A Regency Christmas Carol (8 page)

Which explained the ride, she supposed. She should
be relieved that he had not sought her out of any deeper desire for her company. But, strangely, she was not. ‘Very well, then. Speak.’

‘As you say, in a small village news travels fast. You say that you know of my plans for the Christmas holidays?’

‘You are entertaining guests from London. The only people of the village who will be in attendance are the Clairemonts. If it is not an engagement, then I suspect the gathering has something to do with the opening of the mill.’

‘Why would you think that?’ he asked, surprised.

‘Because you are the host of it. Having met you, Mr Stratford, it seems unlikely that the people coming are old friends.’

‘Ha!’ Rather than being angered by her insult, he seemed amused by it.

She continued. ‘Everything you do has to do with your business in some way or other. This Christmas party is like to be the same.’ Then she allowed her true feeling of distaste to show. ‘It is vulgar in the extreme to use the Lord’s birth as a time for doing business, if that is what you mean to do.’

‘Whether you have reached your conclusion from local gossip or shrewd deduction, you are correct, Miss Lampett. I am entertaining investors from London.’ He gave a slight frown. ‘Because, apparently, I think of nothing but business.’ He paused for a moment, as though he had forgotten what it was he meant to say. ‘I
do not have quite so many guests as I had hoped. There were more negative replies in today’s post.’

‘Probably from gentlemen who understand the impropriety of it,’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘Or perhaps they do not wish to associate with one who is in trade, even though he offers them the opportunity to do it far from the prying eyes of the
ton
. It does not matter, really. As you have pointed out, they are not my friends. But I need only one—perhaps two—to come, agree and invest. Then, for me, this Christmas will be a happy one.’

It appeared that her father was right about the man, if that was how he measured his happiness. ‘There would be far more joy for all should you choose to spend that time in meeting your neighbours, sir. If you could not manage that, then perhaps you could release the Clairemonts from their obligation to attend? For I suspect it will pain them greatly to see their home treated as the London Exchange.’

‘It is no longer their home, Miss Lampett. It is mine to do with as I please.’

‘But I do not see why you wish to tell me of it. It is no business of mine,’ she said, almost leaning out of the window in an effort to put space between them.

‘On the contrary. I mean to make it your business. I understand that there has traditionally been a gathering of villagers at the house for Christmas. You have been in attendance at it, with Miss Anne Clairemont and her sister.’

‘But that was years ago,’ she admitted. ‘Not since…’ Not since Mary died and the Clairemonts shut up the house at Christmas. But the circumstances were no business of Stratford’s.

‘You and your family will honour me with your attendance this year as well,’ he said. ‘I am short of ladies, and there are likely to be several young bucks who would prefer an eligible young partner to dancing with their sisters.’

‘On our limited acquaintance, you expect me to sit in attendance on your guests? That is rude beyond measure, sir.’

‘Nothing of the kind. I invite you to be one of my guests. There would be no obligation to dance if you did not wish to do so. Though should you meet someone and form an attachment to him it would solve the question of your unmarried state quite nicely. Between your father’s trouble, and the problem you have hinted at with local society, it must be difficult for you to be so removed from the company of equals.’

It was. Though she tried to control it, a wistful longing arose in her at the prospect of a chance to put on her nicest gown and dance. ‘I do not need your help in that situation,’ she said primly. ‘I am quite fine on my own.’

‘So you keep telling me. But I need
your
help, Miss Lampett,’ he said, his hands open before him. ‘My business negotiations, whether they are improper or no, are at a delicate juncture. I dare not risk your father giving
another angry speech while the investors are here to see it. Nor do I wish to call the law down on him with Christmas dinner.’

‘Then I think you would want us quiet at home for the holiday, and not dancing at the manor.’

‘On the contrary. I have seen your father’s interactions with you. When he is concerned about your welfare, all thoughts of violence go quite out of his head. If you told him that you wished to come to my party he would not disrupt it for fear of spoiling your enjoyment.’

‘Even so, I would not trust him for any length of time in the company of strangers.’

‘Then I shall send him a selection of books from the library. Old favourites of mine that are sure to occupy his mind for the duration of the week.’

‘Old favourites of yours?’ she said in surprise. ‘You gave me to understand that you had no time for books.’

‘Not now, perhaps. But I’d read most of the volumes in the Clairemont library long before my arrival here. In the coming year, when the mill is employed, I hope to have some evenings to myself and might read them again.’

‘You said you were a weaver’s son,’ she said, thinking of her father’s recalcitrant students and wondering if she had misunderstood him.

‘I did not say I was clever at the trade. I was a horrible weaver, and no amount of teaching could make me better. I was more interested in books than the loom. When Father did allow me to go to school I taught
myself, in whatever way I could manage.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘I fear I was a grave disappointment to him.’

‘But why did you remain involved in the trade? Surely there might have been another occupation more suited to your tastes?’

‘The life I wanted was forever closed to me, for I was not born a gentleman, Miss Lampett. It appeared that, no matter my lack of skill, I was destined to weave. So I redesigned the loom to make it easier for my clumsy fingers to manage. The machines to be used at the factory are of my own invention.’

Somehow she had imagined him purchasing the frames he used with little knowledge of their workings. But there was real passion in him as he talked of cold and unfeeling machines, and an energy that drew her in like a lodestone. It was only with effort that she noticed the fact that there was no mention of anyone other than himself.

‘Is that why the talk of frame-breaking bothers you so? It must be difficult to see your work destroyed.’

He shrugged. ‘Not really. Before coming here, my business was mostly in the supplying of other mills. When their looms were damaged by vandals, I made additional money in the repair and replacing of their machinery. While the production of cloth is a risky business, there can be no surer trade right now than the making of a thing that is useful, and very much in demand, but needs to be purchased multiple times when it is ruined. That business was the source of my
wealth. Though your father and his friends might seek to see the end of me, like men have been my making.’

‘You view the misfortune of others as the source of your success?’ she said, amazed at how far removed he was from the people around him.

‘So it has been. But enough of me and my business. Tell me what your response to my offer is likely to be.’

‘It would be most improper for a single lady to accept an invitation from a gentleman if there is no understanding between them,’ she said, wondering what he could be thinking to ask her in this way. ‘Of
course
.’ He pounded his fist against his leg once, in irritation. Then he gathered himself a little straighter. ‘Please accept my apologies. It was forward of me. I will extend a formal invitation, in writing, for your whole family to join in whatever activities take place. There will be nothing to upset your father, I assure you. There will be dinners, dancing, games. I expect that it will be a very jolly time. If your parents do not wish to come, you must come alone—in the company of Miss Anne Clairemont and her family.’ He gave her a firm look. ‘There will be no trouble on that front. The doors of my house are open to you.’

There was a faint emphasis on the word ‘my’ to remind her that things had changed. She wondered if he would put the situation to the Clairemonts in the same blunt tone. It almost made her pity them.

But, no matter what he did, it would not be as it had once been. The merriment would not touch the com
munity that it bordered. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘It hardly seems appropriate to celebrate when so many people are unhappy.’ They had reached the gate of the cottage again, and she looked longingly in the direction of her home.

‘How very pious of you.’ He had noticed their destination as well, and tapped to signal the driver. ‘It is a lovely day. Let us make another pass of the high street, shall we?’

‘Do you mean to hold me prisoner in this carriage until I agree to your scheme?’

He held his hands up in a symbolic gesture of release. ‘The thought had occurred to me. But I will let you go home to consider this and see if you do not think it a temporary respite from our troubles. Either way, the mill will open in January. Change is coming and there will be no avoiding it. Once it is open, and at least some of the locals are employed in it, we will find them less likely to raise a hand against me. Until then we must find together a way to stall your father from upsetting my plans—or I will take steps that are pleasant to neither of us.’

The carriage drew smoothly to a stop, and when the door opened he went before her, offering his hand to help her to the ground. Then he signalled for a footman to carry her basket to the house and returned to his seat, closing the shiny black door behind him.

W
hen she was through the door of the cottage she saw her father waiting in the front room, arms folded across his chest. Today she did not fear him so much as dread the weight of his displeasure.

‘Well?’ There was so much disappointment in the one word that Barbara glanced behind her, out of the open door and down the road, thinking that the burden of carrying the weight of her loaded basket could not possibly have equalled this.

She turned back, squared her shoulders and explained. ‘Mr Stratford offered me a ride from the shops because the weather was changing.’ She gave a little shake of her cloak to show the patter of icy drops that had hit her in the short walk from the carriage to the house. ‘He was quite insistent. It seemed that I was likely to create more of a scene by refusing than accepting. So I relented.’

‘There was time enough for someone to come from the village and inform me of the fact and be gone again,’ her father said suspiciously. ‘One would think that a man on foot could not best a team of horses in traversing the distance.’

She cleared her throat. ‘Mr Stratford was deep in conversation with me as we neared the house. To continue it, he turned the carriage and we travelled once more around the village.’

‘Thus it became a social drive.’ Her father shook his head. ‘That is a demonstration of the perfidy of the man. It is much like the mill—offered as an olive branch to the people of this community, only so he can snatch it away as they draw near. He took you, just as he took their jobs, and he dangles you like a bauble, just out of reach, and plays with you at his leisure.’

‘Hardly, Father. We talked for but a few moments. The carriage remained on the high street and I sat in the window of it. I am sure that many in the community could see me and know that nothing untoward was happening.’

The argument seemed to have no effect on him, for he went on with increasing anger. ‘The man is the very devil, Barb. I swear. The
devil
. He is here to ruin the village and all the people in it with his new ideas and his cheap goods. Nothing can come of cheapening the quality of the work, I am sure. It is the veritable road to hell.’

‘And nothing to do with the matter at hand,’ her
mother added firmly from behind him. She looked past him at her daughter. ‘You say that you were seen the whole time? The carriage took no side trips, nor left the sight of the high street?’

‘Not at all, Mama.’

‘You could not have waited until the rain had passed? Or hurried home before it?’

‘I did not want to spare the penny for the boy if I did not have to. The basket was heavy. And Mr Stratford would not take no for an answer.’

Her mother nodded. ‘The offer of transport was fortuitous, even if there was an ulterior motive. What did you speak of?’

‘His business.’ And Mary, of course. They had spoken of her. But it was hardly worth mentioning.

‘Then it had nothing to do with you?’

‘Just as I suspected. It was an effort to turn you against me, and the village against us. The man is the devil,’ her father insisted.

‘Enough!’ her mother snapped, ignoring her husband again and turning back to Barbara. ‘We must deal with the more important matter first. And that should be the honour of our only child, which has not been harmed in the least by the trip, whether it was social or practical.’

‘He invited us to the manor for Christmas,’ Barbara added. ‘He suggested that there might be gentlemen there, and dancing.’ She tried to sound matter-of-fact about it, as though it did not matter one way or the other. She did not particularly wish to meet gentlemen.
There was one in particular that she might like to know better, but her father was probably right to call him a persuasive devil who was best avoided.

Still, it had been a long time since she’d danced—with or without demons. Would it really do any harm?

‘Dancing at the manor? Of course you should go, then.’ Her father’s sudden change caught them unawares, as it often did. Though he had been angry only a few moments before, now he was smiling at her. ‘You have not been since last Christmas, and you always enjoy it so. Visiting Anne and Mary will do you a world of good.’

She shot a worried glance over his shoulder to her mother, and then said, ‘Father, Mary is dead. The Clairemonts no longer live at the manor. There has not been a Christmas celebration there in six years.’

‘I know that,’ he said quickly, embarrassed at his lapse. ‘I only meant that you would be better off dancing at the manor than driving on the high street with Lucifer in a silk waistcoat.’ He darkened again, as suddenly as he had brightened. ‘A silk waistcoat made by hands that slaved for pennies so that he might ride high and mighty like a prince.’ His eyes lit at the sound of his own words. ‘I must write this down. It will be the basis of my next speech.’

‘You do that, Father.’ Barbara hurried to the little desk in the corner, setting out paper, uncapping the ink and trimming the nib of the pen. Then she pulled out his chair and took time to settle him there. It seemed to
give him comfort, for he sat down and began writing industriously, staring out of the window before him into the sleet-streaked sky as though the next words were written on it and he could pluck them from the air.

‘Come into the kitchen, Barbara. Let us see what you have brought back from the market.’ Her mother turned quickly, but not before Barbara could see the trembling of her lip that was the beginning of tears.

‘A moment, Mama.’ She hurried to the sewing basket, to conceal her mother’s Christmas gift. Then she followed her out of the room.

By the time she had reached her in the kitchen her mother was more composed, though clearly worried.

‘What are we to do, Mama?’ she whispered. ‘He is like this more and more.’

‘There is little for us
to
do. There is no changing him.’ Her mother gave a brief, bitter laugh. ‘He changes often enough on his own. Like the tides, he goes to extremes at both ends.’

If he continued thus there would be no chance of him returning to employment, and they would end their days living off the dwindling inheritance her mother had received from her own family. Barbara thought of the pennies in her purse again, and gave quiet thanks to Mr Stratford. Even if he was the devil, he had saved her the bother of a wet walk.

Her mother seemed to be thinking of him as well. ‘Tell me about this Christmas invitation you have
received. It does seem to be a lone bright spot in the day.’

‘I told him it was improper,’ Barbara said, frowning. ‘For I did not think Father would approve.’

‘Your father is lucky to remember from one minute to the next why he hates the man. We will tell him that you are gone to see Mary. For if there are gentlemen there, as he said…’ Her mother was thinking forward, hoping for a bright future in which a wealthy stranger would appear with an offer and solve all their problems.

‘But I refused,’ Barbara said, dashing her hopes.

‘Oh,’ said her mother, properly disappointed.

‘He offered again—including the family. When I told him that there was no way Father could manage such a gathering, he offered a selection of books as Christmas gifts—to keep him home and quiet over the holiday. He said he would send something written, so that I would know he spoke with sincerity.’

‘A written invitation to the manor?’ Her mother positively glowed with the prospect.

‘I doubt he will remember,’ Barbara said hurriedly. ‘I am sure it was said only in passing, to make conversation. It was just an effort to be social.’

‘A most curious effort, then.’ Her mother was looking closely at her, trying to determine what she might be concealing. ‘He has made no attempts at civility to the rest of the village. And yet he singles you out. A gentleman would know better than to make promises he cannot keep—especially when he is courting another.’

‘One can hardly call him a gentleman, Mother. He is in trade. He admitted to me that he was a weaver’s son.’

‘Really?’ Her mother’s eyebrows arched. ‘You speak like your father, my dear. It is idealistic to set men of business firmly below us and to act as though birth is all. Perhaps realism would be a better path, considering our circumstances. It is possible to be a gentleman and poor as a church mouse, while the weaver’s son dines and dances in a manor. The world is changing. While we might not approve of all the changes, we must make the best of them. Let us hope that Mr Stratford is as good as his word.’

And his offer proved true. A short time later, while her father still pondered his latest diatribe, there was a knock on the door. Outside, the same coach that had deposited her waited for the liveried servant who held a properly sealed and decorated invitation and a package of books.

Before her father could say otherwise, her mother had snatched it from the poor man’s hand and instructed him to wait upon the response. Then she pushed her husband’s work aside and reached for paper and pen.

‘As usual, Satan sends his handmaidens in fine garments to tempt the unwary,’ her father barked.

The footman looked rather alarmed and peered behind him, unaware that he was the handmaiden in question.

‘Nonsense, dear. It is an invitation to the manor. Nothing more. It can do us no harm to accept, surely?’

‘Well, then.’ Her father beamed. Then he waved a hand at the man who waited. ‘My regards to Lord Clairemont, his wife and his daughters. Tell them to be wary, just as they are merry.’ Then he opened the first of the books and immediately forgot the source of his discomfiture.

The man gave a hesitant nod, and waited upon the hurriedly scribbled response from her mother before returning to the carriage.

Mother and daughter returned to the kitchen.

‘You cannot mean for us to go, Mama,’ Barbara whispered. ‘Look at Father. There is no way for us to keep the pretence that it will be as it was. And no way to predict, once he is there, what he will say in front of Mr Stratford and his guests. It would be better if we refused politely and stayed home.’

‘It would be better if your father and I stayed away. But there is no reason why you cannot go,’ her mother said firmly. ‘While I like dinner and a ball as well as the next person, I am content to sit here with your father and allow you to get the benefit of an invitation. He said there might be gentlemen?’

‘Friends from London.’

‘Stratford means to marry Anne. She and her parents will be there to recommend and chaperone you. I am sure, if you wrote to her, she would offer you a space in their carriage so that you needn’t walk to the manor.’

‘That was what Mr Stratford suggested as well. He said he would speak to them. But I do not think they would like it very much. Perhaps there is another way.’ Although Barbara could think of none.

‘I will not let you walk to the manor in dancing slippers. Nor will I allow you to refuse this invitation,’ her mother said, giving her a stern look. ‘I will write to the Clairemonts about it. I will choose my words with care. Perhaps, after six years, you should not blame yourself for something that was no fault of your own, and they should find it in their hearts to forgive you.’

It was not nearly enough time, Barbara was sure. It had been just this morning that she’d met Lady Clairemont walking down the street and seen the way the lady looked sharply in her direction, and then through her. ‘Please, Mother, do not.’

‘There is no other way. This is an opportunity that you dare not turn down. If there were other suitable men anywhere in the area I might think twice. But if there is a chance of a match amongst Mr Stratford’s guests we must seek it out for you. One of your old gowns will have to do. But we can trim it up with the lace you bought this morning and I am sure it will look quite nice.’

‘Mother!’ Despite her best efforts, her mother had seen into the shopping basket. ‘That was intended as a gift.’

‘For someone who has less need of it than you,’ her mother said, laying a hand on hers, ‘it would do my
heart good to know that you are out in society again—even if it is only for a day or two. I will write the letters, and then we will see what can be done with the gown. You must go where you are invited, Barbara, and dance as though your future depended on it. For it very well might.’