One Snowy Regency Christmas: A Regency Christmas Carol / Snowbound with the Notorious Rake

Still, it had been a long time since she’d danced—with or without demons. Would it really do any harm?

‘Dancing at the manor? Of course you should go, then.’ Her father’s sudden change caught them unawares, as it often did. Though he had been angry only a few moments before, now he was smiling at her. ‘You have not been since last Christmas, and you always enjoy it so. Visiting Anne and Mary will do you a world of good.’

She shot a worried glance over his shoulder to her mother, and then said, ‘Father, Mary is dead. The Clairemonts no longer live at the manor. There has not been a Christmas celebration there in six years.’

‘I know that,’ he said quickly, embarrassed at his lapse. ‘I only meant that you would be better off dancing at the manor than driving on the high street with Lucifer in a silk waistcoat.’ He darkened again, as suddenly as he had brightened. ‘A silk waistcoat made by hands that slaved for pennies so that he might ride high and mighty like a prince.’ His eyes lit at the sound of his own words. ‘I must write this down. It will be the basis of my next speech.’

‘You do that, Father.’ Barbara hurried to the little desk in the corner, setting out paper, uncapping the ink and trimming the nib of the pen. Then she pulled out his chair and took time to settle him there. It seemed to give him comfort, for he sat down and began writing industriously, staring out of the window before him into the sleet-streaked sky as though the next words were written on it and he could pluck them from the air.

‘Come into the kitchen, Barbara. Let us see what you have brought back from the market.’ Her mother turned quickly, but not before Barbara could see the trembling of her lip that was the beginning of tears.

‘A moment, Mama.’ She hurried to the sewing basket, to conceal her mother’s Christmas gift. Then she followed her out of the room.

By the time she had reached her in the kitchen her mother was more composed, though clearly worried.

‘What are we to do, Mama?’ she whispered. ‘He is like this more and more.’

‘There is little for us to do. There is no changing him.’ Her mother gave a brief, bitter laugh. ‘He changes often enough on his own. Like the tides, he goes to extremes at both ends.’

If he continued thus there would be no chance of him returning to employment, and they would end their days living off the dwindling inheritance her mother had received from her own family. Barbara thought of the pennies in her purse again, and gave quiet thanks to Mr Stratford. Even if he was the devil, he had saved her the bother of a wet walk.

Her mother seemed to be thinking of him as well. ‘Tell me about this Christmas invitation you have received. It does seem to be a lone bright spot in the day.’

‘I told him it was improper,’ Barbara said, frowning. ‘For I did not think Father would approve.’

‘Your father is lucky to remember from one minute to the next why he hates the man. We will tell him that you are gone to see Mary. For if there are gentlemen there, as he said …’ Her mother was thinking forward, hoping for a bright future in which a wealthy stranger would appear with an offer and solve all their problems.

‘But I refused,’ Barbara said, dashing her hopes.

‘Oh,’ said her mother, properly disappointed.

‘He offered again—including the family. When I told him that there was no way Father could manage such a gathering, he offered a selection of books as Christmas gifts—to keep him home and quiet over the holiday. He said he would send something written, so that I would know he spoke with sincerity.’

‘A written invitation to the manor?’ Her mother positively glowed with the prospect.

‘I doubt he will remember,’ Barbara said hurriedly. ‘I am sure it was said only in passing, to make conversation. It was just an effort to be social.’

‘A most curious effort, then.’ Her mother was looking closely at her, trying to determine what she might be concealing. ‘He has made no attempts at civility to the rest of the village. And yet he singles you out. A gentleman would know better than to make promises he cannot keep—especially when he is courting another.’

‘One can hardly call him a gentleman, Mother. He is in trade. He admitted to me that he was a weaver’s son.’

‘Really?’ Her mother’s eyebrows arched. ‘You speak like your father, my dear. It is idealistic to set men of business firmly below us and to act as though birth is all. Perhaps realism would be a better path, considering our circumstances. It is possible to be a gentleman and poor as a church mouse, while the weaver’s son dines and dances in a manor. The world is changing. While we might not approve of all the changes, we must make the best of them. Let us hope that Mr Stratford is as good as his word.’

And his offer proved true. A short time later, while her father still pondered his latest diatribe, there was a knock on the door. Outside, the same coach that had deposited her waited for the liveried servant who held a properly sealed and decorated invitation and a package of books.

Before her father could say otherwise, her mother had snatched it from the poor man’s hand and instructed him to wait upon the response. Then she pushed her husband’s work aside and reached for paper and pen.

‘As usual, Satan sends his handmaidens in fine garments to tempt the unwary,’ her father barked.

The footman looked rather alarmed and peered behind him, unaware that he was the handmaiden in question.

‘Nonsense, dear. It is an invitation to the manor. Nothing more. It can do us no harm to accept, surely?’

‘Well, then.’ Her father beamed. Then he waved a hand at the man who waited. ‘My regards to Lord Clairemont, his wife and his daughters. Tell them to be wary, just as they are merry.’ Then he opened the first of the books and immediately forgot the source of his discomfiture.

The man gave a hesitant nod, and waited upon the hurriedly scribbled response from her mother before returning to the carriage.

Mother and daughter returned to the kitchen.

‘You cannot mean for us to go, Mama,’ Barbara whispered. ‘Look at Father. There is no way for us to keep the pretence that it will be as it was. And no way to predict, once he is there, what he will say in front of Mr Stratford and his guests. It would be better if we refused politely and stayed home.’

‘It would be better if your father and I stayed away. But there is no reason why you cannot go,’ her mother said firmly. ‘While I like dinner and a ball as well as the next person, I am content to sit here with your father and allow you to get the benefit of an invitation. He said there might be gentlemen?’

‘Friends from London.’

‘Stratford means to marry Anne. She and her parents will be there to recommend and chaperone you. I am sure, if you wrote to her, she would offer you a space in their carriage so that you needn’t walk to the manor.’

‘That was what Mr Stratford suggested as well. He said he would speak to them. But I do not think they would like it very much. Perhaps there is another way.’ Although Barbara could think of none.

‘I will not let you walk to the manor in dancing slippers. Nor will I allow you to refuse this invitation,’ her mother said, giving her a stern look. ‘I will write to the Clairemonts about it. I will choose my words with care. Perhaps, after six years, you should not blame yourself for something that was no fault of your own, and they should find it in their hearts to forgive you.’

It was not nearly enough time, Barbara was sure. It had been just this morning that she’d met Lady Clairemont walking down the street and seen the way the lady looked sharply in her direction, and then through her. ‘Please, Mother, do not.’

‘There is no other way. This is an opportunity that you dare not turn down. If there were other suitable men anywhere in the area I might think twice. But if there is a chance of a match amongst Mr Stratford’s guests we must seek it out for you. One of your old gowns will have to do. But we can trim it up with the lace you bought this morning and I am sure it will look quite nice.’

‘Mother!’ Despite her best efforts, her mother had seen into the shopping basket. ‘That was intended as a gift.’

‘For someone who has less need of it than you,’ her mother said, laying a hand on hers, ‘it would do my heart good to know that you are out in society again—even if it is only for a day or two. I will write the letters, and then we will see what can be done with the gown. You must go where you are invited, Barbara, and dance as though your future depended on it. For it very well might.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

JOSEPH went to his bed that night in the knowledge that his rest would be well and truly settled. He had managed his guests—impressing the men with his plans for the mill, and charming the ladies without appearing ill-mannered or common. He had skated Miss Anne Clairemont twice around the millpond without falling or precipitating a fall in her. Then he had gone into the village, located Miss Lampett and presented his proposition.

If the ghost, or whatever it had been, had meant to upbraid him on the fate of that poor girl, he had done his best to return her to the society to which she was accustomed. Although why her fate should fall to him, he had no idea.

Perhaps it was because he was the one with the most power to change it. When his future mother-in-law had protested that she would not be seen in the company of ‘that girl’, he had explained tersely that it would be so because he wished it so, and that was that.

He wondered for a moment what Barbara had done to deserve such frigid and permanent rejection, but concluded it was nothing more than the usual fall from grace involving some young man—possibly a suitor of Anne or the departed Mary. If that was the case Miss Lampett had well and truly atoned for it, after years of modest dress and behaviour.

And more was the pity for it. If the kiss they’d shared had been any indication of her capability for passion, he’d have liked her better had she not found her way back to the straight and narrow. He smiled, imagining a more wanton Barbara, and the sort of fun he might have had with her.

The clock in the hall struck two.

‘Leave off having impure thoughts about the poor girl, for your work is far from finished.’

Joseph sat bolt upright in bed at the sound of another unfamiliar voice, booming in the confines of the chamber. He had not even risked wine with supper, and had shocked his valet with a request for warm milk before bed. But now he wondered if perhaps it might have been better to forgo the milk and return to a double brandy in an effort to gain a sound and dreamless sleep. ‘Who might you be, and what makes you think you can read the contents of my mind?’

‘You are young enough, and healthy enough, and smiling at bedtime. If you are not thinking of a young lady then I do not wish to know what it is you do think on.’