A Magical Regency Christmas: Christmas Cinderella / Finding Forever at Christmas / The Captain's Christmas Angel

‘Susan! Mary!’ Probably they hadn’t seen her...ah, John Coachman had. He was slowing the horses. She picked up her pace, hurrying towards the carriage. Susan frowned, leaning forwards, clearly giving an order. John responded, pointing his whip at Polly hurrying to the coach. Susan’s chin lifted, she spoke again, the words indistinct, but her tone sharp... John hesitated, cast Polly an apologetic look and urged the horses on.

Polly slowed to a stunned halt, staring after the departing carriage. Hurt fury welled up, scalding her throat, as she set out for home. The frost had thawed that morning, leaving the lane muddy. By the time she was halfway there, her skirts six inches deep in mud she would have to brush off, she had a new plan. Very well. Her aunt had refused to give her a reference. Mr Martindale had failed her. She braced her shoulders against the biting wind. She would ask Pippa, Lady Alderley, for a reference.

* * *

Polly had reached the manor gates before she heard the rumble of wheels slowing behind her. She didn’t bother looking around even as the gig slowed beside her.

‘Miss Woodrowe. What on earth are you doing?’

The familiar voice sounded furious.

She turned and met Alex Martindale’s scowl. ‘Sir?’

‘What are you doing?’ he repeated.

‘Returning ho—to my uncle’s house,’ she amended. A home was where you felt welcome, where you belonged.

His frown deepened. ‘But...you’re walking!’

‘I can’t fly,’ she pointed out reasonably. ‘An oversight, but there it is.’

For a moment he stared and she cursed her unruly tongue. Would she never learn to curb it? That was something that other Miss Woodrowe, the rich Miss Woodrowe, might have said. In her it would have been amusing, witty. In plain Polly Woodrowe it was impertinence.

Then he laughed and it lit the grey eyes which crinkled at the corners in a way that drew her own smile. ‘Touché. Stupid thing to say. May I at least give you a lift down the drive?’ He held his hand out, still with that lilt to his mouth. She hesitated, even as her heart kicked to a canter, remembering that his smile had always been just that little bit crooked. There was nothing remotely improper in accepting. Mr Martindale was the rector, and it was an open carriage. For the length of the carriage drive. Except...Aunt Eliot would think her designing, and there would be another row, when she still had not found a position—she quelled a shudder. ‘It’s out of your way, sir,’ she excused herself, ignoring the little ache of regret.

He shook his head. ‘Actually, no, it isn’t. After you left, I realised that I needed to speak to your uncle about something.’

‘Oh.’ Oh, dear God. Surely he wasn’t going to complain about her? ‘I’m...I’m sorry if you were offended that I asked for the teaching position.’ Somehow she choked the words out, fought to look suitably chastened. ‘There’s no need to mention it to my uncle. I won’t ask again.’

‘What?’ He stared at her, puzzlement in those grey eyes. She’d always been fascinated by the utterly black rims, and those dark, dark lashes... ‘You thought I was going to complain about you? No, Miss Woodrowe, I was not!’ Now he did sound offended.

She opened her mouth to apologise, but he forestalled her.

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Not one word. Do you hear me?’

She nodded, fuming at the autocratic tone.

‘Right. Up you come, then.’ That was an outright command.

Seething, she placed her hand in his, felt the powerful clasp of long fingers as he steadied her and helped her up. The horse stood patiently while he flipped the driving rug off his own legs and over hers.

‘Sir—’

‘Not a word!’

That the Reverend Alex Martindale could sound so angry was a revelation. She sat in silence the length of the carriage drive.

* * *

Polly stood quietly while Aunt Eliot railed at her. Once she had been considered an intimate of the family, permitted to use the more familiar Aunt Aurelia. Once she had been a welcome guest. Not any more. There was quite a difference between the wealthy heiress of a mill owner and the impoverished daughter of trade.

‘The presumption! Calling out in that vulgar fashion, in the middle of the street!’

‘I thought they had not seen me, Aunt.’ She swallowed. Had she given it the least thought, she would have known that any not seeing had been deliberate. Susan and Mary took their tone from their mother.

Lady Eliot ignored this. ‘And where is the money I gave you for embroidery silks?’

She wondered what her aunt would say if she handed her a packet of silks instead. ‘Here, Aunt.’ She took the coins from her pocket and held them out. Lady Eliot took them with a sniff and counted them. She glared at her niece. ‘You’ll have to go back later. Miss Susan forgot the blues.’

It was the Miss Susan that did it...

Polly opened her mouth, fully intending a polite acquiescence.

‘No.’ It was said before she even knew it was there. She braced herself. It was out and it wasn’t going back. Not if she was now supposed to refer to her cousins as Miss Susan and Miss Mary.

Lady Eliot’s eyes bulged. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, no, Aunt. I’ve been once, and I’m not going again. Send Susan.’

‘Why you ungrateful, impertinent, little—’

Polly let the storm rage about her. Odd how it didn’t bother her now, when only a day or so ago she would have been close to tears, wondering how to placate her aunt. Now she simply didn’t care.

* * *

Alex followed his faintly offended host along the hallway of the Manor.

‘I cannot think that Lady Eliot will approve this offer, Martindale,’ huffed Sir Nathan. ‘Hippolyta has every comfort here, as well as the countenance and protection of her family.’

‘Of course,’ said Alex. He was half-inclined to make his excuses and leave. Clearly the Eliots were not, after all, trying to shove Polly out the door and he had misinterpreted the situation, placed too much credence in what was, after all, mere gossip. Polly—Miss Woodrowe was likely quite happy with her family and had approached him out of pride—not a sin at all to be encouraged, although he could understand her not liking to be beholden.

And if Sir Nathan’s nose was out of joint, that was as nothing to Lady Eliot’s likely response. At which unwelcome thought he became aware of a strident female voice carrying down the hallway. Someone—apparently a presumptuous, ungrateful viper—was in a deal of trouble. It sounded as though one of the housemaids was being dismissed. Sir Nathan, who was more than a little deaf, appeared not to notice anything unusual, but continued along the hallway to the drawing-room door.

Alex hesitated, but Sir Nathan said, ‘We shall see what her ladyship says,’ and opened the door for him.

‘Lady Eliot, here is Mr Martindale with a most extraordinary proposal.’

‘...ungrateful, shop-bred upstart—’

Lady Eliot’s diatribe was cut off as if by a knife slash.

Alex advanced into the room. Her ladyship sat enthroned in a high-backed chair by the fire, a firescreen embroidered with revoltingly coy nymphs and shepherds protecting her face from the heat. The tea table beside her bore a heavy silver tray with a teapot, creamer, sugar bowl, and a single cup and saucer.

Before her stood Polly, staring at him in obvious shock, and not a housemaid, let alone a miscreant one, in sight.

Alex took a savage grip on his own temper. Lady Eliot had been berating Polly. Shop-bred. Viper. Presumptuous.

Hot colour flooded Polly’s pale cheeks as she looked at him, yet she held her head high. Embarrassment then. Not shame.