Christmas Cinderellas

by Sophia James

  ‘You told me that you worked here...’

  There was a question in his tone and Nell felt suddenly nervous. She should not reveal Beatrice’s true character to a near-stranger. For that, she reminded herself, was what he was, despite this connection between them.

  She felt herself flush. ‘It is partly true,’ she offered carefully. ‘Since Papa died I have sometimes felt more like a servant here than a member of the family.’ Frowning, she reflected on her own words. ‘That is unfair. Beatrice—my stepmother—has never sought to treat me badly...’

  Is that true?

  Remembering Beatrice’s insouciant demand that she vacate her chamber, and the way in which she had been gradually expected to help more and more with the physical work around the house, she felt a blinding realisation come to her. She had been treated badly! Many times. And she herself had allowed it.

  ‘And yet,’ she added frankly, ‘I do seem to have been badly done by.’

  He was frowning. ‘So would it be true to say that you work here, or not?’

  ‘No...’ That sounded weak. ‘No,’ she said again, with more certainty than she felt. ‘And so I must apologise to you for giving you the impression at our first meeting that I was a servant.’

  His expression softened a little. ‘That small deception was harmless in its intent.’ He grinned. ‘Like my decision not to tell you I would be a guest here.’

  She laughed. ‘You have me there! Very well—you are forgiven for kissing my hand under false pretences.’

  ‘You accepted the attention under equally false pretences,’ he shot back, his eyes dancing with mischief.

  ‘So we both got what we wanted,’ she said softly.

  There was a pause as they eyed each other.

  He swallowed. ‘You have soot on your cheek.’

  He pulled out his handkerchief—the one she had embroidered. The cinders! She stood immobile as he gently cleaned them away, enjoying his nearness...the delicious scent of him. His warm fingers were on her chin, tilting her face up a little. Had his breathing become a little louder?

  ‘I, too, suffered a change in circumstances when my parents died.’ His voice was low, and the air between them seemed charged with the enormity of the secrets they were sharing. ‘My mama died when I was five—at Christmastide.’

  Nell felt her face crumple with compassion. Poor little boy!

  ‘My papa,’ he continued, ‘sent me away afterwards. First to distant relatives, then to boarding school. In truth, I became an orphan when Mama died.’

  She nodded, felt her throat close painfully, making words impossible. They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment—until they heard, in the distance, the chiming of the clock announcing that it was dinner time.

  Dropping his hand from her face, he strode to the scrubbed table and picked up the first tray. ‘Do you want this anywhere in particular?’ His tone was clipped, his expression shuttered.

  He is upset because of what he has just told me.

  She needed to assist him to retain control of himself.

  ‘Let us just bring everything to the dining room first, then we can display it properly.’ Her voice shook a little. She pointed to the plates of meat. ‘Please take those first, then come back for the bread.’

  ‘Yes, milady!’

  The mischief was back, despite the emotion still swirling around them both.

  She took a breath. Oh, but he is wonderful!

  ‘Well, go on, then! And do not tarry!’ she retorted sharply, joining in the game.

  With an ironic bow, and a decided glint in his eye, he obeyed.

  December 28th

  Two days had passed—days which, for Nell, had been both dreamlike and agonisingly frustrating all at once.

  Having discovered the truth in her own heart, she gloried in the exhilaration of finding the person her soul had craved. Everything about him was fascinating to her. The way he spoke, and how it revealed or concealed his thoughts and opinions. The way he moved, with a fluid, long-legged grace that confused her senses and made her heart skip. The habit he had of pulling his right ear when he was irritated by someone—often Fanny or Beatrice.

  She wanted more. She wished to know everything about his life so far. More of his childhood. How it had been for him to lose his home and his mama at five and be sent away. His hopes and dreams. His favourite foods. What books he enjoyed. Whether he was a proficient dancer or had any talent for music.

  So much to discover about him and so little opportunity!

  She had observed the proprieties, of course. Not for her an obvious flirtation, such as the one tried by Miss Bridgeton. Nell, determined to learn from the transparent behaviour of some of the other young ladies, was subtle and restrained in her interactions with Mr Beresford while they were in company. Or at least she hoped she was.

  She made sure to spend time with everyone in the party, sharing her attention and her conversation fairly among them. Yet when everyone walked each day she and Mr Beresford automatically and naturally fell in together. It was their opportunity to talk, and they took it with enthusiasm.

  She found herself telling him much of her own history—her happy existence before Papa’s illness, the trials she had endured under Beatrice’s guardianship, the black moods that sometimes threatened to overwhelm her.

  In turn, he entrusted her with memories of his beloved mama, although he was reticent about his lonely years in boarding school.

  ‘My brother Jack suffered more than I did,’ he offered, with seeming reluctance. ‘He, being two years older, appointed himself my protector. There was no-one at all to protect him.’

  Nell had shivered at the words. Poor boys!

  Nell knew that Cecily understood she had a partiality for Mr Beresford, but was much too well-bred to comment on it. Together, in the house, they entertained the children, laughed together, and chose to seek each other out during the long winter evenings, when the party was gathered in the large salon.

  Mr Beresford sometimes opted to sit with them, but Nell could honestly not point to anything that might signal they favoured each other.

  Except for the fact that she knew they did. Knew it with a conviction that was implacable, unalterable, unquestionable.

  Tonight there was an added air of excitement, for members of the local gentry had been invited to boost their numbers and lift their mood. Beatrice had even hired musicians to play for them. Naturally it had been Nell who organised it—but, as hostess, Beatrice would get the credit.

  Jemett, Mrs Hussey, Cook, and the entire staff had been busy all day—cleaning, polishing silver, cooking, and moving furniture. The salon now contained numerous additional chairs, arranged against the walls, while the sofas had been moved back to create a space for dancing. The musicians had arrived a few hours ago, and the strains of instruments being tuned and their practising all afternoon had increased Nell’s excitement.

  Nell was not normally encouraged to attend Beatrice’s parties, but tonight she was deaf to Beatrice’s hints and determined to be part of it. Earlier, when Beatrice had idly wondered if Nell might prefer to stay in her bedchamber this evening, Nell had pointedly reminded her that since the arrival of Beatrice’s guests she’d had no bedchamber, and was not enamoured of the idea of spending all evening in the tiny attic.

  ‘Well, I suppose you might make yourself useful with the younger ones,’ Beatrice had conceded. ‘But once they are taken away to the nursery you should go too.’

  Nell had answered noncommittally, knowing that, for once, she was planning to defy her stepmother.

  ‘And make sure you do not disgrace me!’ Beatrice had added. ‘What will you wear?’

  Nell had shrugged. ‘One of my remade evening gowns.’

  Beatrice made no reply. Well, she knew quite well Nell had no other option.

  ‘There you g
o, Miss Nell!’ Sally, the housemaid who had used to look after Nell, had finished working on her hair.

  ‘Thank you, Sally,’ said Nell with a smile. ‘We have no mirror here, but I am sure you have done an excellent work on my coiffure. Now for the dress!’

  Nell’s favourite evening gown was hanging from the curtain rail in the cramped attic room she was currently sharing with Sally and two other maids. It warmed her heart even to see it hanging there. The dress was of white net, over a white satin slip. Tiny pearls ornamented the bodice, the short, slashed sleeves and the hem trimming. Embroidery in the pattern of holly leaves had been added, the red berries and dark green leaves giving a subtle splash of colour to the gown.

  Nell had reworked the skirt to match the modern, fuller style, and it moved against her legs with a satisfying swish. Tonight was her first time wearing it since that last happy Christmas before Papa’s illness and his death.

  Sally helped her with the buttons, then Nell added Mama’s pearls and picked up her ivory and jade fan. ‘I am ready—and in good time, too! Thank you again, Sally. Now, let us go to our duties, for the guests will soon begin to arrive.’

  Tom fixed a diamond pin to his cravat, not even bothering to check how he looked in the mirror. Mr Bridgeton’s valet had assisted him into his Weston evening jacket and a snowy cravat, and the waistcoat, knee breeches and dancing slippers that were required evening wear were all perfectly adequate. He dropped his watch into his pocket, ensured he had a clean handkerchief, then dismissed the valet.

  He glanced at the clock. Hmm... There were two options. He could descend now, and risk a solo conversation with Nell—who, he had no doubt, would have been left to lead the arrangements for tonight’s event. Or he could linger here for another ten minutes, ensuring that others would be there to prevent any intimacy between them. The intimacy he craved, yet must not seek.

  He knew himself to be in great danger. Never before had his heart been so moved by a young lady. He was convinced he must never try to become a husband or father. He would, he feared, fail spectacularly, and condemn some poor woman and her as yet unborn children to the agony of disappointment, abandonment, or bereavement.

  The orphan in him cried out for love, yet he knew he could not take on the responsibility for the happiness and safety of any other person. He had been determined to engage only in a light-hearted flirtation with Nell. That was proving impossible, leaving him with the feeling of being ripped apart inside.

  He and Jack managed well in their fraternal connection. And Jack, as head of the family, would have to marry eventually. Tom, as younger brother, was under no such compulsion. Therefore, despite every part of him wishing for nothing more than to be with Nell every hour, every minute of the day, he knew he must resist.

  Refusing to listen to the inner voice denouncing him as a coward, he crossed to the desk and withdrew her journal. Although he had successfully kept a reasonable distance from her in company, in truth he remained preoccupied with Nell Godwin to quite an astonishing degree. He lived for their walks, and for the conversations they shared.

  From those conversations he now knew that Nell had been mistress of Wyatt House since her sixteenth birthday, with the housekeeper Mrs Hussey supporting her as she became increasingly confident in the role. She had told him many tales of everyday household mishaps and challenges, and was unafraid to be self-critical and self-deprecating, even while pride in her successes came clearly through.

  Her wit had had him laughing out loud at times, as well as reinforcing for him her keen intelligence. He also saw how her stepmother had been using her most selfishly. It angered him, yet he had no power to change it.

  Quite why he found Nell so fascinating he could not say. She was beautiful, it was true, and yet he had encountered many beauties in his time. Perhaps it was her wit, her intelligent conversation and her lively mind? But no, for other ladies he knew were equally sharp-witted—including Lady Cecily, who was also present at this very house party.

  He shook his head. There was neither rhyme nor reason to it. It was an unanticipated quirk of fate, temporary in nature, no doubt.

  His gaze dropped to the book in his hands. As before, he had been unconsciously caressing her name on the cover. Eleanor Godwin. Once again he reminded himself that he could not read her private journal. Last night the temptation had been strong, yet he had resisted, and had retired without so much as a peek into the seductive world of Nell’s mind.

  It had done him absolutely no good whatsoever, for his dreams had been haunted by her just as much as they had been since he had first encountered her. Alone in this chamber—her chamber—he was surrounded by her spirit.

  ‘It will not do!’ he declared aloud. ‘I am a rational man, not given to emotion or sentiment. I choose not to indulge this flirtation any further.’

  His own words stabbed at him, and he dared not look inside himself for the reason. Deeply uncomfortable, he squared his shoulders, put away the journal and left the chamber.

  Chapter Six

  Beatrice was in fine fettle. Nell watched her greet each guest as they arrived, all smiles. Her stepmother was sparkling with good humour, a spangled gown and her own wit. Nell hovered nearby, in case she might be needed.

  While Beatrice detested work of any kind, she simply adored hosting events. Having Nell there to organise and plan, to lead the staff and ensure that all went smoothly, meant the Widow Godwin’s reputation as an excellent hostess was building. Wyatt House was held to be both elegant and convenient to London, and Mrs Godwin’s house parties guaranteed good food and wine, pleasant company and excellent entertainment.

  That was why, Beatrice had informed Nell, people like Mr Beresford—younger brother to an earl—had deigned to choose Wyatt House for his Christmas sojourn.

  If that was true, then Nell was entirely grateful for her stepmother’s reputation, for it had enabled her to meet the one man above all others who had managed to hold her attention, pervade her dreams, and make her think of impossible things. A wedding. A wedding night. Becoming a mother.

  Stop! she told herself. None of these things are real.

  Yet she could dream, could she not?

  But something in her remained wary. Mr Beresford occasionally acted with great reserve towards her, and she knew instinctively that he was not yet sure of what was happening between them.

  She sighed. Men could be stubborn and lacking in insight at times. Even Mama, who had loved Papa dearly, had occasionally lifted her eyes to heaven at some of his less discerning pronouncements, before correcting him in a gentle but effective manner.

  Mama had died of a lung infection the winter following Nell’s fourteenth birthday. At fourteen, Nell had still had much to learn from her mama.

  Oh, I wish she were here to advise me about Mr Beresford. What should I do?

  Mama had always behaved with perfect propriety, and yet had managed to ensure Papa married her—despite his initial slowness to understand that that was what was to happen.

  Mama had also had an added complication, in the form of Grandfather Wyatt, who had died when Nell was a baby. That formidable gentleman had insisted on a marriage settlement which ensured the bulk of his wealth and possessions remained in trust for his daughter and her children. Papa, who had had no need of the Wyatt wealth, being himself a gentleman of means, had agreed with alacrity, but apparently the two men had nearly fallen out over it.

  ‘It was their pride you, see,’ Mama had told Nell. ‘Your grandfather was determined to see my future protected, while your Papa took umbrage at any suggestion he was a fortune-hunter.’ She had laughed, before saying, ‘Nell, understand this: men are wonderful creatures, but they are much more emotional than they admit. Nonsensical notions of pride and how others see them can drive even the most sensible of men to foolish actions. They have been reared to deny they even have sensibilities, which means we women must use all ou
r ingenuity at times to ensure they do the reasonable thing.’

  Nell needed every ounce of Mama’s wisdom to guide her now. Mr Beresford was due to leave when the house party broke up after Twelfth Night, and Nell sensed her campaign to win his heart was faltering.

  Perhaps he does not feel as I do?

  Nell considered the notion. He had been just as affected as she by their kisses, and yet she knew she could not read too much into just two kisses.

  Tonight I must see progress.

  She nodded to herself, as if deciding so would make it happen.

  There he is!

  Finally Mr Beresford had appeared in the line of guests. Relief and excitement warred within her. Evening wear suited him. If such a thing were possible, he grew more handsome each time she saw him.

  He was unexpectedly late. She knew Mr Bridgeton’s valet had seen to him before returning to his own master, and Mr Bridgeton had been downstairs for more than half an hour already. What could have delayed Mr Beresford, she had no idea. Still, at least he was here now.

  She kept a close eye on the footmen as they moved in and out of the salon, bringing fresh trays of drinks—wine, ratafia, and even lemonade, in order to cater to all tastes. The housemaids, including Sally, were assisting guests to don their dancing slippers in the front parlour, and Jemett was standing stiffly at the entrance to the salon, ready to announce each guest as they entered the room.

  Nell’s gaze returned to Mr Beresford as he reached the front of the line. He made some polite remark to Beatrice, and kissed her hand, but even from a distance Nell could tell he was somewhat distracted. Timing her walk carefully, she approached Jemett just as Mr Beresford left Beatrice.

  ‘All is well so far, Jemett,’ she declared calmly.

  ‘Indeed, miss. I am content,’ was Jemett’s reply. ‘Are you going inside?’

  She could sense Mr Beresford was behind her, and slightly to the right. ‘I am.’ She turned. ‘Good evening, Mr Beresford.’