A Countess by Christmas (21 page)

‘I…I never thought of that…’ Helen whispered. Oh, Lord, what had she done? She shut her eyes and wrapped her arms round her waist.

But it did not take her long to realise that it made no difference what had gone on in that first long-ago marriage, even though it had cast such long shadows over his life. The reason she had not accepted Lord Bridgemere’s proposal was that he did not love her now, today. Not
because of anything that might or might not have happened in his youth.

‘Shall I send for a supper tray?’ said Aunt Bella, dabbing at her eyes and sitting up straight. ‘It is bad enough that the wretched man has upset you so much. I see no reason why we both need to go hungry on his account as well.’

They were not going to discuss the matter any further, Helen could see that. Aunt Bella disliked emotional scenes of this sort. They had made their peace with each other, dealt with Lord Bridgemere’s proposal, and that was the end of that.

Helen blew her nose one last time, knowing the subject was closed. When Aunt Bella drew a line under any topic there was no point in trying to revisit it.

Helen woke next morning with a throat that felt raw from weeping quietly into her pillow and eyes that were heavy from lack of sleep.

It was her last day at Alvanley Hall. And she did not know how she was going to get through it. He would be somewhere near all the time. She might see him unexpectedly at any moment. And every time she saw him it would be a like a fresh blow. To know she might have married him if she’d had less pride. To know that because of it she would likely never see him again.

Oh, how she longed for the day to be over, so that she could leave tomorrow and start to get on with the rest of her life without him. To begin to allow her wounded heart to heal.

This must be what purgatory was like. Neither one thing nor the other. Just enduring the present punishment
for a decision she was bitterly regretting even though she knew it had been the right one.

For once she had no wish to go up to the nursery. Children were perceptive. They would be bound to ask her what was the matter. Or Reverend Mullen would enquire after her health. She was afraid that she might start to cry again, and upset them. As well as drawing the kind of attention to herself she desperately wished to avoid.

But she had no wish to sit in her room moping all day, either.

Fortunately she knew exactly where another pair of willing hands would be welcome, and that was at the barn on the home farm, where the tenants’ ball was to be held tonight.

As she had suspected, Mrs Dent welcomed her with open arms, and promptly handed her a broom. Once Helen had finished helping sweep the floor she went and stood with the village girls who had also come up to help, and had a drink while they all watched the men setting up trestle tables along one wall. From then on her feet hardly touched the ground. There were cloths to spread, garlands to make, wreaths to hang and, to the accompaniment of much giggling, kissing balls to fashion from mistletoe and hang in as many strategic locations as possible.

Much later she went to the nursery, to take an early tea with the children since she was feeling a little shaky. She could not say she wanted to eat anything, but she knew there was a lot of the day left to get through, and the last thing she wanted to do was faint away and ruin the children’s big moment on stage.

She helped them into their costumes and handed Charles, swathed in silk as the angel Gabriel, the supply of ginger snaps which she had fetched on her way up through the kitchens, so that he could bribe the little angels to behave themselves. Then she helped Reverend Mullen and the nurserymaids to get them all downstairs and into their cart for the short drive over to the barn.

Their party was the last to arrive. The house guests were sitting on benches directly in front of the raised platform on which the band would later play music for the dance, and the villagers, dressed up in their Sunday best, were standing behind them.

There was an empty seat next to Lord Bridgemere, on the front row. He got to his feet the moment he saw her and indicated that she should come and sit beside him.

Helen’s heart sank. It was further proof, as if she needed any, that he had not a grain of sensitivity. How could he think she would want to sit so close to him when her whole being was grazed red raw from rejecting his proposal?

Yet how could she refuse his invitation with everyone watching? It would look as though… She grappled with the possible interpretations the others would put on her actions, then gave up, too weary to take any thought to its logical conclusion, and sank onto the seat beside him.

‘Are you feeling any better?’ he murmured as she took her seat. ‘You did not take dinner last night.’

How could he think she could have sat through another interminable meal with his family when her heart had felt as though it was breaking?

‘I feel…’

She felt dreadful. And sitting so close to him was not helping. If she should reach out, just a little, she would be able to touch him. When she knew that really he was forever out of her reach. For two pins she could throw back her head and howl with misery. She had to bite down hard on her lower lip, to stop it quivering.

‘Hush,’ she said, keeping her face fixed straight ahead, for she dared not look at him lest he see exactly how much she was hurting. ‘The children are about to start.’

Something inside Lord Bridgemere had settled when she took her place beside him. He had been worried about her all day. He had upset her somehow by proposing marriage. Though he could not tell why. He had thought she liked him. But last night in his study she had looked as though she could not wait to get as far from him as possible. She had not been able to look him in the face from the moment she’d entered. Had run from the room positively bristling with indignation when he had decided he might as well put a period to that embarrassing little scene.

But at least she did not have such a disgust of him that she could not even bear to sit beside him now.

Strange how badly he had misinterpreted her. He had thought he could always tell exactly what she was feeling. He had caught her looking at him sometimes with what he had thought was her heart in her eyes. He would have sworn she would leap at the chance to marry him.

Instead she had turned him down. Had run from the dining room the second he’d entered it as though
she could not bear to so much as look at him and gone without dinner rather than endure another second in his presence. And she had clearly been avoiding him all day. He’d respected her wishes, leaving her to her own devices though he would much rather have made the most of this last day they would ever have together. But he was too much the gentleman to trample all over her feelings.

Whatever they were. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked as though she had slept as poorly as he had done. The feeling of numbness that had descended over him when she had turned down his proposal had stayed with him through the night. He just could not believe she would walk away from him when she could be his wife.
Why?
he had wanted to shout when she had stammered through that painful little rejection speech. Why could she not stay with him? Did he mean nothing to her at all? He had lain in bed all night feeling…empty. Completely empty.

But she was sitting next to him now.

He barely restrained the urge to reach out and take hold of her hand.

Reverend Mullen had done a masterful job of coaching the children, who acted out the story of the nativity quite beautifully, even if several of the tiniest angels could clearly be seen munching biscuits throughout. To end the performance the whole audience joined in with a heartfelt rendition of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’, then the seated guests applauded the children’s effort politely, while the villagers whooped and cheered.

When the applause had died down, all the seated
spectators got up and made their way to the exit, intent on returning to the chilly grandeur of the big house. Instinctively Helen made a move towards the children, intending to help their nurses wrap warm coats over the tops of their costumes for the ride home.

‘Miss Forrest,’ said Lord Bridgemere, putting his hand on her arm to stay her.

‘Please, don’t go.’ His heart was hammering so hard it was a wonder she could not hear it. There was so little time left. Mere hours before the coach would come round and carry her away. How could they waste them sleeping? Or in his case pacing his room, wondering what he could have done to make her accept rather than reject him.

Her heart leapt within her breast. Was he asking her to reconsider? Had he, on reflection, decided he could not bear the thought that she was leaving tomorrow?

‘It is your last night here,’ he said. ‘Your last night of freedom before you have to try to behave with propriety all the time, as befits a governess.’ He tried to make a joke of it, so that she would not hear how close he was to begging her to spend the evening with him.

Her heart plunged. It was not a renewal of his proposal, then. How foolish of her! Why would it be? She’d only ever been supposed to be his ‘comfortable’ wife.

‘There is to be dancing. And I should like you to be my partner for the opening set even if you do not care to stay longer. Will you stay for just one dance? Please?’

He held out his hand to her. The rest of the room was in a bustle as the children were shepherded out of the door. The villagers cleared away the chairs, and musicians mounted the stage and began tuning up.

But where she was standing there was nothing but Lord Bridgemere, holding out his hand to her with an intensity in his expression that produced an echoing yearning deep within her. As he had said, this was her last night. The last time she would ever see him. And he wanted her to spend it with him.

What else could she do? Go up to her room and finish her packing? Sit on her bed and spend the whole night weeping?

Or make the most of this chance—this one last chance to be with him?

She put her hand in his and he smiled.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly, and led her to the head of the first set that was now forming to the cheers of the locals.

Helen had never seen Lord Bridgemere looking so carefree as he did that night.

He was dressed fairly casually, so that he did not look so very different from the other young village men in their Sunday best. When the first dance was finished he proceeded to dance with his tenants’ wives and daughters, whilst the farmers and their sons swept her up into the merriment. Though even when she was not his partner, she still felt as though she was dancing with him. The nature of the country dances was such that they all continually moved up and down the set, so that she never knew when he might take hold of her hand or swing her round by the waist in performance of one of the figures. So long as she was dancing and he was dancing it was as though they were dancing together, no matter who their nominal partners happened to be.

Which was why she stayed. And kept on dancing.
Until she was so tired that she was forced to go to the refreshments table for a glass of the local cider.

It was only moments before Lord Bridgemere joined her.

‘You have enjoyed your last night here, I think,’ he said, accepting a drink from the girl who was serving. ‘Rather more than you have enjoyed most of the rest of your stay at Alvanley Hall.’

She nodded as they both sipped their cool, refreshing drinks. In spite of everything she was glad she would have the memory of this night to look back on. When she had glimpsed yet another facet of Lord Bridgemere’s character.

‘I have, too,’ he said. He moved a little closer and lowered his head, so that she could hear him above the music that was striking up again. ‘We only danced the once, but somehow, because you were here, too, and happy, it made it…very special.’ He smiled at her, ruefully.

Helen closed her eyes. Hearing him say that was unbearably poignant. She wanted to savour his words without giving away her state of mind. She was not wearing her best bronze gown tonight, but a simpler dress that she’d thought more appropriate for the activities in which she had envisaged taking part. And he was standing so close that she could feel his body heat through the thin muslin.

Her heart began to pound. Her eyes flew open. And she saw him looking down at her with sadness in his eyes.

‘It is almost midnight,’ he said. ‘I really think we should leave. Some of these men have been partaking
of the ale I have provided somewhat too freely and the atmosphere is about to become rather boisterous. I should like to take you back now.’

Take her back. She had not given a thought as to how she would get back to the house. But the prospect of leaving did not sound quite so terrible now she knew he meant to escort her. The dancing might be over, but there was still the walk home.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I shall fetch my coat and bonnet.’

Lord Bridgemere waited for her by the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. She had not liked it when he’d spoken to her of his feelings. From being relaxed and seemingly happy in his company she had completely withdrawn. And when he had suggested they leave her relief had been palpable.

She really did not want to marry him.

Helen thought Lord Bridgemere had never looked more isolated as he lounged against the doorpost, watching his tenants enjoying the festivities. It was as though a great gulf separated him from other, lesser beings.

As if to confirm her opinion of his exalted status, the moment she joined him the band stopped playing, the villagers stopped dancing, and everyone turned to look at him.

‘I usually make a sort of farewell speech when I leave the ball,’ he explained to her. ‘It will not take a moment…’

But before he had the chance to say anything to his tenants the fiddler, who had been imbibing steadily all night, suddenly yelled, ‘Don’t leave without giving her
a kiss, Your Lordship! Don’t let that mistletoe go to waste!’

Everyone was either roaring with laughter or pointing at the kissing ball under which, he now perceived, he and Helen were standing.