A Regency Christmas Carol (7 page)

The ghost gave a single tap of his stick and the ballroom doors before them opened wide. The same golden glow Joseph had seen before spilled through them and out into the hall, as if to welcome them in.

This is how it should be.

The thought caught him almost off guard, as though the sight of this long-past Christmas was the missing piece in a puzzle. The rooms were the same, the smells of Christmas food very nearly so. But it was the people that made the difference.

Even in mirth, his current guests were polite and guarded. The men considering business looked at him as though calculating gain and loss. Anne’s family
treated him with an awkward combination of deference and contempt. A few others avoided him, acting as though the wrong kind of mirth on their part would admit that they did not mind his company and would result in some life-changing social disaster.

But the very air was different in this place. It was not simply the quaint fashion of the clothes or the courtliness of the dancing. There was a look in their eyes: a confidence in the future, a joyful twinkle. As though there was no question that the future would be as happy as the past had been. But they were not bending, more than ten years on, under the weight of a never-ending war, or the feeling that their very livelihood might slip from their fingers because of the decisions made by men of power and wealth. They were dancing, singing and drinking together, unabashed. The spirit was infectious, and Joseph could not help but smile in response to the sight.

There was a pause in the music and he heard the laughter of young girls—saw a pair, still in the schoolroom, winding about the furniture in a game of tag.

‘Do you not wish they would stop?’ the ghost prodded gently. ‘It is most tiresome, is it not? All the noise and the bustle?’

‘No. It is wonderful.’ For all the quiet dignity of the party he was throwing, there was something lost. It lacked the life of this odd gathering so bent on merriment. He could see village folk amongst them—the grocer, the miller and younger versions of the same
weavers who had threatened only yesterday to break the frames in his factory. But now they danced with the rest, as though they were a part of the household.

He cast a questioning glance at the ghost.

‘It is the annual Tenants’ Ball,’ Sir Cedric supplied. ‘Held each Christmas night—until the last owner could no longer keep the spirit of the season or afford the house.’

‘Perhaps if he had been a wiser steward of his money and not spent it on frivolities such as this he would still reside here.’ But his own conscience told him that was an unfair charge. The celebration
he
was throwing was far more elaborate than this, and not a tenth as happy.

‘He seems successful enough there, doesn’t he?’ Sir Cedric raised his stick and pointed towards the corner, where stood Anne’s father, Mr Clairemont, looking happier and less careworn than he had done since Joseph had known him. And there was Mrs Clairemont, who showed a change even more drastic. Eleven years ago she had been a gracefully aging beauty. Now she was grey, pinched and nervous.

‘Whatever the reason, the Clairemonts are gone from here and none of your concern. I hear the house is held by a harsher master now.’ The ghost gave him a look one part disappointment and one part disapproval, followed by another heavy sigh.

‘I am harsh because I did not invite the whole village for Christmas dinner?’ Joseph waved a hand at the assembly. ‘How was I expected to know of this? It is not
as if I was born of this area. The cottage we began the night in was miles from here. Clairemont said nothing of this responsibility when he sold me the house.’

‘And you are so tragically robbed of speech that you could not enquire.’ The ghost nodded in mock sympathy.

Now the lord of the manor was offering baskets to the families that had come, shaking hands and slapping backs as though every last man was an old friend. If the Clairemonts were still in the house, it must mean that the woman he now meant to marry was somewhere in the throng—and no older than the girls at play. He searched for the pair he had seen and dismissed earlier, but there were so many children, and they seemed to swarm out of doorways and hiding places, tearing down the halls, heedless of the other guests.

Then he spied Anne. Even now he could not quite manage to think of her as ‘his’ Anne. The unfamiliarity of her youth made it no easier. This little girl was as unlike her in manner as she was like in face. In childhood there had been none of the sombre grace that the woman carried now. She was a mischievous imp who did not care that her hair ribbons had come untied so long as she was not caught by the one who followed.

And the other, following close on her heels, was just alike. A twin? Or very nearly so? For the girls were very similar in looks. If they were not birthed together, then no more than a year could have separated them.

‘Mary! Anne! Wait for me.’ A third girl appeared,
as though out of nowhere, seemingly forgotten as the game of hide-and-seek went on without her. When he turned to the sound of her voice he saw a hanging on the wall that had concealed her still rustling back into place.

Focused as she was on the two who had passed, she did not see him until it was too late, striking his legs with a surprisingly solid thump. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

As he reached out a hand to steady her, her little face turned up to his. Barbara Lampett. It must be her. For there was the same turned-up nose. And those were her blue eyes, as bright and searching as a beacon, with the curiosity of unvarnished youth. No one had told her not to stare, or taught her to cloak the energy of her spirit in courtesies and false manners.

He felt the same connection he had at the riot, and again in this very hall. But this was different. Tonight she knew nothing about him. She’d had no chance to form an opinion, no reason to think him anything less than a gentleman. She had no cause to dislike him. She was smiling at him with those same pursed lips that had shown such disapproval this afternoon.

The thought staggered him. Seeing her here, as she had been, he very much wished that he might have met the girl full-grown tonight, and had even the smallest opportunity to let the woman she had become see him as anything else than an enemy.

He steadied her, and stepped out of her way. ‘No harm done, Miss Lampett. Go and find your friends.’

But the other girls had come back for her, grabbing her hands and pulling her away, paying no heed to him.

‘Barbara, what are you waiting for? Come.’

Then she was gone from him, with one passing look and a tip of her head, as though she could not quite make out his purpose in standing in the hall, staring.

‘Who is the man in the nightshirt?’ she said to the nearest girl, looking back at him again.

‘What man?’ Her friends looked back, through him.

‘I… Never mind.’ Barbara smiled and looked away again, as though the memory of him was already fading.

‘She saw me?’ he said in wonder, looking down at his own hand as though he could still feel the muslin of her gown under his fingers.

‘It seems so,’ said the ghost, barely interested. ‘There are those who see the world around them plainly, and those who don’t. Miss Lampett is more perceptive than most.’

Joseph thought again of her ill opinion of him. That was hardly a sign of keen perception. Her animosity seemed to be shared by most of the community.

‘And some others can learn to see properly if they are shown,’ the ghost added.

‘You are speaking of me, I suppose?’ Joseph answered.

‘You do seem to be most singularly blind to your surroundings.’

‘I see it more as an ability to avoid distractions and to focus on the future.’

‘Really?’ It was more a question than a statement. ‘The future is not my purview. There is another…’ The ghost stopped for a moment and gave a slight shudder. ‘You will see soon enough how clear a view of the future you hold. But for now I bring you to the past so that you might learn from it. Do not forget it, my boy.’

‘Stratford! What the devil? Joseph, get up immediately. What are you about, sleeping in a common hallway?’

Joseph started awake, focusing in confusion for a moment on a man’s legs, before looking up into the worried face of Breton. ‘Hallway?’ he echoed in puzzlement, struggling to remember the details of the previous evening. It had begun normally enough. But now…

He looked around him. He was slumped on the floor in the hall, in front of the ballroom, still clad in his nightclothes. He stood up quickly, glancing around to make sure they were alone. ‘Did anyone…?’

‘See you? Dear God, I hope not. I am sure we will hear of it if they have. But you must consider yourself fortunate that I am an early riser and can help you out of this fix. What happened?’

‘I am not sure. I must have roamed in my sleep. I had a very vivid dream.’ And vivid it must have been. He could see the bruise on his hand where he had pinched himself. And feel a small knot on his skull where he had been rapped by the Cavalier’s beribboned walking stick.

‘Well, you look like the very devil. Grey as a paving stone and just as cold.’

Joseph turned behind him to the curtain that hung on the wall and swept it aside, to reveal a small alcove with a stone bench just large enough to hide a pair of lovers. Or a girl playing at hide-and-seek.

‘I did not know of this before now,’ he said numbly to his friend. ‘But I dreamed it was here.’

Breton was staring at him as though he were as barmy as Bernard Lampett. ‘If you wish to search the house for priests’ holes, it might be best to continue when fully dressed.’

‘Perhaps so.’ He frowned. ‘But I am surprised I had not noticed this before.’

His friend took him by the arm, tugging him towards the back stairs. ‘That is little shock to me. It has nothing to do with the running of the mill. That is all you seem to care about lately.’

‘Unfair,’ Joseph charged. ‘I care about many things. It is not as if I am made of clockwork, you know.’ Who had told him he was?

They mounted the steps and Breton hurried him towards his room, his valet and his clothing. ‘Sometimes I wonder. But, if you have them, tell me of these other interests. I defy you to name one.’

Now that he was pressed, Joseph could not seem to think of any. Unless he could count Lampett’s fractious daughter as an interest. If the spirit of Sir Cedric had
taught him anything, it was of his desire to see another of the smiles she had worn as a child.

In response to his silence Bob gave a snort of disgust. When he spoke, the amusement in his voice had been replaced with sincere annoyance. ‘That was where you should have announced your excitement at your impending engagement. Have you forgotten that as well?’

‘Of course I have not forgotten.’ But he had responded too late to be believable.

‘I might just as well have included it as part of your business. It is little more than that to you, isn’t it?’

‘Little more to her as well,’ Joseph said, a little defensively. ‘Her father wishes her back living in this house. This is the most efficient way to accomplish it.’

Breton pushed him towards his room. ‘Once she is here, you will notice her as little as you do your own furnishings—or that hole in the wall you found so fascinating. And that is a pity. Anne is a lovely girl, and deserving of better.’

There was that prickling of his conscience again, and the echoing warning of his father to unravel his plans and start fresh. Perhaps that was what he’d meant. His other business plans were sensible enough. He hardly needed a wife to cement his place. But he could think of no honourable way to back out of the arrangement he had made with Clairemont.

‘There is nothing to be done about it now,’ Joseph said with exasperation. ‘We are as good as promised
to each other. Everyone knows I mean to make the announcement on Christmas Eve. I cannot cry off, even if I might like to. The scandal to the girl would be greater than any that might befall me.’

‘Then the least you can do,’ Breton said more softly, ‘is to recognise that you have won a prize, and treat the girl as such. For if I find that you are neglecting her, or making her unhappy, I will be forced to act.’

Joseph looked at his friend as if for the first time. Bob, who had been ever loyal, friendly and trusting, was acting as strangely as though he had been receiving nightly revelations as well. He looked angry. It was disquieting.

‘Very well, then,’ Joseph answered, searching his friend’s expression for some understandable reason for this change. ‘I will take your words to heart. Although it will not be a love match, I will make sure that she does not suffer for my neglect.’

His friend sighed. ‘I suppose it is as much as I can expect from you. But see that you remember your words.’

And mine as well.

The echo of a voice from the portrait gallery caused him to start nervously.

His friend gave him another suspicious look. ‘Is there something wrong, Joe?’

‘Nothing,’ he said hurriedly. ‘You are right. I have been working too hard. I have not slept well for two nights. And I am neglecting Anne. Today I will change.
I promise. But for now I must dress. I will see you in the breakfast room shortly.’ He backed hurriedly into his bedroom and shut the door before the conversation could grow any more awkward.

He would make a change—if only to avoid another night like the one he’d just had. Although, with the minimal direction his nightly ghosts had given him, God only knew what that change was supposed to be.

‘W
ill that be all, Miss Lampett?’

Barbara checked carefully through the list she’d set for herself to finish the Christmas shopping. A matching skein of wool to complete the warm socks she was knitting for Father, and the new fashion plates that her mother would enjoy, along with enough lace to make her a collar. ‘I can think of nothing more.’

‘Do you want this sent round to the house, Miss Lampett?’ The girl behind the counter looked at her expectantly.

There was plenty of space left in her market basket on top of the groceries: three oranges, one for each of them, and a pound of wheat for her father’s favourite frumenty. The roast she’d got from the butcher sat in the bottom of the basket, wrapped tightly in brown paper so that it would not spoil the rest. The poor bit of meat was leaner than she’d wished for. But then so was the
butcher. What with the war, and the general poverty of the area, Christmas itself would be sparse for many people, and she had best be grateful that her family had the money to purchase a feast.

Barbara counted the remaining coins in her purse, calculating the pennies needed to reward the boy at the end of his journey. ‘No, thank you. It is a fine day, and not far. I will carry this myself.’

The shop girl gave her a doubtful look and wrapped the package carefully, placing it on top of the others.

Barbara hefted the basket off the counter, feeling the weight shift. It was heavy now. In a mile it would be like lead on the end of her arm. Her muscles would ache with carrying it. But she smiled in gratitude, to show the girl that it was all right, and pulled it to her side, turning to go.

‘Allow me, Miss Lampett.’ Without warning, Joseph Stratford was there at her side, as suddenly as he had been two days past in front of the mill. He had a grip on the basket handle, and had pulled it from her without waiting for her to give him leave.

‘That will not be necessary,’ she said, trying not to sound breathless from the shock of the sudden contact. It was strange enough to see him in the village, shopping amongst the peasants in the middle of a work day. But it was doubly disconcerting to have him here, close to her again, after the intimacy of yesterday.

‘Perhaps you do not think it necessary,’ he agreed. ‘But I would not be able to stand aside and watch you
struggle with it. You had best take my assistance, for both our sakes.’

‘I would prefer not.’

‘But I would not be able to sleep, knowing I had left a lady to carry such a burden.’ He smiled at her in a way that might have been charming had she not known so much of the source. ‘I can hardly sleep as it is.’

The charm faded for a moment, and she saw shadows under his eyes that had not been there two days ago. Maybe her father was weakening him, after all. She reminded herself that he deserved any suffering he felt, and gave him a false smile in return. ‘Heaven forefend that you are uneasy in your rest, sir.’ She reached again for the basket, but he pulled it just out of reach.

‘Come. You and your packages will have a ride home in my carriage.’

‘It is a short distance,’ she argued.

‘The weather is turning. Come with me, and you will stay warm and dry.’

‘My reputation…’

‘Will be unharmed,’ he finished, glancing at the people around him for confirmation. ‘I mean you no mischief. I will take you directly home. It is on my way.’ He looked around with a glare, cowing the shop girl and the other customers. ‘No one will cast aspersions if I attempt to do you good. They can see plain enough that you are resisting, but I am giving no quarter. Come along, Miss Lampett.’

Then he and her basket were ahead of her, out of
the door and walking towards the large and entirely unnecessary carriage. She had no choice but to trail after.

As she passed, his groom jumped to attention, rushing to take the basket, get the stair down and hold the door as he helped her up. Across from her, Joseph Stratford leaned back into the seats as though he was ascending to a throne.

Then he smiled at her, satisfied. ‘There. As you can see, you are perfectly safe, and still in clear view of those in the street. I am all the way over here—properly out of reach of you. There will be no such incident as there was the last time we were alone together.’

‘I had no doubt of that, Mr Stratford. I would die first.’

He laughed at her for her primness. ‘You are a most ungrateful chit, Miss Lampett. One kiss did you no permanent harm. And, if you will remember the altercation outside the mill two days past, you must admit I have shown concern for your welfare. If I was as awful as you pretend, I would have let the mob trample you.’

‘You would not have.’ He’d moved with such speed to get to her side that she was sure it had been all but involuntary.

He looked surprised. ‘You give me credit for that much compassion, at least. Thank you for it.’

The silence that came after served to remind her just how unequal things had become, and just how unfair she was being to him—even if she did not particularly
like the man. ‘I deserve no thanks, Mr Stratford. I owe them to you. At least for that day. I am perfectly aware that if you did not save my life, you at least spared me serious injury.’

‘You’re welcome.’ He seemed almost embarrassed that she had noticed the debt she owed.

‘But now you are giving me a ride, when I told you I did not wish one. After yesterday…’

‘Can you not accept this in the spirit with which it was given?’ he asked with a smile. ‘It is foul outside, but it appeared that you wished to forgo even the help of a delivery boy and struggle home by yourself. There was no reason for it.’

He looked at her sideways for a moment, and then out of the window, as though his next comment was of no consequence.

‘Perhaps I remember what it was like to count pennies as though they were pounds, and do without the smallest luxuries.’

He had guessed her reason for walking? ‘Then I also apologise for the comment I made in our last conversation, accusing you of being unsympathetic to those in need.’

He was frowning now, and hardly seemed to speak to her. ‘You were right in part, at least. I had meant, when that time passed, to remember it better. I pledged to myself that I would be of aid to those who were impoverished, as I had been while growing up. It seems I have forgotten.’

‘Do not think to make my family an object of pity to salve your stinging conscience,’ she snapped. ‘If you wish to offer charity, there are others that need more of it.’ Then she looked out of the window as well. She felt bad to have spoken thus, for it was very ungrateful of her. He seemed able to put her in the worst temper with the slightest comment. But then, he could arouse other emotions as well.

Her cheeks coloured as she thought again of the kiss. When she’d accepted this ride, had there been some small part of her that had hoped he would attempt to do it again? Was that what made her angry now? She was a fool if she thought that his offer had been anything other than common courtesy. She meant nothing to him. Nor did the kiss.

‘It is hardly charity to offer another person a ride on a cold and rainy day,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll wager you’d have accepted if the offer had come from Anne Clairemont or her mother.’

‘That would not have been likely,’ she said.

‘Why not? You were friends with the Clairemont girls as a child, were you not?’

She turned and looked at him sharply. ‘What gave you that idea?’

His gaze flicked away for a moment. ‘You mentioned it as we were driving towards the house yesterday.’

‘I said I’d had a friend there. But you said “girls” just now. I did not mention Mary.’

‘Perhaps Anne did,’ he said, still not looking at her. ‘Mary was her sister, then?’

The idea that Anne might have mentioned her seemed highly unlikely. Something about the calculated way he spoke made her suspect he fished for information and was piecing the truth together with each slip Barbara made. ‘Mary has been dead for quite some time,’ she said, praying that would be the end of the conversation.

‘What happened to her?’

‘There was nothing mysterious about her death. She took ill, faded and died. If you wish to know more you had best ask your fiancée, Miss Clairemont.’

‘I have not offered as of yet.’

‘But you will. The whole village knows that the festivities you have organised are meant to celebrate your engagement to her.’

‘Do they, now?’ His voice had dropped briefly, as though he was talking to himself. ‘I did not know that the world was sure of plans that I myself have not spoken.’

Were they not true? Anne seemed sure enough of them, as was her father. But Stratford’s response gave Barbara reason to fear for them. It would be most embarrassing should they have misunderstood this man’s intent so completely and allowed themselves to be used to further his business. ‘I am sorry. Perhaps I was mistaken.’

‘Perhaps you were.’ He was looking at her rather
intently now, as though trying to divine her opinion on the subject.

She reminded herself that she had none. Perhaps she was a little relieved that he was not riding with her or kissing her while planning to marry Anne. She had no wish to hurt that family again by seeming too interested in Mr Stratford. Nor did she want to do anything that might encourage him to become interested in her if he was otherwise engaged.

But his eyes, when seen this close, were the stormy shade of grey that presaged a violent change in the weather. The slight stubble on his chin only emphasised the squareness of his jaw. Now that she had noticed it she found it hard to look away.

He broke the gaze. ‘Then again, perhaps you were not mistaken about my engagement. I have not yet made a decision regarding my future, or that of Miss Anne Clairemont.’

She looked down at her feet, embarrassed for having thought anything at all other than cursory gratitude that she was not walking in the rain. ‘Either way, it is rude of you to discuss it with me. And, I might add, it does not concern me whatever you do. You might marry whoever you like and it will not matter to me in the slightest.’

‘It is good to know that. Not that I planned to seek your approval.’ This was more playful than censorious, and delivered with a strangely seductive smile, as if to say it was in his power to make it matter, should he so choose. ‘But why do you say that the Clairemonts would
not offer you a ride if you needed one? They seem like nice enough people, from what I know of them.’

Perhaps enough time had passed that they were better. Barbara was not sure of the mood in the Clairemont household. But she would rather cut her tongue out than ask Anne, for fear the answer she might receive would open old hurts afresh. She gave a firm smile. ‘It is an old family quarrel, and nothing of importance. I would not seek to bother them if I did not have to.’

‘But I would like to hear of it, all the same.’

‘You will not hear it from me,’ she said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. ‘You are new to Fiddleton, Mr Stratford, and might not know the ways of small villages. When one lives one’s life with the same people from birth, it sometimes happens that one makes a mistake that cannot be corrected and that will follow one almost to the grave.’

‘Are you speaking of the Clairemonts, then? What mistakes could you have made to render you less than perfect in the eyes of this village? From where I sit, I see a most charming young woman—and well mannered.’ He smiled. ‘Although not always so to me.’

‘You do not always deserve it, sir.’

‘True enough,’ he agreed. ‘But you are kind to others, modest, clearly devoted to your family. And beautiful as well.’

‘Though too old to be still unmarried,’ she finished for him, sure he must be thinking it. ‘The verdict has
already been rendered as to my worth in that regard. I have learned to accept it.’

‘Then we are of a kind,’ he said. ‘Although I am the worse of the two of us. I have just got here, and I have made myself universally hated. But I do not let it bother me. I do not care a whit for the opinions of the locals. I am who I am, and they had best get used to it.’ He looked her up and down again. ‘If they think less of you, for some foolish reason or other, I cannot give their views much credence.’

Between the kiss they had shared and the look he gave her now, she suspected he had got quite the wrong idea about it all. He was hoping that there had been a man involved in her downfall. But their trip was almost over, and he had offered no further insult, so it was hardly worth correcting him. As long as they were not alone again he would give her no trouble.

But his disregard for his own reputation bothered her. ‘Perhaps you
should
care what people think. There are worse things than social ostracism, you know. Mill owners have been accosted in their own homes and on their ways to and from the factories they own.’

‘That is why I carry this,’ he said, patting the bulge in his pocket and reaching in to draw out the handle of a pistol.

‘Are you really going to use it?’

‘Do you doubt my bravery?’

‘I do not doubt your foolhardiness,’ she said. ‘It has
but one bullet in it. If there is trouble, there will likely be a gang behind it.’

‘Then I will be forced to appeal to the garrison for aid, and it will not go well with them,’ he said, as though that settled the matter. ‘I do not seek violence, Miss Lampett. But if I feel myself threatened I will resort to it. You need have no doubt of that.’

She imagined the possible consequences with a sinking heart. ‘Since the violence you describe is likely to be turned against my father, I believe we have nothing more to say to each other. It is fortunate that we have arrived at my home.’

Stratford glanced out of the window. ‘So we have.’ He turned and tapped on the door to signal the driver. ‘Another turn around the high street, Benjamin. The lady and I are not finished with our discussion.’

‘And I have just said we are.’ She reached for the door handle, only to fall back into her seat as she felt the carriage turning. ‘This is most high-handed of you, Mr Stratford.’

‘But, knowing me as you do, you must expect nothing less of me, Miss Lampett.’ He smiled again, as though they were doing nothing more serious than dancing around a ballroom. ‘The subject we discuss is a serious one. I think I may have found an agreeable solution to several dilemmas at once. But it requires your co-operation, and the chance for us to speak privately for a little while longer—as we are doing now.’