A Countess by Christmas (11 page)

Helen’s lips compressed as she recalled flinging those
very words at Lord Bridgemere on the day she had rejected his offer of a new gown to replace the one Esau had spoiled.

But it was hard to stay cross for very long in the atmosphere of jollity over which the Reverend Mullen presided. He was scarcely any older than Nicholas Swaledale, she reflected, yet two youths could not have been more different. The Reverend was earnest, diligent and…well,
worthy
was the word that kept on springing to mind in his regard.

And the children, unlike their parents, all seemed to regard their visit to Alvanley Hall as the highlight of their year.

‘Christmas last year was horrid,’ said the tubby lad who was to play the part of Joseph, while she was measuring him for his costume. ‘Mama and Papa wanted us to keep out of the way while they had their parties. And they forgot all about us. We never got a big feast, like we had the year before at Alvanley. Will we be having a children’s feast, this year, Miss Forrest?’ he asked excitedly. ‘We had cake and jelly and ices last time, I remember.’

‘I do not know. This is the very first time I have been here.’

Immediately ‘Joseph’s’ expression turned pitying. ‘Never mind, you’re here now. Perhaps you will be able to come to our feast with us, and then you’ll see!’

‘I think I should like that.’ She laughed. Far more than the deadly formal banquet she guessed would be provided for the adults.

It would be wonderful to stay up here with the children and servants…

She sucked in a sharp breath. Why had she not seen it before? He had not invited her. She was here as the companion of Aunt Bella, nothing more. He had placed her in a room he’d told her was allotted to upper servants, and when he’d seen her making use of his library, as though she was a guest with the right to make free with the public rooms, he had sent her up here, where the Reverend Mullen could find fitting work for her to do!

She flushed angrily. He thought of her as a servant! It was not his wish to help her gain some experience with children that had prompted him to send her up here. No, he was just putting her in her place! Keeping her out of sight of his relatives, several of whom clearly objected to her presence.

‘Did you prick your finger?’ asked the pretty little girl who was to play the part of Mary.

When Helen had first come up here the child had run her eyes over her rather plain gown and looked as though she had immediately relegated her to the status of servant. But in spite of that she stopped sifting through the pile of materials that had been provided to make up the costumes the moment Helen gasped.

‘I am always pricking my finger when I sew my sampler. You should use a thimble,’ she said, nodding sagely.

‘Thank you,’ said Helen amending her impression of her as a haughty little madam. ‘I shall remember that.’

‘We get nice presents here, too,’ she said absently, resuming her search for something she deemed fit to appear on stage in. ‘All of us.
Nobody
is forgotten,’ she said, with such a wistful air that Helen suspected she must have suffered such a fate herself. ‘And we get
to stay up really late to put on our play. And all the grown-ups watch us and clap their hands. Even Mama and Papa.’

Helen could barely refrain from putting her arms round the child and giving her a hug. Her words spoke volumes about the way she was usually treated in her own home.

‘I would rather they didn’t,’ said the slender boy cast in the role of the angel Gabriel, who was sitting on a nearby stool, glumly studying his copy of the play. He was clearly nervous about performing in front of an audience. ‘I would rather just stay up here with a book.’ He coughed in a most theatrical manner. ‘I don’t think I will be able to say my lines. I think I’m catching cold.’

‘You had better not, Swaledale,’ observed ‘Joseph’. ‘Or you will miss the skating.’

Helen looked sharply at ‘Gabriel’. If his name was Swaledale then he must be the younger brother of Lord Bridgemere’s heir. Now that she knew he was related, she thought she could see a resemblance. He did have a rather sulky mouth.

‘Miss Forrest,’ said ‘Joseph’, turning to her, ‘His Lordship has made a skating pond, especially for us children. We are all going to go down tomorrow if the rain holds off. Will you be coming with us?’

‘I am not sure,’ she replied, tight-lipped. The Earl had specified that he wanted
responsible
adults to watch over his precious young relations, implying that she did not qualify.

‘Mary’ pouted. ‘I expect it is only for boys. The girls will have to stay indoors and…learn lines, or something equally tedious!’

‘No, no, Junia, dear,’ said Reverend Mullen, who had been passing with a sheaf of scripts in his hands. ‘
All
the children are to gather in the stableyard, first thing in the morning, where a cart is to be ready to carry them to the pond. Those who do not wish to skate do not have to. They may watch. There will be a warm shelter where hot chocolate and cakes will be served.’

‘Joseph’s’ eyes lit up.

‘And did I not tell you, Miss Forrest? His Lordship particularly wants you to accompany the nursery party, since you are such an enthusiastic skater.’

‘Are you?’ said Junia, dropping a length of purple velvet and looking up at her wide-eyed. ‘Would you teach me to skate?’

‘Of course I will,’ replied Helen, suddenly understanding why her parents sometimes overlooked her. Junia, she recalled hearing, was the name of another of Lady Thrapston’s daughters. Her mother must have been furious she had produced yet another girl, when there, in the form of ‘Gabriel’, was the proof that her sister, Lady Craddock, had produced not only an heir for Lord Bridgemere, but also a potential spare.

As Reverend Mullen hurried away, bent on his next task, Helen’s mouth formed into a determined line. No child over whom
she
ever had any influence would be made to feel inferior because of their sex! She would make sure their accomplishments were applauded, their talents encouraged, and—she glanced at the slender, pale young ‘Gabriel’—their fears soothed.

Junia sat back and beamed at her. And Helen’s opinion of her mellowed still further. She probably could not help being a little haughty, considering who her mother
was. The poor girl had clearly been taught that certain behaviour was expected of a young lady. But Helen was going to see to it that tomorrow, at least, she had the chance to break out in the direction her natural inclination carried her!

Then she turned to ‘Gabriel’.

‘You know, you do not have to say very much,’ she said, eyeing his script. ‘From what I have seen of the way Reverend Mullen has written it, you mostly have to stand there, looking imposing, while Junia recites the Magnificat.’

‘And keep the little angels in order,’ said Junia.

Many of the younger children, who could not be expected to learn lines, would be dressed as angels and simply moved about to represent the heavenly host watching over the events taking place in Bethlehem.

He sighed despondently. ‘They won’t mind
me
,’ he prophesied gloomily. ‘Nobody ever takes any notice of me.’

‘They might,’ said Helen on a burst of inspiration, ‘if you arm yourself with some treats as a reward for good behaviour.’

‘I say, Miss Forrest,’ he said, brightening up immediately, ‘that’s a capital notion. I might ask Cook for some jam tarts, or something!’

Helen had visions of half a dozen little angels, their faces smeared with jam. ‘Something like ginger snaps?’ she suggested. ‘Easier to stow in your pockets for distribution at the proper time. I shall go and have a word with Cook about it later on.’

How fortunate she had already mended fences below stairs, she reflected as Gabriel grinned at her.

Goodness! Helen was beginning to think she might have some natural talent when it came to dealing with children after all.

A
las, she had not so much success with adults!

The very moment she walked into the blue saloon that evening she felt out of place. And self-conscious because she had so badly misinterpreted Lord Bridgemere’s motives in singling her out for attention. Right now he was moving from one group of guests to another, playing the part of dutiful host. Something inside her squeezed painfully as she saw afresh that it was the duty of a good host to pay a little attention to each of his guests. And she had mistaken his willingness to spend a little of his time ensuring she enjoyed some of the beauty of his estate at dawn’s first light as personal interest in
her
. His subsequent attitude had shown her how he really viewed her.

And yet, even knowing this, she was still painfully aware of exactly where he was at any given moment. It was as though she was attuned to the low, melodious timbre of his voice. And, her attention having been caught, she could not prevent her eyes from seeking
him out. And then she would feel deflated whenever she caught sight of the back of his head, his light brown hair gleaming in the candlelight. For he would always be intent upon somebody else. So far as he was concerned she might as well not exist.

It was even worse once they sat down to dine and she had an unimpeded view of him at the head of the table. For he talked quietly to those seated on his right hand, or his left.

And ignored her completely.

By the time the ladies withdrew, all Helen wished to do was escape to her bedchamber, where she might have some chance to wrestle her tumultuous feelings into submission.

But Lady Thrapston beckoned to her the moment she crossed the threshold, and she did not see how she could refuse her imperious summons to take a place on the sofa beside her.

Under cover of the noise her two daughters were making at the piano, Lady Thrapston fired her opening salvo.

‘I have been observing you,’ she said, with a grim smile. ‘And I feel obliged to warn you that your tactics will not work with Bridgemere.’

‘Tactics?’ Helen was so surprised that she hardly knew how to answer Lady Thrapston. They had a knack, she reflected wryly, Lord Bridgemere and his sister, of reducing her to parroting one or two words of their speech.

‘Do not play the innocent with me. You fool nobody with all that nonsensical talk about not wishing to
marry! It is quite obvious that you have set your cap at Lord Bridgemere.’

Helen’s first instinct was to deny the allegation indignantly. She had just opened her mouth to make a pithy rejoinder when she heard her aunt laughing at something Lady Norton had said. And she closed her mouth abruptly. She must not let her temper get the better of her. Aunt Bella was still awaiting Lord Bridgemere’s verdict, and until then it would not do to create an even worse impression upon him than she had already done.

She contented herself by lifting her chin and glaring at Lady Thrapston.

‘Nothing to say for yourself?’ the haughty matron said. ‘But then what
can
you say in your defence?’

Helen wondered if she had just made a tactical error. For it looked as though Lady Thrapston thought her dart had gone home. Her next words confirmed it.

‘With my own eyes I have watched you making a spectacle of yourself. And let me tell you this. Fluttering your eyelashes at him over the soup plates is one thing, but it has come to my attention that you have now gone to the lengths of luring him to some out-of-the way spot in an attempt to compromise him.’

‘That is not true!’ Helen gasped. She had not done any luring! Lord Bridgemere had
invited
her to go out walking with him.

How dreadful that somebody had seen them and run to Lady Thrapston with such a tale. She felt quite sick that somebody disliked her enough to do such a thing, without a shred of evidence.

Especially since she would never dream of setting
her cap at any man, or luring him into a compromising position. But she
had
felt acutely disappointed that his attitude towards her had been so completely impersonal, she admitted to herself. And, her conscience whispered, she’d also had to chastise herself several times for entertaining inappropriate thoughts regarding Lord Bridgemere. Lady Thrapston had obviously noticed that she could not help finding him most attractive. Even when he had made it perfectly clear he was immune to her, she reflected with chagrin.

Her cheeks flushing guiltily, she said, ‘I am aware that His Lordship would never consider marrying someone like me.’

Lady Thrapston nodded grimly. ‘I trust you will remember that, my girl. If you know what is good for you, you will take care to keep well away from him for the remainder of your visit. It would not do for rumours of indecorous behaviour to accompany you to your new post, would it?’

Was this a threat? Helen reeled at the thought of the damage Lady Thrapston could do to her future if it was. A judicious word in her employer’s ear, from a woman of her rank, and her job could well disappear. Nor, if gossip spread about her supposed conduct, would it be easy for her to find another.

Helen wished she might make some clever, cutting rejoinder, but for once she knew it was imperative she keep her tongue between her teeth.

‘No,’ she whispered. She dared not risk antagonising Lady Thrapston, and have her spread unfounded gossip
about her. What General Forrest had begun was bad enough.

‘You may return to your aunt,’ said Lady Thrapston, a small, but self-satisfied smile playing about her mouth.

She had the look of a woman who had just successfully put a designing trollop in her place, fumed Helen as she walked, stiff-legged and straight-backed, to her aunt, and sat down, her fists clenched in her lap.

It was so unfair!

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, unable to deny that, had she behaved with greater propriety, the woman would not have had cause to think what she had. Her eyes did keep straying towards Lord Bridgemere whenever he was present. Something about him drew her like a magnet. And, from what Lady Thrapston had just said, her attraction towards him must be written all over her face.

She sighed. A proper young lady should never reveal what she was thinking. Her aunt had informed her of that fact many times, without ever managing to teach her how such a feat might become possible. With the result that everyone must be able to tell exactly what she was thinking just by looking at her. She glanced round the room, wondering what everyone had just made of her encounter with Lady Thrapston. And noted several ladies staring at her in a disapproving manner. Lord, did
everyone
think she was fast?

She supposed she could hardly blame them. For she
had
snatched at the chance to spend a few moments with him alone. Even though she had known full well it was most improper behaviour. Oh, she might not have
actually set her cap at Lord Bridgemere, but her conduct towards him had definitely been questionable. And had laid her wide open to Lady Thrapston’s charges.

Not that his sister need worry. Lord Bridgemere had already taken steps to ensure she kept her distance. He had made sure that she would be busy all day long. Well away from him!

She went cold inside as it occurred to her that
he
might have thought, as Lady Thrapston had, that she was deliberately attempting to entrap him.

How humiliating.

And she had nobody but herself to blame.

‘I think I should like to retire early tonight,’ said Aunt Bella. ‘I have been tired all day after last night’s dissipation.’

‘I shall come up with you,’ said Helen with heartfelt relief. ‘Do you wish to go now?’ She desperately wanted to get out of the room before the gentlemen joined them. She did not think she could bear to have Lord Bridgemere look at her with the kind of censure Lady Thrapston had just turned on her.

‘If you would not mind,’ said Aunt Bella gratefully. ‘Lady Norton makes me feel old. I simply cannot keep up with her.’

‘We are used to living much more quietly,’ said Helen, taking her aunt’s arm as she rose to her feet. ‘That is the problem. Though I, for one,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘have no wish to fit in with these kind of people.’

Going to bed early solved nothing. Helen lay wide awake, going over and over Lady Thrapston’s acid comments, castigating herself for the way she had behaved
since coming to Alvanley Hall, and bitterly regretting that second helping of pickled cabbage. She had the worst case of indigestion she could ever remember. Eventually her discomfort became so acute that she knew she would have to find some remedy. In the past she had found that taking a hot drink and walking about provided some relief.

She had no intention of ringing for a servant in the middle of the night. Besides, she knew the way to the kitchens. She could quite easily make herself a cup of tea without disturbing anyone. She got out of bed, thrust her feet into slippers, pulled on her wrapper, and tiptoed across the room so as not to wake her aunt. Then, remembering how cold the corridors could be at any time of the day, she darted back to get her thickest shawl for good measure.

She was halfway down the backstairs when the door at the foot of the staircase opened and somebody with a candle and booted feet began to mount. Assuming it must be a footman, she kept descending until she got to the bend in the stairs, where she gathered the skirts of her nightgown tightly and pressed herself against the wall of the half-landing, to give the man room to get past her.

‘Well, well, what have we here?’

Helen grimaced as she recognised in the flickering candlelight not a footman, but the flushed features of Nicholas Swaledale. His neckcloth was awry, his waistcoat buttons undone, and he was swaying ever so slightly with each breath he took.

In other words, he was thoroughly foxed.

And he was standing right in the centre of the narrow
staircase, blocking her path. Running his bloodshot eyes insolently over her.

Her nightgown was not in the least bit revealing. On the contrary, it covered her in voluminous folds of flannel from neck to toe. And yet it was a garment designed for wearing in bed. And the smirk on his face told her he was well aware of the fact.

Helen had never felt so vulnerable.

She had never come across a drunken young man on her own in her entire life, and was not quite sure how to deal with him. If he had been sober she would have curtsied, greeted him formally, and then gone on her way. Perhaps that would be the best thing to do. Remind him of his manners.

‘Good evening sir,’ she said, dipping her knees in a curtsey as though they were in a drawing room.

Swaledale sniggered as she straightened from her curtsey.

‘You don’t need to p’tend to be all prim and proper with me, Helen,’ he said, climbing up another step so that his face was level with hers. ‘Or sh’ll I call you Nell?’

He stepped onto the landing and swayed towards her.

Now was not the time to argue about the over familiarity of using her given name. It was the fact that he was standing far too close that was bothering her the most.

She already had her back to the wall. All she could do was turn her head aside as stale brandy fumes assailed her nostrils.

‘Please stand back and let me pass,’ she said.

‘Why? Where you goin’? Or c’n I guess?’ His expression turned nasty. ‘Off for a little midnight trysht with
Bridgemere, are you? Shneaking down backstairs so nobody will see wass goin’ on…’

‘There’s nothing going on!’

He made a derisive snorting sound. ‘The way he goes on about you fair makes me sick. “Paragon!”’ He lurched and hiccupped, dripping candle wax onto her shawl. ‘Never askin’ nobody for nothin’, but just goin’ out and findin’ work. Praising your frugalishity to make the rest of us feel guilty…’

‘Fru…frugalishity?’ She couldn’t help herself. She giggled.

It was just so wonderful to learn that, however he treated her to her face, and whatever suspicions he might harbour in regard to her obvious attraction to him, Lord Bridgemere was still holding certain aspects of her behaviour up to others as an example. And the sudden lift this knowledge brought to her spirits burst forth in a wild surge of hilarity at this drunken youth’s muddling of the English language.

With a newfound boldness she reached up and pushed him in the chest, intending to step round him and carry on her way.

But his reflexes were amazingly quick, considering he was slurring his words so badly. He grabbed her wrist and, after a brief struggle, managed to twist her arm behind her back and pin her to the wall.

‘Don’ laugh at me!’ Swaledale’s expression had turned ugly. He was leaning against her heavily, his eyes glazed. She could feel the heat of his candle scorching her cheek. She jerked her head away from the naked flame, afraid now that he was so drunk he could easily burn her, entirely by accident.

‘Thass wiped that smirk off your face,’ he said with a satisfied grin. ‘Slut.’

She went still. This kind of behaviour from a man was totally outside her experience. She knew she had no hope of breaking free. And she feared that if she antagonised him further he might really hurt her.

‘I am not laughing at you,’ she said, in as calm a tone as she could muster, considering her heart was lurching about in her chest. ‘Please, won’t you let me go now?’

He chuckled.

‘No. Don’t think I will. Not yet.’

To her utter disgust, he pushed his mouth against hers and licked all the way round her lips.

With the candle held so close to her cheek, she dared not move. All she could do was keep her mouth pressed tightly closed as the revolting assault went on and on. It was just like being slobbered on by Esau! Though at least she had known the dog was trying to be friendly. There was nothing friendly about what Swaledale was doing. It was a deliberate insult!

She whimpered in distress.

He growled. And ran a line of wet kisses down her jaw to her neck. ‘What the
devil
do you think you’re doing?’

From the staircase below Lord Bridgemere’s voice boomed, echoing from the bare woodwork.