Betrothed by Christmas

by Jess Michaels

  Tamsin could not but be moved. She went to her mother’s side. “But you are not a widow,” she consoled. “Papa is very much alive and well and coming home for Christmas.”

  “I don’t know that,” Mama countered. “I never know. I only know he is alive for sure and has not met with some terrible accident when he finally crosses my threshold. I live in constant—constant—fear of him being already dead and cold in his grave at the bottom of the sea by the time someone sends me notice.”

  As much as Tamsin could empathize with her mother’s fears, she could not join them. “Please be sensible, Mama. Papa is alive and well. He is safe and we are comfortable.”

  "But for how long?” Mama railed. “Even if he comes home, he will retire and sell out of the Royal Marines and there will be no more prize money or pay.”

  “Then let us spend no more of it, and no more of your portion. Let me stay with Aunt Dahlia—she has said I might. That will give me the time I need to find the right person. Someone more to my liking.” More masculine wallflowers, who might not be so averse to marriage as Simon. Surely there was someone she could at least learn to like, if not love as much as him.

  Someone who liked her and was free and able to love her back.

  “Stay with Dahlia—” Mama scoffed again. “How are you meet men in the sole company of women?”

  “Mama.” It was Tamsin’s turn to chide. “There are many gentlemen who visit her salons—intellectuals, writers and poets and—”

  “Ne’er do wells with not tuppence to their names.” Mama dismissed such men with a wave. “You’d be better off with that idiot, sold-out officer.”

  Tamsin did not know what shocked her more—her mother’s disdain for intellectual gentlemen, or the suggestion that she would be better off with Simon.

  “The type of men Dahlia keeps company with aren’t interested in marriage,” her mother insisted. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “No, I—”

  “You know that’s what she likes, why she lives here in London without a man for a husband? Because she prefers the company of women.”

  It took Tamsin no more than a moment to understand what her mother was implying—it was Dahlia who was averse. Averse to men.

  That was why Dahlia had asked—because she understood that not everyone was suited to marriage. Not everyone wanted such a life.

  That everyone had hopes and dreams and wants that were entirely their own.

  Whatever shock Tamsin might have felt was quickly turned to righteous indignation. “I don’t care who or what she likes, or who she loves. I only care that she likes and loves me. And listens to me and understands me. She is open and kind and generous and has a wide circle of acquaintance I would be happy and proud to call my own.”

  “You are impossible to reason with,” her mother accused.

  “And you are impossible to live with!”

  Her mother’s face went white, and Tamsin knew she had gone too far. She had given vent to feelings that were far better left unspoken. “Mama, I am sorry—”

  Mama held up a hand to stop her. “You’re not. Not sorry in the least. And you’ve wasted my time and money.”

  “It’s not wasted,” Tamsin insisted. “I know better now what I like, what sort of man would suit me.” A masculine wallflower who did not frequent balls, but who was not averse to marriage. Or perhaps Simon might, with time, begin to think differently.

  “All I’m asking for is time.”

  Mama took a deep breath. “You ask the impossible.”

  Tamsin wanted to stamp her feet in frustration, if only to keep herself from giving way to the hot press of tears. But she was not a child to have a tantrum because she did not get her way. So she asked, “Why?’

  Her mother turned her head and gave no answer.

  And the stubborn, determined, and yes, disobliging part of Tamsin’s soul turned away as well, and set its course. It was not impossible. All it would take was courage and will.

  Tamsin rose, determined.

  “Where are you going?” her mother called.

  Tamsin was determined enough to give her the truth. “To pack my bags.”

  “I won’t let you go to her,” Mama vowed. “I won’t.”

  No matter. Tamsin would find a way. “You said we had to leave in two days time, Mama—to go home for Christmas. To do so, I’ll have to pack my bags.”

  “Go ahead.” Her mother waved her away. “You’ll only do as you please anyway.”

  Perhaps she would. Perhaps she could choose what she wanted instead of worrying about what might happen. Perhaps she could make them all happy.

  If she asked the right person for what she wanted.

  The time for making arrangements had passed. The time for simply taking action had come.

  Chapter 18

  Tamsin packed her trunks, but when twilight fell, she stood at the door to the garden wearing her country cloak and carrying only one small valise filled with her most necessary possessions. All else she left behind—all the gowns and velvet pelisses and swansdown muffs. All the comforts of her life as she had known it.

  Because, hard as it was, she had to leave it all behind.

  Heat scalded her throat and salt tears stung her eyes, but she would not cry. She would not falter. She would not give in to Mama’s worst fears. Tamsin had fears enough of her own, and they were real—Cousin Edward and his dislike were real. Having no money was real.

  But she did have friends. And one friend she was sure she could depend upon.

  Tamsin pushed open the door, and was through the back garden and out the gate before she could change her mind and think better of her rash decision, or let her tears blind her way.

  “Why my dear Miss T,” a quiet voice greeted her. “Dare I ask where you are going, and with a valise, at this time of evening?”

  Tamsin’s heart cracked and flooded her chest with bittersweet relief. It was as if she had conjured him out of her thoughts and brought him to stand on the pavement behind her. “Simon. What are you doing here? I was just coming to find you.”

  “The same.” He took the valise from her cold hands. “Where to?”

  “I hardly know.” She chanced a glance back at the house. “Come away before my mother sees you.”

  “Right ho,” he agreed quietly, and fell in beside her hasting down Farm Street. “I might ask you the same thing, although I reckon I can guess. Tamsin,” he asked, “are you…leaving your home?”

  “I am.”

  His arm came around her, as if he would protect her from whatever fate had in store for a girl who abandoned her home and family. Or perhaps just prop her up when she wavered. “You’ve a plan, no doubt?”

  Tamsin had every doubt, especially now that she had to articulate the loose handful of hopes and ideas that constituted her plans. “Yes, I— That is—” She seemed to be having some trouble throwing herself at the poor man, despite her recent practice. “I wanted to propose—”

  He stood still on the pavement. “Yes?”

  No. She wasn’t going to act in the same way that had got her in all this trouble. She wasn’t going to simply inform him of another new arrangement—she was going to ask for his opinion. And his help.

  “Simon, what do you think of …” Her voice cracked and her palms went damp and cold inside her mittens. She didn’t have the nerve. “A sham elopement?”

  He looked astonished and pleased all at the same time. “I think it’s a jolly good idea,” he said immediately. “I’ve still got the carriage, and with a change of fresh horses, we could be away and off to Scotland at once. We could have Christmas at Castle Cathcart with my family. I daresay we might even catch up with my uncle and aunt, the earl and countess—they left for the holiday in Scotland this morning, and travel is better in style and comfort. Not that the hired carriage wasn’t comfortable, what?”

  The ease and enthusiasm with which he acquiesced took her by surprise. And he was smiling at her in his open, sunny way,
full of that strange, almost happy befuddlement that she could swear was some sort of act. Some way of keeping people at arm’s length.

  She could not tell which was the real Simon. Not that it mattered at this moment. “But Simon, I don’t think you’d want to get your family involved—this is a sham elopement, not a sham engagement.”

  “Are you quite sure, Miss T?” Despite his use of the familiar moniker, his voice was low and even sincere. “I find I’ve rather warmed to the idea, myself.”

  Her heart, which had already withstood so much that evening, stuttered to a near halt, beating painfully in her chest. “Really? You’ve warmed to…?” Elopement or engagement? She couldn’t bring herself to say the word that was on the tip of her tongue—marriage. Not when both she and he had so vocally opposed it.

  But hope was like opium in her blood, heady and stupefying. She longed for him to say the word—love. That was what she wanted from him. Nothing more. Nothing less. Nothing else would do.

  But what he said was, “Christmas in Scotland. With you. I really do like you, Tamsin. We’d have a jolly good time of it.”

  He liked her. Disappointment and reality leeched the hope from her. As if two friends could pretend to elope up the Great Northern Road and spend Christmas together with his family with no mention of marriage, or even a sham engagement.

  It was impossible.

  “Simon, I like you, too. You’ve been a very great friend to me—a better one than I deserve. But the whole point of the elopement would be to be caught, so my mama would have absolutely no choice but to wash her hands of me and let me go.”

  “Or force us to marry,” he countered. “And we would need to go on up to Scotland if that happens.”

  She was tempted, so awfully, wickedly tempted to let the scenario play out—to let fate make the decision for her. But she didn’t want to be a coward. She wanted to decide for herself, even if she decided wrongly. “Simon, I gave you my word. I would never let anyone force you to marry me.”

  “Aye, you did.” His hand slid into the small of her back, where he began to rub warm circles of encouragement through the layers of her clothing and cloak. “But I tell you what, now that I think on it, I’ve a better idea.”

  Her hope was too worn out for surprise, and heaven knew her prior plans had come to nothing but a load of mischief. “I’m all ears.”

  “What you want is a sham elopement.” He smiled and spread his hands as if such a thing were self-evident.

  “Yes. That’s what I said.” Had she not proposed just that? How was it that she was confused and not he?

  “No.” He gripped her hand as if he would make her understand. “We don’t actually elope. But your mama thinks you have, what? She chases me in my coach on the way to Scotland while you’re tucked up safe and quiet at my house in Hampstead.”

  “Hampstead?” But she should not be surprised that he, who had clearly known both the neighborhood and the neighbors so well, should have a house there—he was so full of unexpected, unexplained surprises.

  “Aye, that snug little bolt-hole on the heath I told you about. It will serve to hide you away quite satisfactorily in safely and comfort until your mother’s been brought to book. You could meet your bluestocking friends while you’re up there, and get a start on that book you were talking about.”

  Relief leavened her disappointment. His proposal wasn’t exactly what she had hoped for, but it would certainly make do.

  She gestured to the tattered valise. “I’ve already made a start.”

  “You see! What could be more perfect?” His enthusiasm was like a balm, easing her way. “Give you time to sort things out—time to think while you’re chaperoned by my housekeeper, a very respectable widow who will no doubt be very glad to swap you out for me. I know she’s got a goose set in, just in case the weather should turn and I had to stay in town.”

  “You would do that for me?” Her relief warmed into gratitude. “That would be extraordinary."

  “Think nothing of it.” He waved away her praise. “If you really are determined to strike out on your own, then Squire’s Mount is the place for you.”

  “Strike out on my own.” She tried the idea on for size. “I like the way that sounds.”

  His smile softened the corners of his extraordinary eyes. “Then it’s decided—you’ll come.”

  “I will.”

  She would strike out on her own—with the help of her extraordinary, loyal, kind friend. She was decided.

  She had looked so weary and undecided—she who had before been so calm and determined—it was nearly more than Simon could bear. He wanted to take her up in his arms and tell her it would all work out. He wanted to carry her home and keep her there where she would always be safe and loved and at peace.

  But to be at peace, she needed to be on her own. So he would take her home and leave her in peace, and trust the kind fate that had seen him safely through the war would keep her safe as well.

  The relocation took only the slightest of efforts to arrange, and in what seemed like no time at all, the hired hack brought them back to the top of Hampstead Hill. “We’re here. Squire’s Mount. My house.”

  His bolt-hole, he called it. The house he bought with his army pay and the price of his commission when he had sold out. The quiet house at the end of the lane, across from the wild expanse of the heath. It was the place he could laze about without reference to a calendar after so many years of rigorous schedules, agendas and precise timings of assaults. The place that had buoyed him back up after the near crushing weight of responsibility for the lives and fates of men and nations.

  Some of his friends had celebrated the lucky stroke of being alive at the end of the war by diving into affaires or marriage with the first available lass, suitable or not. Simon hadn’t wanted sex—he had wanted serenity. And he had found it here, where he had learned at long last how to have not a care in the world—how to have not so much as a dance card planned out in front of him.

  Where he had found a purpose and a calling in making other people feel as light and happy as he, even if that avocation had required him to occasionally interact with Society at all those gossipy dinner parties that served as such great fodder for his imagination. But he had found his bolt-holes in Society, too, finding quiet sofas to dream upon. Until Miss Tamsin Lesley had found him in that library.

  Simon showed her into the house and stood in his foyer in his caped greatcoat, not allowing himself to take more than a step or two into the cozy interior lest he be tempted not to leave. So he stood and twirled his hat in his hand in a ridiculously telling gesture—uneasy at leaving her, but anxious to be gone so as not to prolong the misery of having to go.

  Tamsin turned about the hallway, looking about the place with a wide, fascinated gaze, which he followed across the amusing prints and myriad books stacked everywhere, trying to see the place through her curious eyes, wondering what she would see. He felt strangely exposed, as if all his secrets were tacked up upon the shelves and walls for her to see.

  Because they were.

  “It’s very lovely,” she assured him. “So wonderfully homey, I already feel at home. Thank you, again, for arranging it all.”

  “Easy enough to arrange, once you’d thought the whole thing out.”

  Her look—that governess-y pleating at the corner of her lovely mouth—told him she was not buying the act he was still so desperately selling. “No. Simon, please. You must let me thank you—”

  “Right ho. I expect you to be well on your way to writing that history you spoke of. Just the place for it, what? Library’s as crammed with books as a bluestocking like you might like.” And before he could do anything else to give himself entirely away, he donned his cap and tapped it down on his head in a bizarrely awkward gesture of finality, as if he could prove in a single gesture to her that he was an idiot. “I’ll be off then. Best to get on the road before any snow, what?”

  Her shoulders sagged a little—hopefully in dis
appointment—but she rallied and put out her hand to shake, just like a man. Like a friend. “Godspeed. And thank you again.”

  A friend who wanted to be more.

  He allowed himself the painful pleasure of grasping her hand one last time. “Happy to oblige. Really.”

  And then, before he either said or revealed too much, he took himself through the door, and into the coach, and set to rattling down the road. Just to prove to one and all that he really was an idiot.

  Chapter 19

  Simon’s two-story Georgian manor house sat at the corner of Squire’s Mount, across the lane from the darkened heath, which, when she looked through the rows and rows of windows, was slowly being illuminated by a dusting of new falling snow.

  She hoped Simon had gotten away and on the road to Scotland ahead of the wintery weather. His house was so very much like him—handsome and well-proportioned, full of light and interesting, unexpected things. The blue-painted plaster made the soaring rooms cozy. The furniture was comfortable rather than fine. The walls were hung with charming, amusing prints of ordinary people doing ordinary things—not an aristocratic seal or staid portrait of an illustrious Cathcart ancestor to be found.

  The house was perfectly looked after by a sensible, brisk woman named Mrs. Walters, who conducted Tamsin on a tour of the rooms and cooked and cleaned and “made do as needed for the colonel.”

  “Now the colonel says as you’re to have the run of the place, library and all, to write your book. So you just make yourself to home there”—she hustled Tamsin into the cozy room—“and I’ll see to everything—elevenses, nuncheon, tea, even supper if you’re mad for the work and want it brought in to you.” The woman bustled over to the lovely scroll-legged desk, perfectly situated before the library windows. “There’s paper and fresh pens, and a pen knife, thought I daresay he’s left you plenty of well-cut quills. Cuts a good pen, the colonel does. Nice and tidy. A place for everything and everything in its place. Keeps the colonel bright and cheerful, doesn’t let him get blue and broody.”