Gift-Wrapped Governesses: Christmas at Blackhaven Castle / Governess to Christmas Bride / Duchess by Christmas

21 December

Seraphina opened her bag and brought out the only other dress she owned. The white gown was beyond repair and she doubted that even Mrs Thomas with her varied skills could rectify it.

Her sister-in-law, Joan, had given it to her as she had explained the difficulty in housing even one more family member. Seth Moreton’s gambling had taken a toll on everyone, she had lectured, when she had extracted the yellowing garment from the back of her wardrobe and handed it to Seraphina—a replacement for the one Bonnington had ruined.

‘The man should be shot, of course. He should be hanged, drawn and quartered for his ill use of you, but who are we now to demand it? It is finished, Seraphina. Your brother is washing his hands of everything that was his birthright and you would be more than wise to do the same.’

Bernard had not appeared, but Seraphina had seen her eldest brother’s shadow beneath the door in the hallway outside and she had known that he was hiding. Confrontation disturbed him, but the thought of a penniless dependent probably worried him more.

The Moretons had neither money nor land left and a city that prided itself in both would not receive them well. Joan had even refused the use of a carriage to take her back into London, reasoning that every pound was to now be counted if they were to survive the penury that would surely follow. Seraphina had left the house and walked the mile into town, her hat pulled full down across her face so as to avoid any notice.

There had been marriage proposals, of course. Her first Season had been awash with offers, but her father had demanded she wait for the one that could not be refused and when his own foolishness had tarnished their name, all promises had been quickly withdrawn.

Even before Bonnington she had been an outcast, she realised, the few dresses that her father had allowed her to procure constantly changed by her own hand to make them appear different.

The dark-blue gown she took out now was one of those dresses, three years old but well cut and made of worsted velvet, which she had to admit was in places thinning badly. The cook had smuggled it out with Melusine when she had chanced one final call at the Moreton town house before leaving London.

At least she would not trip over the hem, she thought, combing her hair and winding it into a long plait tied with a bright red ribbon. But she must be very careful with the condition of the dress; after this, there was nothing else left.

The duke was waiting downstairs, but this morning he looked ill at ease, a man caught by company he did not desire. When she smiled at him his frown deepened.

‘Good morning, my lord.’

‘Miss Moorland.’

As he remained silent she filled in the awkward space between them with chatter.

‘Today with the children I shall begin on a lesson of botany. The plants that signify Christmas all have their own tales attached and the boys should enjoy the stories as we gather them.’ She added a ‘sir’ when he still declined to answer, for the détente that had been so apparent yesterday had disappeared overnight.

‘Then I hope you have a fruitful day.’

‘You will not accompany us?’

He shook his head and stepped back. ‘Don’t go down by the pond the children spoke of yesterday. The ice is thin and my men cannot begin the job of placing up a barrier until the morrow.’

‘Of course, my lord.’

‘The hills to the back of the castle can also be cold and windy. Do you have a thicker cloak than the one you arrived in, Miss Moorland?’

‘I do not, sir.’

‘Then ask the housekeeper to make one of my late wife’s available to you. She had quite an assortment from memory.’

‘Oh, it would hardly be—’

He cut her off. ‘My marriage was not a love match, Miss Moorland. I would divest myself of all Lady Blackhaven’s clothes if I could do so easily, but Mrs Thomas insists they have hardly been worn and that it should be a great travesty. You would be doing me a favour by taking at least one garment off my hands.’

Some of his words held an accent of Europe, Seraphina thought when he spoke, and she wondered just how long he had been stationed there. His hair was wet this morning, pulled back into a tight queue, a style far from fashionable. It suited him entirely.

He looked like a man too big for the room, though there was a grace about him that was also apparent. She imagined him on the battlefields, sword drawn and at the ready. He had been decorated for bravery on the Heights of Penasquedo in the final fiasco before the British retreat at Corunna. Perhaps it was there his cheek had been injured.

Not a love match! There had been rumours of the lack of emotion between the Lord and Lady of Blackhaven, but Catherine Stanford had played the part of duchess with aplomb, her clothes always of the latest vogue and her face unmatchable. Every man had adored her. Even her mother had been outshone by the beauty of the woman.

‘David informs me that you wish to decorate the castle hearth with bounty from the forest. I will assign a man to help you with the cutting and another to drag back what is found.’ His eyes were caught by a movement as Melusine slunk in behind her and sat at his feet.

‘It seems your hound has finally been tamed, Miss Moorland.’

‘I promised her a bone if she was obedient.’

When he laughed their eyes met. In London she had been plagued by dandies, their only thoughts those of the elegance of their clothes and the pleasure of the moment—minions who followed the Regent into hedonistic pursuits of little importance: Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we may die.

Trey Stanford was different. Even as a thirteen-year-old she had been able to recognise the fact. Had her mother, as well?

Lord, were Elizabeth and he once lovers? Is that why he had helped her mother so substantially when nobody else would? The thought was horrifying. Was this also the reason he was pulling back this morning, an edge of wariness on his face and in his words? Like mother, like daughter, though Elizabeth’s vivacity and joie de vivre had always eclipsed her own.

The bright and joyous world she had built up in her mind overnight came crashing down upon her. Lord Blackhaven would not join them in their search for Christmas greenery and he was very obviously readying himself for a coach ride away from the castle.

Another thought chased in upon that one. Would there be news of Ralph Bonnington, the Earl of Cresswell, at the destination he was bound for? Please God, let the man not have died from the blow to his head! No, the impact of the ewer had been substantial, but the bone of his scalp had held and there had been many a time with her brothers as a youngster when she had clouted them as hard. Worry swamped reason and of a sudden she wanted Trey Stanford to stay close, away from the gossip and a world that was not kind.

As a governess, however, she had no mandate to question his movements or ask for his presence here. She was a nobody now, a pauper mired in debt and scandal.

‘I shall be back before the evening sets properly. Is there anything you might wish for in Maldon?’

She shook her head and then stopped, her mind running on to the pursuits of the day. ‘Ribbon, my lord, and sweets. I have promised the boys a tree, you see, like the one King George allowed Charlotte. My mother used to speak of it—a giant yew erected inside the Queen’s Lodge at Windsor with its sweets and nuts and candles.’

‘I am astonished such a tree did not burn down the palace.’

When she smiled the air between them lightened. ‘Ours shall be an evergreen fir bough, my lord, and the candles can stay on the mantel.’

‘And where shall this tribute to the oncoming Yule be placed?’ The tone in his voice suggested resignation.

‘Mrs Thomas proposed the room downstairs to the left of the front portico.’

‘My father’s favourite haunt. I imagine him turning in his grave at the thought of the Christmas spirit displayed in the very spot where his ancestors railed against anything festive.’

‘It could, of course, be changed, my lord?’

‘No, leave it, for there is a certain retribution at the thought.’

‘You did not like your father?’ The new habits of servitude were not ingrained yet and there was a sadness about him that was beguiling.

‘I impose few rules on my sons because as a child I had to obey so many. He was a good man underneath, though, a moral man.’

‘Then you were fortunate that he cared enough to worry. My own papa barely knew my name.’ Until he signed it away on a piece of paper, promising her into unholy matrimony. Like horseflesh at Newmarket, no emotion save greed in any of it.

‘That I find hard to believe,’ Trey Stanford said obliquely, knocking his hat against his thigh. ‘But for now I bid you farewell, my lady.’ The lines around his eyes creased at her title as though he found irony in her situation; indeed, in a gown that had been remade and remodelled so many times the stitching lines were beginning to fray, Seraphina felt perhaps there was.

‘Thank you.’