by Nina Mason
“That is very good of you, Miss Bennet.” He tipped his hat. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Now kindly come aboard, sir, before your soup turns into chicken sorbet.”
Laughing a bit too heartily at her poor attempt at humor, he climbed in beside her. With a shake of the reins and a snap of the whip, they were off. As the sleigh glided along the wooded road, she said, “You’re welcome to share the blanket with me, if you’re still cold.”
He took her up on her offer, deepening her suspicions that he might be interested in more than her soul. She hoped she was mistaken. Not that there was anything wrong with the man. On the contrary, he was reasonably good looking, perfectly amiable, and tolerably well-educated. But he was also a poor country curate, and she wasn’t bred to live in poverty—or to endure the drudgery of being a cleric’s wife.
She yearned for a life of parties and balls and mixing in society. She wanted to wear beautiful gowns, live in a stately home, and ride in a fine carriage. Perhaps Christian Churchill could not give her those things, either, but at least her heart beat faster in his presence.
The same could not be said of Edmund Goddard, despite his good looks and pleasing manners.
He would, however, make an excellent husband for one of her younger sister. Henrietta seemed the logical choice, since Charlotte was far too flighty to be the wife of a cleric.
Such were the thoughts occupying Georgie’s mind as the horse pulled them toward Mrs. Johnstone’s cottage. When they arrived, Georgie let the curate out before going on her way. She kept the horse tightly reined in until she came out of the woods. The road here was safe, so she gave the horse her head and clicked her tongue.
The mare broke into a canter, dragging the sleigh along at a faster clip. Georgie brandished the whip and, as the horse picked up speed, it was as if she had wings. Faster and faster she flew as the horse’s hooves showered her with snow. The icy wind blasting her face seemed to carry all her troubles away.
She felt so free—and she was! Now that Papa was dead. Free to marry whomever she pleased. Now, she only needed to learn if the gentleman she wanted also wanted her.
Two
By the time Christian’s carriage turned up the snowy drive toward Greystone Hall, he was chilled through and through. The hot coals he’d procured at the last coaching inn had long since cooled in the warmer at his feet, the sheep-skin seat covers were encrusted with ice (and reeked of wet wool), and his greatcoat, even with its triple capes, had failed to keep out the creeping cold.
The winter weather was not, however, what plagued him most as the coach carried him toward the abode where he would spend the holidays with his dearest friends. For a hot cup of tea, buttered rum, or mulled wine sipped in front of a roaring blaze would soon thaw him out.
Not so easily dispatched with were the worms of regret feeding on his heart.
Only when he left Miss Georgianna behind, believing it forever, did he become sensible of how much, and how entirely, his affections were engaged. Since then, he’d labored day after day and month after month to persuade Miss Jinny Stubbs to release him from their engagement.
He tried everything, but nothing he said or did could compel her to take pity on him. Not even his sincere confession, made in a moment of desperation, that he’d fallen in love with another woman quite unintentionally while he was away.
He’d not disclosed his beloved’s identity, of course. He was desperate, not daft—and he was intimately familiar by now with Miss Stubbs’s ruthless character. She was, in short, a scheming fortune-hunter; a black widow spider that had lured him into her web through trickery. He would be mortified if she confronted Miss Georgianna, whom he felt sure was insensible to his tender feelings for her.
And he planned to keep it that way.
For it would do neither of them any good to confess affection he was not at liberty to act upon. Like it or not, he was engaged to Miss Stubbs. He could not break it off except by mutual agreement. Under English law, betrothals were legally binding contracts to marry. Even if they weren’t, he could not break his promise to Miss Stubbs without degrading his reputation as a gentleman and a man of honor.
Breaking the engagement would also cost him a small fortune in damages. For Miss Stubbs had made it perfectly clear she would sue him for Breach of Promise. Worse still, the bad publicity and scandal such an unchivalrous act would bring down upon him and his family might provoke his father to cut off his allowance … or, heaven forbid, disinherit him altogether.
Not that Christian especially wanted the estate, which was supported by slave-dependent sugar plantations in the West Indies, but he must have something to supplement his meager pension.
How Miss Stubbs found out he stood to inherit a peerage and considerable fortune, Christian knew not. For, unlike his fellow gentleman officers in the Royal Navy, he never boasted about his rank or connections. Nor did he hold himself above the men who had worked their way up through the ranks. Such men were the salt of the earth, in his estimation. And that was a vast deal more than he could say for many of the so-called “gentlemen” he knew, his father included.
When Christian ran off to join the Navy, it was largely to get away from such elitists, who dominated the circles in which his family mixed in Devonshire, London, and Bath. He saw, therefore, naught to be gained by disclosing his pedigree to his shipmates—or Miss Georgianna Bennet, for that matter.
He figured whoever had alerted Miss Stubbs to his legacy must have had a grievance against him or expected a share of the profits. As the second-in-command on various ships, he’d made plenty of enemies putting men under the lash for everything from insubordination to buggery.
Who had done it and why was of little consequence now. What mattered was that the knowledge of his inheritance enabled that designing little strumpet to set a trap for him. And, damn fool that he was, he walked straight into it by thinking with the smaller of his heads.
Jinny Stubbs was a serving wench at the Rusty Scupper, a tavern by the docks frequented by the seamen coming in and out of the port. And, like all serving wenches in such dodgy establishments, she was known to spread her legs for any sailor with a spare bob in his pocket.
Christian, who had seen her a few times before, thought her attractive—in a coarse, tarty sort of way. Yes, yes. He should have known better than to fraternize with a woman of her sort, but he was too deep in his cups to consider the possible consequences. By the time he sobered up, he was caught—and she wasn’t about to let her prize off the hook.
So, here he was, back in Much Wenlock with no more right to court Miss Georgianna than he’d had when he left. Worse still, Miss Stubbs had grown weary of his foot-dragging. If they were not wed by March, she’d told him in no uncertain terms, she would make him pay dearly for keeping her waiting so long.
Fortunately, he’d behaved more honorably toward Miss Georgianna, who only saw him as a friend. He had, therefore, done her no injury. Regrettably, he could not say the same for himself. Now he must suffer his regrets anew each time they met, as they were sure to do quite often.
As the carriage drew nearer the house, Christian struggled to lift his own spirits. Christmastide was supposed to be a time of good cheer; a time of celebration with friends; a time for parties and dancing and stealing kisses under the mistletoe. He had not come all this way to be a drag on the festivities.
He was determined, therefore, to be the picture of gaiety for the duration of his visit. And, when the holidays were over, he would return to Portsmouth and marry Miss Stubbs. He would then write to Capt. Raynalds and his family of his nuptials and never see Miss Georgianna again.
Time, surely, would dull his pain and lessen his regrets.
Heavy hearted, but determined to be jolly, Christian took up his hat and walking stick and hopped out of the carriage. Bounding up the steps to the front door, he rapped hard with the head of his stick. “Raynalds, you old dog,” he shouted with all the joviality he could sum
mon. “Open the door and let me in before my teeth break from chattering so hard!”
Mr. Murphy, the Captain’s Irish butler, opened the door and invited Christian to enter. Once he was inside, he scraped the snow from his boots and hung his coat and hat on the hall tree before following Mr. Murphy to the parlor.
Upon entering the room where he’d passed so many happy hours last year, he was a bit surprised to find it much the same as when last he’d visited. The only alteration he could detect was the rope of cedar branches strung across the chimneypiece and the pinecones and holly springs arranged on the mantle shelf.
He’d expected to find Mrs. Raynalds’s womanly touches everywhere he looked. But, to his surprise and delight, the parlor still exuded a masculine air. The leather chesterfield and wingback chairs were just where they’d been when last he visited, as was the model of H.M.S. Andromeda, the frigate he and the Captain served upon during the Trafalgar action.
This Christian took as an encouraging sign. For if Mrs. Raynalds did nothing to alter the decor of her new house, the chances were good she’d left her new husband unchanged in essentials as well. That made her exceptional among women in his books, as new wives notoriously set about “improving” their husbands only seconds after vowing to “love, honor, and obey” the poor fellow.
Even happier was he to see the crystal decanters of fortified wines still on the table by the door. Just as he started over to help himself to some sherry, Capt. Raynalds came in. “I see you’ve arrived in one piece,” he said, grinning affably. “Was your journey tolerable?”
Christian forced the corners of his mouth into an upward arc. “My journey was as long and cold as winter itself, dear friend.”
“I’m sorry to hear that … but what else can one expect when traveling in England in December?”
“Too true. Too true.” The Captain looked happy, and more relaxed than Christian had seen him in ages. No, strike that. He looked merrier than he’d ever looked in the years they’d been acquainted. While pleased for his friend, Christian also felt the knife of envy twisting in his heart. For the odds of him finding equal felicity in wedlock ranged between unlikely and impossible. “You look well. Married life must agree with you.”
“It does indeed.” The Captain’s whole face radiated joy. “As does fatherhood. You must meet our little cherub as soon as he wakes from his nap.”
“Nothing would give me more pleasure,” Christian said, forcing another smile. “Except to see your beautiful bride again. Where are you hiding her?”
“She’s at her dressing table … and will join us momentarily.” There was a pause before the Captain added, “And talking of wives … did you make any headway with Miss Stubbs?”
Christian heaved a sigh and, in need of a nip, moved toward the decanters. “About as much as a ship in a gale, it pains me to say.”
The Captain’s joie de vivre dimmed noticeably. “So the engagement still stands?”
“It not only stands,” Christian gloomily replied, “we have set a date.”
The Captain’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “Have you? Oh, dear. How … unfortunate.”
“Quite so. But rather than let it spoil my Christmas here with you, I am resolved not to think about it until after Twelfth Night.”
“I see.” The Captain appeared thoughtful for a moment before adding, “And what about Louisa’s sister?”
The question tied a knot in Christian’s gut as he reached for the sherry. “What about her?”
“Will you tell her of your circumstances?”
Christian swallowed hard and filled a glass. “I suppose I must … in due time.”
“It is the honorable thing to do.”
“Yes, I know,” Christian said, inwardly hollow. “And I will. Just not right away.”
The Captain scowled at him. “Why delay if your marriage is certain?”
His mouth suddenly as dry as a dustbin, Christian emptied the glass in one long gulp. “I suppose I’m still hoping for a miracle, it being the season and all.” He poured another sherry before flashing his friend an artificial smile. “If God could pull off a virgin birth, after all, it should be nothing at all to break an engagement. Is that not so?”
Capt. Raynalds shifted his stance uneasily. “And if you get this Christmas miracle you’re setting store by?”
“I’ll go down on one knee and beg Miss Bennet to marry me.”
The Captain’s eyes visibly darkened. “I doubt you’ll have to resort to begging.”
Christian tethered his hopes as they began to rise. “What do you mean?”
“Though she denies it, I believe my sister-in-law has feelings for you beyond friendship.”
Christian could not decide whether to jump for joy or put his fist through the wall. “The sensible part of me hopes you are wrong.”
“And the reckless part?”
A genuine smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Well … hope springs eternal, does it not?”
The Captain shook his head and lowered his gaze to the carpet. “For your sake and Georgie’s, I pray you get your miracle, Churchill. Truly I do. But I would not wish to see the girl injured by your unwillingness to be candid.”
“There is no danger of that, I assure you.” Christian sipped his cordial, hoping rather than believing he spoke the truth. “I will only be as courteous toward her as I would be to any other acquaintance … and shall take the greatest of care not to give rise to the belief I have feelings for her beyond friendship.”
The Captain’s gaze snapped back to Christian’s. “But you do, Churchill! And women have a sixth sense about these things, even when a man is certain he is behaving indifferently toward her. Trust me, I know this from personal experience. For Louisa, I can assure you, knew she had me on the line long before I felt the hook in my mouth.”
The former Miss Louisa Bennet came in then, looking as fetching as ever in a day dress of lightweight lavender gabardine. Her face was a bit fuller than the last time he’d seen her—a consequence of motherhood, undoubtedly. Otherwise, looked the same … and altogether too much like her younger sister for his comfort. Louisa was, perhaps, a little prettier than Georgianna—a very little, mind, which suited him fine. Being of a jealous nature, he could not bear for his wife to be always the object of other gentlemen’s admiration.
“Lieutenant Churchill,” Mrs. Raynalds said, smiling serenely. “How good it is to see you again … and looking so well. I do hope you had an agreeable journey.”
The warmth of her words was at odds with their cool delivery. Had she heard of his engagement from her husband, and now resented him for misleading her sister? Not that he had, of course. But women, being emotional creatures, too easily imagined slights where none had occurred.
Had she told her sister of his predicament? A small part of him hoped she had, saving him the trouble of confessing it himself. The larger part, however, felt betrayed by the friend he’d trusted with his secret.
“As agreeable a journey as one can expect when traveling by carriage in winter weather,” he answered with his usual friendliness. “But at least it has not snowed for the past few days.”
“Very true.” Her smile faded. “And if the snow should come now, you needn’t concern yourself about being snowed in. For you will be with us three weeks, will you not?”
“That is my plan, yes.”
“Well,” she continued, “if we are trapped indoors by the snow, at least you can be sure of excellent fires, good food, and amiable companions.”
“And who could ask for more than that at Christmastide?” Christian grinned affectedly. “Not me, I promise you.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Mrs. Raynalds appeared to reflect a moment before adding, “Still, I do hope the weather will not be too inhibiting. For now that my father is no longer banning us from social occasions, I also expect we will be invited to wassailing, skating, and evening parties, among other winter entertainments.”
“That all sounds delight
ful.” Christian dreaded the prospect of being trapped indoors, forced to endure three torturous weeks of his hostess’s false smiles and silent disapprobation.
Mrs. Raynalds moved toward the heart of the room. Stopping before the fireplace, she gestured toward the enclave of furnishings hugging the opposite wall. “Come, let us sit a spell and enjoy the fire. For you must be cold and tired after your trying journey, poor man.”
Christian readily accepted her invitation to relocate nearer the fire, as the sherry had not warmed his blood quite as much as he’d hoped. Nor had it eased his tension to a noticeable degree. He claimed a comfortable chair beside the sofa, his spirits growing more depressed by the moment. Enjoying his holiday now seemed as out of reach as Georgianna’s hand.
“So tell me all the news since last I visited the neighborhood. How does your sister do, Mrs. Raynalds. Has she found herself a beau?”
“Unfortunately not,” she said with a pointedness that speared him. “Though there is a new curate at Holy Trinity who has attracted her interest. He’s not ill-favored and his manners are extremely pleasing … and I could not help noticing how often she lingers to converse with Mr. Goddard after the weekly service.”
His hostess, he was certain, was torturing him deliberately, which he no doubt deserved. Eager to change the subject, he turned to the Captain. “And what of your dear sister? How is Winnifred getting on at boarding school? Will she be home for the holidays?”
“She is getting on very well,” the Captain replied with a prideful smile.
“We are exceedingly pleased with her progress,” Mrs. Raynalds put in. “She is becoming quite the accomplished young lady. And yes, she will be with us for Christmas. In fact, we expect to see her at any moment. Her playing has improved so markedly, I hope she might entertain us on the piano-forte after dinner.”
