A Regency Christmas Carol (19 page)

It turned to him then, reaching a thin, pale hand to uncover its face and stare at him.

It was his own face staring back. Not the one he saw in the mirror each morning, nor even the hardened man that was stalking through this unhappy future. This was him as he would be fifty years hence—still breathing, but near the end. He would be strong and healthy, but nearer to a century than to fifty.

And his eyes. At first he thought them soulless. But there was a flickering of pain, like a tormented thing
racing about in his head, and a twitch at the corner of his mouth that he could not seem to control.

Joseph stared at him, into those familiar gray eyes, into the darkest part of his own soul. ‘I have seen enough. Take me back. It will be different. As it should be. I promise.’

The ghost’s shoulders slumped, as though relieved of a weight. The tension in his mouth relaxed. His eyes closed. And an empty cloak dropped to the floor.

It was a blanket. Nothing more than that. It had slipped from his own bed, in his own room. He had chased it to the rug and was sitting upon the floor and staring at it in the light of Christmas dawn as though he had never seen the thing before.

Joseph gave a nervous laugh and shook it, as though he expected to see some remnant of his vision. ‘All over. Merry Christmas.’ He said it almost as an oath more than a greeting. ‘It is over, and I live to tell the tale.’ Not that he could, lest he be thought mad. But he was indeed alive.

To the open and empty air, he said, ‘And I will remember it all, whether it be dream or no.’

He reached for the bell-pull and rang for butler as well as valet, thinking it would be easier to rouse the housekeeper through an intermediary rather than directly. It would take more than one hand to set his plan in motion. The whole house might be needed, even though it was just past dawn on Christmas Day.

J
oseph stumbled down the stairs one step ahead of his valet, who was still holding his coat. The shave Hobson had given him had been haphazard at best. But there was much to do, and he could not wait any longer for the butler to deliver his message.

‘Mrs Davy!’ He stood in the centre of the main hall and shouted for the housekeeper. It felt as though he were taking his first deep breath in an age, after being deep underwater.

The poor woman hustled into the room, hurriedly tying her apron, a look of alarm on her rosy face.

He gasped again and grinned at her, amazed at the elation that seemed to rush in along with the plan. It made him feel as he had on the day he had first thought of the new loom—full of bright promise. Only this was better.

‘Mrs Davy,’ he said again. ‘My dear Mrs Davy!’ And then he laughed at the look on her face.

She took a step back. ‘Sir?’

He had worried her now. Though he was not a cruel master, when had he ever taken the time to call anyone dear?

‘I have more work for you. I take it the larders are still full, and ready to feed my non-existent guests?’

She gave a hesitant nod. ‘There was much more than was needed, sir.’

‘Then we need to do something with the bounty. Baskets. Baskets and boxes—and bags. Bowls, if you must. I want you to search the house and fill every container available with the excess. Enough to feed every family in the village. While you are about it make enough for a box for every servant here. Make sure that you and your helpers take enough for yourselves as well. Empty the pantry. I wish to give it away.’

‘Sir?’

Had he really become so ungenerous as to cause this look of surprise? If so, it was all the more reason to change his ways—with or without the intervention of ghosts.

‘I want,’ he said, more slowly and with emphasis, ‘everyone in the village to have as happy a New Year as I am likely to. It will not happen for any of us if I sit alone in a house that is barely half full, and they sit in the village with empty cupboards and fears for the
future. I have broken a tradition. I mean to mend it now. As quickly as possible.’

‘Oh, sir.’ She was grinning at him now, as though he had fulfilled her fondest wish by forcing her to labour on Christmas Day.

‘If you can fill the baskets, I will take the carriage into the village. And a wagon as well. I will see to it that they are delivered. And with them I will send an invitation for this evening. All who wish to come must dance and drink and be merry.’

‘Yes, sir!’ She was already bustling back towards the kitchen, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared, as though borne on a cloud of enthusiasm.

‘What the devil is going on?’ Breton was approaching from the stairs, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. ‘Stop making such a racket, Stratford, or you will wake the whole house.’

Joseph grinned at him. Good old Robert. Loyal Bob, who must be sorely conflicted by his feelings of late. ‘A Merry Christmas to you, Breton.’ He seized the man’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘And may I take this moment to say I never had a truer friend, nor a better partner?’

‘I might say the same of you,’ Breton said, looking quite miserable. Then he took a deep breath. ‘That is why I must speak. I know it is not the time or place, but there is something I wish to discuss. I did not get a wink of sleep last night, and I do not think I can stand…’

‘Not another word.’ Joseph held up his hand to stop
the confession that he suspected was coming. ‘I wish nothing more for this Christmas than that you save any difficult revelations for after New Year’s Eve. If you feel the same way—’

‘I doubt a few days will change my mind on what I wish to tell you,’ the man interrupted. ‘For I wish—’

‘…after I break my engagement with Anne.’

‘…to go back to London. I…’ They’d spoken on top of each other. And now Breton looked as if he wished to suck his last words back into his mouth. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I am going to speak to Anne. We both know that she does not love me. I am quite sure I will not make her happy. No matter how much business sense it might make, it is wrong to catch her up in it and force a union which might be disagreeable to her.’

‘There are certain expectations…’ Breton said cautiously.

‘And they are all about this house. Well, damn the house. I do not want it,’ Joseph said firmly. ‘I would be quite content with something smaller. With fewer rooms, and not so many ghosts.’ He laughed again. ‘Her father can have it off me for a breach of promise settlement. That is what he wants, after all. Unless…’ He grinned at Breton. ‘Unless you would be willing to take the thing off my hands? I expect you would be troubled endlessly by Clairemont, of course. He seems to have the daft idea that his daughter shall be mistress, no matter what she wants. You’ll be in his sights
for a husband then, I am sure. You’ll likely have to take her with the deal.’

‘How dare you speak of her in that way? As though she were property to be traded!’ Breton was simmering with rage and quite missing the point.

‘I cannot trade a thing I never possessed, Bob.’ He gave his friend a significant look. ‘I doubt that my leaving will create much heartache for Miss Anne Clairemont. But can there be any doubt that such a lovely girl will be married by spring? I should think there is some gentleman who would wish to fill the void I leave. If I knew of him, I would urge him to act quickly—use the disarray I’m likely to leave in the Clairemont household to good advantage and whatever bait might come to hand to clinch the deal.’

‘I see.’ But he did not seem to. Breton’s face was still wary.

‘If there is a man who loves her as she deserves, I would wish him well.’ To finish, he gave Bob a hearty clap upon the back, as though to jolt the man out of his lethargy.

‘I see. Yes, I think I do.’ The grin spread slowly across his friend’s face as his plans for the future came clear.

‘I think you do.’ Joseph grinned back at him. ‘And a Merry Christmas to you, sir.’

‘I think it shall be.’

‘Now, what was it that you wished to say to me earlier? For I do not think I quite heard it.’

‘Nothing,’ Bob said, waving a hand to scrub the air of his words. ‘Nothing at all other than to wish you well.’

‘That is good. For this might be a trying day for you. What do you think our London friends are likely to say if I bring the whole of the village back with me for Christmas dinner?’

Breton thought for a moment. ‘I expect they will be horrified.’

‘Well, apparently, it is the custom in these parts. I cannot keep alienating the workers, or there shall be hell to pay.’

‘You might lose some investors,’ Breton warned. ‘Feathers are likely to be ruffled on your fat pigeons.’

‘Then I shall have to win them back another way. Or I shall find others. But let us see, shall we? I mean to visit Anne next. Perhaps I can enlist the aid of her father in smoothing the way with the Londoners. If he does not throw me bodily from his house first.’

Joseph’s carriage pulled up to the door of the Clairemonts’ new home and he wondered why he had not taken the place for himself. He had deemed it too far from the mill and rejected it out of hand. But, even with the addition of a wife and children, twelve rooms and a modest staff would be much closer to his needs than the monstrosity he now owned. How had he been so foolish?

He was admitted, and waited patiently in the parlour for Miss Anne, who was preparing for church, relieved that their current bond would make his appearance seem
somewhat less alarming to the household. How they would feel about him in a quarter-hour was likely to be a different story. He wondered with a smile if he should have instructed his coachman to keep in his seat, whip in hand, for the hasty escape they would need to make.

There was a wild scrambling in the hall, followed by a sudden pause and the sedate entrance of Miss Anne Clairemont. The single curl out of place on her beautiful head and the lopsided bow of her sash were the only evidence that he had caught her unawares. She gave a graceful curtsey, as though allowing him the moment to admire her, and then asked sweetly, ‘Did you want me, Mr Stratford?’

‘I have come to ask you the same thing, Miss Clairemont.’ It was a bold question, but his morning was a busy one, and there was no point in beating around the bush. He watched as her pretty face registered confusion. ‘Come, let us sit down and talk awhile.’ He sat. Bob would have been horrified, and reminded him that he could not go ordering young ladies about in their own homes, nor sitting when they stood.

But this one did not seem to notice his lapse, and perched nervously on the couch at his side, waiting for him to speak.

He took her hand. ‘Before we go another step on life’s road, Anne, I must know the truth. Do you want me?’

‘I…I don’t understand,’ Anne said firmly. But the truth of it was plain on her face—if only he could get
her to admit it. ‘In what way? Your visit is unexpected, of course, but not unwelcome.’

‘I do not mean to ask if you want me now—this instant. I mean as a husband, and for life. Do you desire my company? I wish to know the reason for our upcoming union.’

‘You wish to cry off?’ Now her face was a mix of hope and dread, and a trembling that was the probable beginning of tears.

‘I have asked and you have answered,’ he said, as gently as possible. ‘And that is how it will remain, if you truly wish it. Do not think I will cry off and leave you.’ He paused and looked her clearly in the eye. ‘If to have me is the thing that will truly make you happy.’

‘Of course I am happy.’ Her face fell.

If she persisted in this way he would have no choice but to marry her. Or perhaps he should arrange a match between her and the Aubusson. As she was making her heartfelt declaration she could not seem to take her eyes from the rug at their feet.

‘You have honoured me with your proposal. My family stands to gain much by it. It will secure my future. Why would I not be happy?’

That sounded almost as if she asked herself the same question. It gave him reason to hope.

‘Then now you must do something for me,’ he said. ‘Consider it a gift for our first Christmas.’

She looked up, quite terrified. ‘I do not think… After
we are married…of course…but now? It is Christmas morning, Mr Stratford. And this is my parents’ parlour.’

He laughed at her total misunderstanding of him, and at her obvious horror at the prospect of the conjugal act, wondering about how much she might have already learned from his friend about inappropriate acts of passion. If this was her view of him it was quite beyond a display of maidenly resistance, and much closer to active distaste. ‘What I am requesting is nothing like what you expect. If we are to marry, we will be together for a long time. The rest of our lives, perhaps.’

He should not have said
perhaps
. He should have been more definite. That alone should have told him of his own heart. For once they were joined there would be no reprieve.

‘And I should think, if we can give each other nothing else, we deserve mutual honesty—to be given without fear of recrimination. I have reason to suspect that you might be happier if you had been able to accept another. And that the primary goal in taking me is to help your family return to the place of social prominence it once held. If that is the truth, there is no shame in it. But would it not be better to state it outright, so that there can be no confusion?’

She blinked at him, unable to speak. But neither did she offer the quick denial that would have corrected a mistake.

‘Now, tell me the truth. In one word. Do you love me?’

‘It is not really expected, when one is of a certain
class, that one will marry for love,’ she said, as though by rote.

‘Nor is it expected that they will give a simple answer to a direct question,’ he countered, but without any real irritation. ‘But am I to assume, from your misdirection, that your answer is no?’

‘I respect you, of course. You have many worthy and admirable qualities that would make a woman proud to be your wife.’

He sighed, for she was not making this easy. ‘Then I am sure, since you have such respect for me, that you will be happy to hear that this morning I have taken the first step towards selling your old house to Mr Robert Breton.’

There was a moment of blankness on her face, a deliciously unattractive drop of her jaw and a sudden and complete lack of composure. It was the first sign of humanity he had seen in her. Then she spoke—not in the decorous half-whisper that he had grown accustomed to, but a full-throated, unladylike shout.

‘Father!’ She stood and shouted again. ‘Father! Come downstairs immediately. I am about to break my engagement with Mr Stratford.’

Next, the carriage stopped at the first door in the village. His groom made to get down and take a package, but Joseph held up a hand. ‘It must be me, I think. At least for the first few houses. Simply hand things to me, and I will be the one to knock.’

The first door was opened by a child. Before she
could run for Mama, Joseph thrust the basket into her arms and shouted, ‘Merry Christmas!’ and then turned away to receive the next hamper and walked the few steps to the next door.

There. Not so bad, he told himself. He had half feared that there would be a punch upon the nose and a slammed door before he could get his gift across the threshold. At the next house he saw a wife. After that he found one of the weavers most vocal in opposition to him still in nightshirt and cap.

Joseph pushed the basket into his arms, with a hurried ‘Season’s Greetings!’

‘I suppose this is to make up for the trouble you’ve caused?’ the man said sceptically.

‘It is mince pies,’ Joseph answered, lifting the corner of the cloth. ‘And a ham. While it lacks the supernatural power to mend our differences, it will at least be good with warm bread. I believe there is some wine as well. More concrete and useful than an apology, I should think. But you can have one of those as well. The rest can wait until Twelfth Night.’ He turned away to get another basket.

With the man still standing dumbstruck in the open doorway, Joseph began to walk down the street. From the corner of his eye he saw the man turn as well, shouting back into his house. As Joseph walked he could see the man darting down a side street, and heard a pounding on a back door somewhere ahead of him.