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

‘Mr Martindale—how pleasant!’ said Lady Eliot, her voice executing a complete about turn. ‘Will you not be seated, and I shall ring for more tea.’ The effusive graciousness grated on Alex. Her ladyship turned to Polly with a smile. ‘Hippolyta, dear—I shall not keep you now. We may speak later.’

Hippolyta, dear? What had happened to the shop-bred upstart?

‘Actually, I should prefer Miss Woodrowe to remain,’ said Alex. ‘My proposition involves her.’

He barely heard Lady Eliot’s shocked ‘Indeed!’ for the flare of light in Polly’s eyes and the way her soft lips parted. Dragging his wits back together, he continued. ‘Ah, yes. That is, you are probably aware that my cousin, Lord Alderley—’ he loathed the necessity of making play with Dominic’s name, but the devil was in the driving seat here— ‘and I intend to establish a village school.’

Her ladyship sniffed. ‘He mentioned it at the christening. Naturally, I did not hesitate to offer my opinion.’

Naturally not.

She went on. ‘I cannot think it wise. To be encouraging the lower orders to reach above the station in which God has set them must lead to discontent. We must accept the lot to which He has intended us.’

Alex managed not to roll his eyes. She was far from the only one to think that way. Usually persons whose lot God had set in a very fair ground. ‘I am rather of the opinion, ma’am, that God moves in mysterious ways and that where He has seeded talent, it ought to be encouraged to flower.’

Lady Eliot looked anything but convinced, and Alex continued. ‘While my cousin and I initially intended to employ a schoolmaster, we now think it better to engage a woman.’ Dominic had no idea yet that Alex had changed his mind, but Alex was fairly sure he’d explained it clearly enough in the letter he’d sent over before coming here.

His gaze met Polly’s and his wits scattered again at the sight of her blazing eyes and those soft, parted lips. Lord! His heart appeared to have stopped and his breath tangled in his throat, while a distinctly unclerical question slid through his mind: what would those lips taste like? Ripe? Sweet? A hot, unfamiliar ache gathered low in his belly. Disturbing—because while it might be unfamiliar, he knew quite well what it was.

He cleared his throat, but the idea twisted it up again. What on earth was the matter with him? He was the rector, for God’s sake. Literally for God’s sake! He was meant to be an example and shepherd to his flock, not lust after the women in his congregation! He cleared his throat again, this time successfully enough to speak.

‘It has come to my attention that Miss Woodrowe—’ He let his gaze touch Polly again, felt again the leap of sensation and had to regather his thoughts. ‘That Pol—that is, Miss Woodrowe has some experience as a governess and I wondered if she might consider accepting the position.’

‘Really, Mr Martindale!’ Lady Eliot’s nostrils flared. ‘What an extraordinary idea! I do not think you can have—’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Polly’s quiet voice cut in. ‘I should like very much to discuss it with you.’

‘What?’ Lady Eliot glared at her. ‘Hippolyta, you cannot have considered the implications! And even if you had, you will of course be advised and ruled by those in authority over you!’

Polly’s mouth firmed. ‘I am of age, Aunt, and in authority over myself. I may be advised by my family, but I will be ruled by my own conscience and judgement.’

‘Now, Hippolyta—’ bleated Sir Nathan.

‘You will remain with your family connections, Hippolyta,’ snapped Lady Eliot. ‘Just this morning I have received a letter from my cousin Maria, Lady Littleworth. She is still willing to house you as her companion, despite your foolish decision to accept another post two years ago. There is nothing more to be said.’ She sat back. ‘It would present a very odd appearance,’ she continued, clearly not having listened to herself, ‘if a girl living under Sir Nathan’s protection were to be sallying forth to earn her living as a village schoolmistress.’ Her voice dripped disdain.

Sir Nathan nodded. ‘Very odd appearance. Indeed—’ this with an air of clinching the argument ‘—’tis not possible. How would she get to and fro?’

Alex braced himself. He didn’t approve, but he was starting to understand why Polly Woodrowe was so anxious to leave this house on her own terms if the alternative was an unpaid position with Lady Littleworth.

‘Naturally the offer includes Miss Woodrowe’s accommodation at the schoolhouse if she wishes it.’ Hoping Polly could remain with her family, he’d not mentioned that to Sir Nathan earlier and the fellow goggled like a landed trout.

Alex took a deep breath and incinerated every bridge. ‘If Miss Woodrowe wants it, the position is hers.’

‘Really, Mr Martindale!’ Lady Eliot’s mouth pinched. ‘We cannot possibly countenance such a—’

‘Thank you, Mr Martindale,’ said Polly calmly. Her face glowed as she turned to him. ‘If I may have a key, I will walk into the village tomorrow and decide what will be needed.’

He scowled. The deuce she would. ‘As to that, Miss Po—Miss Woodrowe—I have the keys with me now and would be delighted to drive you.’

Lady Eliot drew herself up. ‘I must make quite plain that this has not Sir Nathan’s approbation!’

Alex bowed to her. ‘I perfectly understand that, ma’am.’ He turned back to Polly. ‘Fetch your cloak, Miss Woodrowe. I will await you in the front hall.’

* * *

Polly stared about the second room of the schoolhouse in rising panic. She had not thought. She simply had not thought, had not known. But now the reality of the two-roomed cottage crashed over her like snow falling off a branch.

The schoolroom was in fine order. Neat rows of desks, a cupboard holding slates and other equipment. Books on a bookshelf, a desk for the teacher and a great fireplace. She had seen a huge stack of wood outside. Clearly teacher and pupils were not expected to freeze. The schoolroom itself had been freshly whitewashed and was more than acceptable.

This room, too, had been whitewashed. And that was it. There was nothing in it. Nothing. An alcove to one side, with a wide shelf clearly intended for a bed, was innocent of mattress and bedding. There was no furniture. There was nothing. She swallowed. Even if there were something, she realised with a jolt of shock, she would have no idea how to so much as cook her dinner. There wasn’t even a cooking pot in which to cook it, although there was an iron rod, with a hook to suspend a pot, that clearly swung in and out of the fireplace. She had seen such arrangements when visiting women in the village...but a cooking pot would cost money, and she would need a table, and chair to sit on, and bedding and...

And she was not going to give up! She had got the position and she was jolly well going to keep it. She had some money. Not much, but surely enough to buy a few simple things to furnish this room.

She lifted her chin. ‘I will need to—’

‘It won’t do,’ said Mr Martindale. He swung around on her, his grey eyes hard. ‘You can’t possibly live here! I must have been insane to suggest it.’

Her determination firmed. ‘Why not?’ All the reasons why not were buzzing frantically in her head. If she could swat them aside, why could not he? ‘It...it just needs furniture. A table and chair. Perhaps a settee to sit by the fire. Some bedding and a...a cooking pot.’

His glance skewered her. ‘Polly, do you even know how to cook?’

She stiffened. ‘Do you?’ She tried to ignore the leap of her pulse, the sudden clutch of her lungs at the sound of her name, her pet name, on his lips. For two years she had been Miss Woodrowe. Her aunt and cousins insisted on Hippolyta now. No one, not one person, had called her Polly since her mother’s death. And he shouldn’t be now.

‘I have Mrs Judd,’ he pointed out with a smile.

‘And I have a brain,’ she said, ruthlessly quelling the little flare of delight at his smile. ‘And I can buy a book. And...and ask advice. Please.’ Oh, curse it! She’d sworn not to beg.

‘You’ll be alone,’ he said. ‘A young woman, alone.’ His mouth firmed. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

‘Well, I do,’ she said. ‘My uncle is right. I cannot possibly go back and forth from his house.’ Better to make the break completely and establish her independence. Aunt Eliot would put every sort of rub in her way. But the bubble of panic rose again. Women were not intended for independence. It was wrong. Against the proper order. Unnatural. She swatted those thoughts away, too. Any number of people had probably thought it against the natural order when King John was forced to sign the Magna Carta. The sky hadn’t fallen then either.

Alex frowned, clearly thinking. ‘Perhaps lodgings here in the village—’

‘No!’ Her vehemence was as much at her own cowardice as at his suggestion and she flushed at his raised brows. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve lived in someone else’s home for two years. I...I should like to live by myself.’ Being under someone else’s roof, subject to their rules and arrangements had galled her. Certainly if she paid board she would not be a dependent, but... ‘I should like to try.’

He scowled. ‘For goodness’ sake, Pol—Miss Woodrowe! It’s winter, and—’

‘There’s a huge pile of wood out there,’ she said. ‘I actually do know how to light a fire.’ The governess had been permitted a fire in her room on Sunday evenings at the Frisinghams’, although she suspected this generosity had more to do with prevailing damp than concern for the comfort of a lowly governess. Since no servant had been responsible for lighting it, she had learnt how to manage for herself.

‘But by yourself—won’t you be lonely?’

She stared at him, surprised. ‘You live alone. Don’t tell me Mrs Judd holds your hand in the evenings. Are you lonely?’

‘That’s diff—’ He stopped and the wry smile twisted his mouth. ‘Very well. Yes. Sometimes I am.’

‘Oh.’ His honesty disarmed her. But still— ‘Well, no. I don’t think I will be.’ She might be alone, but that didn’t mean lonely. She was lonely now, surrounded by people who would prefer that she wasn’t there at all, people she had thought cared for her. Polly Woodrowe, poor relation and dependant, was a far different creature than Polly Woodrowe, wealthy cousin. But she couldn’t explain all that to Alex Martindale—it would sound self-pitying, utterly pathetic. So she said, ‘It’s different being a guest and family member to being a dependant.’

His brows rose. ‘The change in your circumstances is difficult for them, I take it.’