had resulted in several deaths, which had led many to believe that the house was cursed, if not outright haunted. Marguerite herself was a believer in such things, though she did not fear the ghosts as others did. She welcomed them, longing for them to speak with her or make themselves known. Thus far, they had not. She felt a chill in certain corridors, and her skin prickled if she wandered in the ruins too long, but there had been no visible spectres to ease the wounds of her shattered heart. Those visions came only in the darkness of her restless slumber. Even then, their visits were all too brief.
Miss Fitzwilliam's Christmas Redemption Page 7
