Christmas Cinderellas

by Sophia James

  ‘Miss Godwin?’ His tone was suddenly sharp. ‘What is it to do with Miss Godwin?’

  Nell’s fingernails were digging into her palms. The physical pain was a useful distraction from the shock and agony knifing through her.

  ‘Oh, here she is—you may ask her yourself!’

  They had stepped into the room. Beatrice was beckoning her, while Mr Beresford stood entirely still, as if he had sustained a shock.

  ‘I am tired, so I am gone to bed!’ Beatrice declared, clearly unconcerned about her duties as chaperone. ‘Nell, you will ensure the front door is locked?’

  She swept out, leaving Nell and Mr Beresford standing facing each other, alone.

  Mr Beresford found his voice. ‘Wait—why should I speak to Miss Godwin about this? Are you not—?’

  But Beatrice was gone.

  ‘Can I assist you with something?’ Nell, still shocked, could only hope she had somehow misunderstood.

  She watched as a range of expressions crossed his face. Puzzlement gave way to resignation.

  ‘Who owns Wyatt House, Miss Godwin?’

  ‘It is held in trust for me until I reach my majority.’ She was still frowning. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because...’ he attempted a smile, which did not reach his eyes ‘...I should like to buy it.’

  So it was true. ‘But why?’

  He shrugged. ‘As a business investment. I need a house in which to entertain my business acquaintances. Wyatt House was recommended for my consideration, so I came here to estimate its suitability for my purposes.’

  ‘Then—then you did not visit for friendship, or company, or the warmth of Christmas?’ She had to ask. This new, cold Mr Beresford was entirely foreign to her.

  Where is the warm man I knew?

  He hesitated. ‘I have enjoyed my time here. But sentimentality has no place in my reckoning.’ His tone made her shiver. ‘I have long learned to deny emotion in making business decisions.’

  ‘To what purpose? What do you seek, Mr Beresford?’

  She waited, feeling as though his answer would be the most important utterance she ever heard.

  ‘I wish only to continue to build my fortune through business.’ He glanced at her horrified expression. ‘I am sorry if that shocks you.’

  She found her voice. ‘But you are not in the least bit sorry!’

  He shrugged. ‘I am sorry I have miscalculated. I believed your stepmother owned the house, so...’

  ‘So you have been trying to befriend her in order to persuade her to sell.’ It was an accusation, not a question. ‘You might have done better had you focused on me.’

  ‘I should have focused on you, it is true.’ His gaze softened, yet the emptiness in his eyes remained. ‘I believe selling the house to me will be good for all concerned, including you.’ He hesitated. ‘N—Miss Godwin, I can honestly say I have enjoyed making your acquaintance. You are a remarkable woman.’

  His tone spoke of finality, of endings. Of goodbyes.

  He tried to seduce me with false flattery. His only aim was to secure the house.

  Nell stood, dumb with shock and pain, as her hopes and dreams melted around her.

  His gaze became more intense. ‘We have shared some fine conversations this week.’ A flicker of uncertainty crossed his features.

  He’s using those talks against me... Oh, who is this person?

  As if acting under some compulsion, he lifted a hand to gently touch her cheek, his expression shuttered. An hour ago it would have ignited passion, and love, and relief. Now it fired in her the strongest rage she had ever known.

  ‘Take your hand from me!’ she spat.

  He recoiled, his jaw dropping.

  ‘Do you think me so foolish, so lost to common sense, that you can seduce me with false kindness on a whim?’

  ‘I—I simply wished to remember the friendship that has built between us.’ He looked genuinely confused. ‘You seemed to welcome it before.’

  ‘Aye—because then I did not know who you truly are!’

  His eyes narrowed. Was his face a little pale? ‘And who, then, am I, Miss Godwin?’

  ‘You are a charlatan. A fake. You think yourself so clever in business, yet you know nothing of the human heart! Tell me, have your business dealings been mostly with men?’

  He could not deny it and remained silent.

  ‘I thought as much. What made you think I would sell you my home—’ her voice cracked ‘—simply because you asked to buy it?’

  His eyes darted sideways. ‘Your stepmother is...er...known for her generous hospitality and the joy she takes in fine things—’

  Her lip curled. ‘You mean to suggest, I believe, that my stepmother is in debt. Well, let me tell you that—unlike my stepmother—I would no more dream of selling my home than I would sell my person! My stepmother may try to compel me, and she holds legal rights over my affairs until I reach my majority, but I say this to you. If you and she do this thing, then I shall never, ever forgive either of you! And,’ she finished with vehemence, ‘if I were in debt, and needing to sell, then let me assure you that you would be the last person on this earth I would ever wish to do business with!’

  ‘You have said enough!’

  Finally, she had broken through the calculation, the manipulation. There was genuine anger in his eyes. ‘I shall depart in the morning!’

  ‘Good!’ she declared.

  Inside, her heart was breaking. All confusion, and overwhelmed by anger, and loss, and grief, she spun on her heel and left the room.

  Chapter Eight

  Tom’s hands were shaking. As the door to the salon closed behind Nell, he stood where she had left him, feeling utterly lost.

  What have I done?

  Yet the habits of half a lifetime could not easily be denied.

  Your first consideration is business, he told himself. You tried, and she will not sell. It is no great loss.

  The familiar words seemed empty, meaningless.

  No great loss.

  Crossing to a side table, he poured himself a brandy and stood gazing into its amber depths. His mind was in turmoil and he seemed unable to regain control. His heart was aching—indeed, his body felt racked with pain from head to toe.

  He paced for a while, knowing there was no point in climbing the stairs to his bedchamber. Sleep would not come while his mind and heart were in such disorder.

  No great loss.

  Finally, he sank into an armchair beside the fire, glass in one hand, carafe in the other. Three brandies later, he was no closer to numbness. He closed his eyes, immediately seeing a vision of her hurt and confused expression. Guilt washed through him.

  His mind would not let go. He kept telling himself he had done nothing wrong, that he had simply pursued a business transaction, like the countless others he had engaged in over the years. Indeed, he noted, in this case Miss Godwin had won and he had lost, for he could not, of course, pursue the purchase now.

  There is no need for guilt, he told himself.

  His conscience would not listen. It was screaming for attention, so finally he allowed himself to consider the situation from her perspective. ‘Charlatan’, she had dubbed him. ‘Fake’.

  Unwarranted, surely? Business was business, and charm was part of the game. From the start, they had each deceived the other—he by failing to declare he would be a guest at Wyatt House. She, by leading him to believe she was a servant. They had flirted, each of them practising small deceptions in order to gain the brief intimacy they had both wanted.

  The kiss that had followed on Christmas Day in the snow had flowed inevitably from that first meeting in the same copse. And what a kiss it had been!

  Now assailed by feelings all too physical, Tom felt his heart thunder at the memory. Closing his eyes, he gave himself over to the remembrance of
their intoxicating embrace. Inevitably his thoughts moved on to that other kiss—under the mistletoe, at midnight. The experience had been overwhelming. Never had he felt passion like it.

  He frowned, opening his eyes. That had been the first time she had frightened him.

  Frightened?

  He let out a brief bark of laughter at the thought. No, not frightened in the usual sense. He had not been in any physical danger. Rather, she had caused unaccustomed feelings within him...intense feelings that had threatened to overpower him.

  He recalled the clarity he’d felt earlier, while out riding. He nodded as a moment of insight came to him. It was her power over him that was so terrifying. Where had it come from? How could she, a slip of a young lady, cause him to feel so helpless, so overcome?

  His eyes became unfocused as the fire before him burned on. He added more wood, watching as the yellow flames licked along the dark wood and sparks arced and swerved towards the chimney, pinpoints of orange light. The crackling sound soothed his senses, and as his body calmed so his mind became a little clearer.

  It was not power in the typical sense, he reflected. Not in the manly sense of the word. In business, games of power were common. In warfare, too. Those with more power generally triumphed, and weakness was to be abhorred. This was different. Her power over him came from her ability to make him feel things. Warmth. Affection. All-consuming desire.

  His mind drifted to their conversations together. He had come to know her in a way that was unique. He knew how her mind worked, knew what she held to be important, knew how kind-hearted she was.

  Daringly, he considered the people he had held in affection during his life. Memories of his mama were far away, though her loss was always with him—these past days in particular. And his brother was important to him.

  Yes, he thought, I care about him.

  A sudden lump in his throat had him swallowing hard.

  Papa? No. He was never close to either of us. It meant little when he died.

  The clock on the mantel began to strike the hour. Seven in the morning. Vaguely, some part of his brain noted that he had been ruminating for almost two hours.

  Finally, he allowed himself to look into his heart with respect to Nell.

  Instantly a wave of emotion shuddered through him. Nell the beautiful. Nell the gracious. Nell the kind. Nell who had experienced the worst of grief these past years—the loss of her father, compounded by the gaining of an unsuitable stepmother. Yet she had handled all of it with strength, and compassion, and courage. His chest ached with pride in her.

  What a woman!

  He began to pace the floor again as the shameful way he had behaved towards her tonight returned to his mind with full force. Charlatan? Yes. Fake? Unquestionably. Even in her distress, she had pierced him deeply with the accuracy of her barbs.

  The door to the salon opened. He wheeled round, somehow expecting Nell to be standing there.

  It was a housemaid.

  Of course—it is morning.

  For a moment they eyed each other, and then her eyes darted about the room.

  Tom’s pulse increased a little, some unknown sense suddenly alert. ‘Are you seeking someone?’

  She curtseyed. ‘Sorry, sir. Yes. Er...are you alone?’

  He indicated the otherwise empty room. ‘As you see.’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked uncertain. A frown now creased her forehead.

  Searching his memory, he found her name. ‘You are called Sally, is that correct?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, Sally, I strongly recommend you tell me what is bothering you.’ A slow dread was building within him.

  A flurry of rushed words erupted from the housemaid. ‘It’s Miss Nell, sir! Miss Godwin, that is.’

  ‘What of her? Is she unwell?’

  Lord, how much have I distressed her?

  ‘I do not know, sir. I don’t know where she is!’

  Swallowing down the panic rising within him, he managed to sound calm. ‘Surely she is still abed? The party did not break up until just a few hours ago.’

  ‘She has not been to bed, sir!’ Sally lifted a corner of her apron and began dabbing her eyes. ‘She has been sleeping in the attic room, with me and two of the other housemaids, but she never came to bed last night. I only just found out when I woke up.’

  She sleeps in the servants’ quarters? Not with one of the other ladies?

  Briefly, he allowed himself to be outraged by this, then focused on the matter at hand. ‘She and Lady Cecily are particularly close. Perhaps she stayed in Lady Cecily’s chamber last night, so as not to disturb you.’

  Nell’s kind heart made this a real possibility. Her distressed state when she had left him made it even more likely.

  Sally’s face brightened. ‘I never thought of that, sir! I have to see to Lady Cecily’s fire anyway, so I shall go there directly.’

  She bobbed a brief curtsey and was gone, leaving Tom alone with his foreboding.

  The next ten minutes felt like ten years. When the door finally reopened his worst fears were realised. Sally had returned, along with Lady Cecily, who was tying the belt of her robe and looking extremely anxious.

  ‘What on earth has happened?’ she demanded, in an accusatory tone.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  Her brow creased as she advanced upon him, fury personified. ‘You distressed her. I know you did!’ She stabbed at his chest with her finger.

  Sally was watching, open-mouthed.

  Tom held his ground, though he felt the full force of Lady Cecily’s just accusation. ‘So she did not stay with you last night?’

  Lady Cecily shook her head. ‘When I went up to bed there was only you and Nell and Mrs Godwin still downstairs. Nell was already troubled—I had sensed it earlier.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Troubled about something to do with you.’

  He gave a rueful grimace. ‘You are right. There is a—a misunderstanding between us...something I mean to put right just as soon as I can speak to her.’

  Lady Cecily’s eyes narrowed, assessing him. Tom held his breath.

  ‘Very well,’ she conceded, after a moment. ‘Now, where on earth is she?’

  They spent a few moments discussing the possibilities. It ended with Lady Cecily departing to check Mrs Godwin’s chamber—though the possibility of her being there was unlikely—and Tom asking Sally to fetch his boots and cloak.

  ‘Oh, sir!’ Sally put a hand to her mouth. ‘Never say you think she went outside in the snow!’

  ‘I think it unlikely, Sally, but I must consider the possibility.’

  By the time he had donned his boots, cloak and warm beaver hat, Lady Cecily had returned. ‘She is not there. Mrs Godwin says we should depend upon it that she will have slept with the other housemaids, or fallen asleep on a chair in the parlour.’

  Sally intervened. ‘But I’ve looked everywhere downstairs. She is nowhere to be found. Her—her boots are gone, though. And her cloak...’

  The anguish that arced through Tom at these words was almost overpowering.

  Nell!

  He could deny his heart no longer. It cried out to her with need and fear and absolute surrender.

  Nell! My Nell!

  He closed his eyes. The battle was done; he was hers.

  Strangely, in giving up the fight he understood that he had won, not lost. She would make him a better person. He would care for her till the end of his days. He would gladly be father to her children, and love them as he loved her, for however long he was on this earth.

  If she would allow him.

  Opening his eyes again, he asked Lady Cecily, ‘Mrs Godwin is staying in bed?’ Tom knew what the answer would be, but he had to ask.

  ‘She is.’ Lady Cecily’s mouth became a thin line of disapproval.

  ‘I
shall find her.’ He eyed Lady Cecily intently. ‘She is likely to be cold when I bring her back.’

  Lady Cecily nodded. ‘Sally and I will prepare blankets and a hot drink for her. Perhaps a bath as well. Mrs Hussey the housekeeper is a sensible woman. She will know what to do.’

  ‘See that the bath is brought to Miss Godwin’s own chamber.’

  Sally’s eyes widened. ‘But, sir—’

  ‘I shall sleep with the footmen from now on, rather than deny her the comfort of her own room.’

  It is the least I can do.

  ‘Besides, all this worry may be for naught. She may well have gone for a short walk only recently.’

  Even he knew his words were meaningless.

  In the dark? Alone?

  By now they all knew something was terribly wrong.

  Sally had brought a lantern, and Tom lit the candle inside it before closing the small brass-framed panel. Opening the front door of Wyatt House for the second time in less than eight hours, he stepped outside.

  Chapter Nine

  Nell had never experienced such agony of spirit. Until tonight, Mr Thomas Beresford had seemed to her the ideal man. Handsome, well-formed, with a lively, knowledgeable mind and an easy charm. His taking smile and enticing kisses had blinded her to the emptiness at the heart of him.

  It is my own fault.

  She had allowed herself to be so taken up with Mama and Papa’s tale of inevitable love that she had quite lost her mind!

  But, oh! How it hurts!

  She had sunk to the floor in the small parlour, crying bitterly. She had naturally run to the place where she had so often felt wisps of her mama’s presence, but there had been no comfort in Mama’s portrait. Nell’s foolishness had been exposed under the same clear light that had revealed Mr Beresford to be a scarecrow, not a true, upright man. From a distance he looked whole, and complete, and—and normal. Yet up close he was a creature of straw, of dust, of clay.

  She had wept on, for the loss of a man who did not exist, a love that could never be, and the parlour had grown colder as the clock had ticked towards morning. Yet she had not been able to think of going upstairs to Sally and the others. Disturbing their sleep and arousing their curiosity would achieve nothing.