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

‘Go home yourself, gel, for you do not need to see what is like to occur.’ Father’s voice was coarse, half-mad and dismissive. There was nothing left of the soft, rather pedantic tone she knew and loved.

‘Your father is right, Miss Lampett. It is unnecessary for you to remain. Let we gentlemen work this out between us.’ Stratford sounded calm and reassuring, though the smile he shot in her direction was tight with worry. His eyes never left the man in front of him. ‘You will see your father directly.’

‘Perhaps I will,’ she answered. ‘In jail or at his funeral. That is how this is likely to end if I allow it to continue.’ She hobbled forwards and stepped between them. And between axe and hammer as well, trusting that neither was so angry as to try and strike around her.

‘Miss Lampett,’ Stratford said sharply. ‘What have you done to yourself? Observe, sir, she is limping. Assist me and we will help her to a chair.’ He sounded sincerely worried. But she detected another note in his voice as well, as though he was seizing on a welcome distraction.

‘My Lord, Barbara, he is right. What have you done to yourself now?’

Her father dropped his axe immediately, forgetting his plans, and came to take her arm. Sometimes these violent spells passed as quickly as they came. This one had faded the moment he had recognised her injury.

Stratford had her other elbow, but she noticed the handle of his hammer protruding from an apron pocket, still close by should he need a weapon.

‘I fell when climbing down from the gate. I am sure it is nothing serious.’ Though the pain was not bad, and she could easily have managed for herself, she exaggerated the limp and let the two men work together to bear her forwards towards a chair.

‘The front gate?’ Stratford said in surprise. ‘That is nearly eight feet tall.’

Her father laughed, as though lost in a happier time. ‘My Barb always was a spirited one as a youngster. Constantly climbing into trees and taking the short way back to the ground. It is a good thing that the Lampett heads are hard, or we’d have lost her by now. Sit down, Barbara, and let me have a look at your foot.’

She took the seat they had pressed her to, and her father knelt at her feet and pulled off her muddy boot, probing gently at the foot to search for breaks.

She sat patiently and watched as Stratford’s expression changed from concern to interest at the sight of her stocking-clad leg. Then he hurriedly looked away, embarrassed that he’d been caught staring. He gave her a rueful smile and a half-shrug, as if to say he could hardly be blamed for looking at something so attractive, and then offered a benign, ‘I hope it is nothing serious.’

‘A mild sprain, nothing more,’ her father assured him.

For a change, his tone was as placid as it had ever been. He was the simple schoolmaster, the kind father she remembered and still knew, but a man the world rarely saw. She wanted to shout into the face of the mill owner to make him notice the change.

This is who he is. This is who we all are. We are not your enemies. We need you, just as you need us. If only you were to listen you might know us. You might like us.

‘Would it help for her to sit with her foot on a cushion for a bit?’ Mr Stratford responded as he was addressed, behaving as though she had twisted an ankle during a picnic, and not while haring to her father’s rescue. ‘My carriage is waiting at the back gate, just around the corner of the building.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ she said. This had hardly begun as a social call, though both men now seemed ready to treat it as such. While she doubted her father capable of guile, she did not know if this new and gentler Stratford was the truth. What proof did she have that they were not being led into a trap so that he could call the authorities? Even if he did not, at any time her father might recollect who had made the offer and turn again to the wild man she had found a few moments ago.

‘A ride would be most welcome,’ her father said, loud enough to drown out her objections. His axe still lay, forgotten, on the floor behind them. For now he was willing to accept the hospitality of a man he’d been angry enough to threaten only a moment ago.

‘Then, with your permission, Mr Lampett, and with apologies to you, miss, for the liberty …’ Joseph Stratford pulled off his apron, tossed it aside, then reached around her and lifted her easily off the stool and into his arms.

While it was a relief to see how easily he’d managed her father, it was rather annoying to see how easily he could manage her as well. He was carrying her through the factory as though she weighed nothing. And she was allowing him to do it—without protest. The worst of it was, she rather liked the sensation. She could feel far too much of his body through the fabric of his shirt, and her face was close enough to his bare skin to smell the blending of soap and sweat and cologne that was unique to him. Such overt masculinity should have repelled her. Instead she found herself wishing she could press her face into the hollow of his throat. At least she might lay her head against his shoulder, feigning a swoon.

That would be utter nonsense. She was not the sort to swoon under any circumstances, and she would not play at it now. Though she did allow herself to slip an arm around his neck under the guise of steadying herself. His arms were wrapped tightly, protectively, around her already, and such extra support was not really necessary. But it gave her the opportunity to feel more of him, and to bring her body even closer to his as he moved.

‘It seems I am always to be rescuing you, Miss Lampett,’ he said into her ear, so quietly that her father could not overhear.

‘You needn’t have bothered,’ she whispered back. ‘I am shamming.’

‘As you were when the crowd knocked you down yesterday?’

Then he spoke louder, and directly to her father. ‘If you would precede us, sir? I do not wish to risk upsetting the lady with too rough a gait. Tell the coachman of our difficulties. Perhaps he can find an extra cushion and a lap robe so that Miss Lampett will be comfortable on the journey.’

‘Very good.’

As her father hurried ahead, Stratford stopped to kick the axe he had been wielding into a darkened corner. ‘Though you may not want my help, I think it is quite necessary today, for the safety of all concerned, that we play this to the very hilt.’ He started again towards the carriage at a stately pace, stopping only long enough at the door to lean against it and push it shut behind him. ‘Do you really wish to protest good health and risk your father remembering and using his weapon?’

She shifted a little in his grasp, feeling quite ridiculous to be treated as some sort of porcelain doll. ‘Of course not. But I do not wish you to make a habit of swooping in to care for me when I am quite capable of seeing to my own needs.’

‘Your independence is duly noted and admired,’ he said. Then he dipped his head a little, so he could catch her scent. ‘Though I find your infirmity has advantages as well.’

She slapped hard at his arm. ‘You are incorrigible.’

‘You are not the first to have told me so. And here we are.’ He said the last louder, for the benefit of her father, to signal that their intimate conversation was at an end.

She frowned. Stratford could easily have ridden the distance between the manor and here, or perhaps even walked. To bring a full equipage and servants to wait after him while he worked was just the sort of excess she had come to expect from him—and just the sort of thing that was angering the locals. Or it could mean that he had a sensible fear of being set upon, should he travel alone and vulnerable along a road that might be lined with enemies.

He set her down briefly, only to lift her again, up into the body of the carriage, settling her beside her father on a totally unnecessary mound of cushions, her injured ankle stretched out before her to rest on the seat at Stratford’s side.

The carriage was new, as was everything he owned, and practically shining with it. The upholstery was a deep burgundy leather, soft and well padded. There were heavy robes for her legs to keep out the cold, and a pan of coals to warm the foot that still rested on the floor. The other was tucked up securely, the stocking-clad toes dangerously close to the gentleman there. The foot was chilled, and she resisted the urge to press it against his leg to steal some warmth.

Stratford had noticed it. He stared down for a moment, and then, as unobtrusively as possible, he tossed the tail of his coat over it and shifted his weight to be nearer.

Barbara warmed instantly—from the contact with his body and the embarrassment accompanying it. It was a practical solution, of course. But she would be the talk of the town if anyone heard of it. And by the smug smile on his face Joseph Stratford knew it, and was enjoying her discomfiture.

Then he signalled the driver and they set off, with barely a sway to tell her of the moment. It was by far the richest and most comfortable trip she’d taken, and she had to struggle not to enjoy it. Her subdued pleasure turned to suspicion, for at another signal to the driver they proceeded through the unlocked gates down the road towards Clairemont Manor.

‘This is not the way to our home,’ she said, stating the obvious.

‘My house is nearer. You can both come for tea. I will send you home once I am assured that you are warmed and refreshed, and that no harm has come to you while on my property.’

‘That is most kind of you,’ her father said.

It was not at all kind. It was annoying. And she was sure that there must be some sort of ulterior motive to his sudden solicitousness.

But when she opened her mouth to say so, her father went on. ‘There are not many who are such good neighbours.

And are you new here, Mr …?’ He struggled for a name. ‘I am sorry. My memory is not what it once was.’

Barbara coloured, part relieved and part ashamed. She needn’t worry that her father was likely to turn violent again, for it was clear that he had lost the thread of things and forgotten all about Mr Stratford while concerned for her ankle. But what was she to do now? Should she remind him that his host was the same man who, according to her father’s own words, treated his workers ‘like chattel to be cast off in pursuit of Mammon’? Or should she continue to let him display his mental confusion in front of his enemy and become an object of scorn and pity?

Stratford seemed unbothered, and responded with the barest of pauses. ‘We have met only briefly, and I do not fault you for not recalling. I am Joseph Stratford, and I have taken residence of Clairemont Manor now that the family has relocated closer to the village.’

Her father gave a nod in response, still not associating the man across from them with the evil mill owner he despised.

‘Would you do me the honour of an introduction to your daughter, sir?’

As her father presented her to this supposed stranger with all necessary formality, she thought she detected a slight twitch at the corners of Stratford’s mouth. If he meant to make sport at the expense of her father’s failed memory she would find a way to pay him out. But, after the briefest lapse, he was straight-faced and respectful again, enquiring after her father’s work and commiserating with him on the closing of the little school where he had taught, and his recent difficulties in finding another occupation.

Mr Stratford had changed much since the last time she’d seen him brandishing a pistol and taunting the crowd. Though she could not say she liked him, she’d felt an illogical thrill at the power of him then, and the masterful way he had come to her aid. Now she was left with time to admire him as he conversed with her father, displaying intelligence and a thoughtful nature that had not been in evidence before. She found herself wishing that things could be different from the way they were and that this might be their first meeting. If she could look on him with fresh eyes, knowing none of his behaviour in the recent past, it might be possible to trust him. But she could not help thinking that this display of good manners was as false as her sprained ankle.

He had let the groom help him on with his coat again before they had taken off, and she could see that it was the height of London fashion, tailored to perfection and designed to give a gentlemanly outline to the work-broadened shoulders she had felt as he carried her. He was clean-shaven. But his hair was a trifle too long, as though he could not be bothered to spare the few extra minutes that the cutting of it would take. A lock of it fell into his eyes as he nodded at something her father had said, and he brushed it out of his face with an impatient flick of his hand. Though she could not call them graceful, his movements were precise. She could imagine that these were hands better at tending machinery than creating art, more efficient than gentle.