Once Upon A Regency Christmas: On a Winter's Eve / Marriage Made at Christmas / Cinderella's Perfect Christmas

‘My lady?’ The coachman leaned round and down to face her, his face red with cold.

‘How much further?’

‘A mile or so, I reckon. The snow makes it difficult to judge distance at this pace.’

‘We will stop at the next inn. Miss Chalcott is becoming very cold.’

‘There’s nothing ahead of us now but Chalcott Manor, my lady. It’s a dead end.’

‘It most certainly is.’ She sighed as he straightened up on to his seat, then leaned back down before she could raise the glass again.

‘My lady, there’s someone on the road in front of us. A man on foot.’

‘In this weather? We had best take him up.’

The man turned as they approached, seeming larger and more monstrous the closer they got. Squinting against the snow, Julia could see that the thick white crust covering his head and shoulders added to his bulk, but he was also holding some large black object to his chest.

‘You there!’ Thomas hailed him. ‘Are you in difficulties?’

‘Difficulties? Not at all.’ The response was sarcastic, the voice deep and confident. Julia felt her lips twitch. ‘I am unhorsed and lost and have no feeling in my extremities, but otherwise I am enjoying a country stroll.’

‘My lady bids me say that you had best get into the carriage, sir.’

She opened the door, then gasped as the man turned to face her. ‘What on earth is that?’

‘A turkey, ma’am.’ He hitched his burden up further in his arms and a hideous red and blue head on a wrinkled, naked neck poked out from the front of his greatcoat and produced a raucous gobbling cry.

‘It is alive!’

‘Yes, ma’am. I had noticed. Might I enter? The snow is blowing over your rugs and my boots may freeze to the road if I stand still much longer.’

‘If we wrap it in this, you can lift it in.’ Miri, ever practical, held out a rug.

The man looked up from under his snow-laden hat and his jaw dropped, just a fraction.

Most males were rendered dumb for minutes at a time by their first sight of her stepdaughter. It was wearily predictable, but she supposed she could not blame them. ‘Get on with it, please, before we are buried in snow.’

The turkey succumbed to the rug after a few seconds of frantic flapping and gobbling, the man heaved it on to the seat and climbed in, slamming the door behind him.

‘Drive on, Thomas.’ Julia yanked up the glass and flapped the snow off her skirts. ‘There is no village ahead, sir.’

‘I was coming to that conclusion. My horse went lame some way back. There was a byre with a herd of cows and fodder, so I left it there, hid the saddle in the rafters and walked in the hope of better shelter.’

‘There is nothing along this road but my house, Chalcott Manor. You are welcome to shelter there until the weather lifts. I am Lady Julia Chalcott. My stepdaughter, Miss Chalcott.’

‘Thank you, Lady Julia. Miss Chalcott.’ He managed to look at Miri without actually panting, which raised him a notch in Julia’s estimation. ‘I am Giles Markham, late Captain in the Twelfth Light Dragoons. Is Lord Chalcott at home? He must be anxious with you travelling in this weather.’

‘Sir Humphrey Chalcott is deceased, Captain Markham.’ She saw the question he was too polite to ask. ‘He was a baronet. I am the daughter of an earl and chose to retain my title.’ It was the only thing she had managed to keep from her early life. ‘Why do you have a live turkey, Captain?’

‘I found it in a snowdrift. It’s a very fine Norfolk Bronze, with a label on its leg reading “Bulstrode, Leadenhall Market”. I assume it escaped from captivity on top of a stagecoach bound for the City of London. Christmas is, after all, only six days away.’ He took off hat and gloves and pushed his hand through his hair, which was brown, straight and in dire need of a crop.

Without his hat he should have looked smaller. He did not. Nor any less male and sure of himself. That would be the army, she supposed. A serving officer was unlikely to be a shrinking violet. Although one of those would certainly take up less room. Her skin felt…strange. Julia wanted to shiver even though, quite suddenly, she was not chilled. Odd. Perhaps she was sickening for a cold, which would just about put the crown on this disaster of a journey.

What were we talking about? Oh, yes. ‘And the entire point of turkeys at Christmas, Captain, is to be dead. Dead, plucked and roasted. Not shedding feathers all over the interior of my coach.’

‘I have some sympathy with his daring escape, Lady Julia. I have dodged the French often enough to have fellow feeling.’ Judging by the thin scar on his left cheek he had not always dodged successfully. Captain Markham’s voice was deep, amused and as smooth as warm honey.

Oh, pull yourself together, Julia. It is a man. A large, handsome, masculine creature who is cluttering up your carriage. They are two a penny and all equally mercenary.

‘This is a fine coach, if I may say so.’ Even in the gloom the interior with its mahogany, plush upholstery, brass fittings and heaped fur rugs murmured of luxury and the wealth to support it.

It was almost big enough for him, Julia thought, covertly watching his efforts to keep his long legs under control and his sodden boots away from their skirts and rugs. Men did fill the space up so. This one was a gentleman, the educated voice attested to that. But he was a rangy specimen with a straight nose, a stubborn chin and an excess of stubble. After the smooth, groomed males inhabiting the drawing rooms of Mayfair he was something of a shock to the system. That was all this flustered feeling was, reaction to such a virile creature at close quarters.

‘We were lent it,’ Miri said demurely, lying without a flicker of her long lashes. ‘It is very different from the carriages we are used to in India.’ At least she was keeping up with the conversation and not allowing a pair of long legs to turn her brain into mush. This was what came of indulging immodest and improbable fantasies: they climbed into your carriage at the least convenient moment.

‘India?’

‘We arrived in England three weeks ago, Captain.’ That was better, cool and polite.

‘And are returning to your family for Christmas.’

‘No. We have no family in England, except for the most distant cousins.’ To describe her sister-in-law as family stretched Julia’s willingness to mangle the English language. ‘And you, Captain? Are you on your way home?’

‘Home.’ He said the word as though it tasted of something entirely new and he was not certain that he liked the flavour. ‘I suppose I am. It is a very long time since I set foot in England.’

‘You have been in the Peninsula, sir?’

‘For several years. I have just sold out.’

Why? The war is still going on and he doesn’t appear to be suffering from some disabling wound. The coach turned sharply to the left and Julia caught a glimpse of gateposts. ‘We have finally arrived, it seems.’

‘You are not familiar with the house?’

‘No. It is the only thing my husband left to me. As I met him in India I have never seen it.’ From what Mr Filbert, her solicitor, could tell her, the possession of Chalcott Manor was not going to give anyone the impression that she was rolling in money.

They stopped and all looked out at the redbrick house that loomed through the snow. As a piece of architecture it appeared to be without merit, except for the possession of a roof with no visible holes in it and a number of chimney stacks, both features that were at the top of Julia’s desiderata for a house, just at the moment. A light showed in one of the semi-basement windows, so at least some of the promised staff were present, but there was no rush to open the door. Perhaps the snow had muffled the sound of the carriage.

Paul, the groom, opened the door and let down the step. ‘The snow’s deep, my lady.’

‘Let me.’ Captain Markham jumped down beside him. ‘We’ll trample a path through. Put an arm around my shoulders.’ The two of them moved forward, stamping in unison.

‘What a good thing we found the Captain,’ Miri observed, watching their progress.

‘Thomas and Paul would have managed between them.’ At least the man did not have expensive clothing to ruin. She had noticed the worn boots and the roughly mended cuff of his greatcoat. If he had sold his commission then he ought to have bought himself some respectable civilian clothes with the proceeds and not be traipsing around the countryside in that state.

He came back to them, leaving Paul pounding on the front door. ‘It’s as cold as Satan’s ar—as cold as the devil, ma’am. I would wait there until someone answers.’

‘I am not shivering in a coach on my own doorstep, Captain.’ Or being managed by a man. She climbed down, ignored his outstretched hand and started up the trampled path. Behind her she heard him offering his arm to Miri, who murmured her gratitude. Then her right foot shot up, her left foot skidded to the side and she was falling backwards.