Читать книгу A Magical Regency Christmas: Christmas Cinderella / Finding Forever at Christmas / The Captain's Christmas Angel - Bronwyn Scott, Margaret McPhee - Страница 10
ОглавлениеWhat had she done?
The following Monday, Polly stared at the fire glowing under her cook pot and hoped she wasn’t burning her dinner. Mrs Judd had brought along a piece of mutton during the afternoon and explained how to deal with it. It seemed simple enough and the smell coming out of that pot was making her stomach rumble in a most unladylike way. She looked around at the room that was now her home. A table and two chairs in the middle of the room, a mattress and bedding in the alcove, a small cupboard to hold a meagre amount of cutlery and earthenware crockery and here, by the fire, a small wooden settle. She had brought the pillow over from the bed to soften the wooden frame a little and was curled up in the corner of the settle, waiting for her supper.
In the schoolroom everything was prepared for tomorrow when the school opened. Lord and Lady Alderley were coming along with Mr Martindale to speak to the children. A dozen children to start. Boys and girls. She had met most of them after church the day before. Alex Martindale had made a point of it.
Despite the twisting knot in her belly, she thought it would be a great deal better than her respectable position as a governess. For one thing she wouldn’t have Mrs Frisingham constantly interfering, making excuses for bad behaviour and vetoing any discipline. Nor would she have the lady’s brother-in-law, young Mr Frisingham, lurking in corridors to paw her about and make lewd suggestions. She shivered a little.
She had left the Manor without fanfare. Neither Susan nor Mary had come downstairs to say farewell to her. Only her aunt had seen her off, mouth thin with disapproval.
I dare say it will not take you long to realise the folly of your actions.
Outside the afternoon was drawing in, she had already closed the shutters and blown out the lamp. There was enough light from the fire and she couldn’t afford to burn lamp oil wantonly. For the first time in her life, she was alone. Utterly alone. And she had a horrible feeling that loneliness was very close, waiting to pounce.
The knocking on the door made her jump. ‘Come in!’ she called as she scrambled up from the settle.
Alex Martindale stalked in, a scowl on his face. ‘Why isn’t the door bolted?’ he demanded. The stern effect was rather ruined by a half-grown, black-and-tan setter pup, who rushed across the floor to her, all outsize paws, lashing tail and enthusiastic tongue.
‘Bolted?’ She stared at him while the pup licked her hands. ‘Why?’
‘Why?’ He looked around. ‘Is something wrong with the lamp?’
‘No, nothing,’ she said. ‘Why should my door be bolted? It’s barely five o’clock.’
‘It’s dark!’ he retorted. ‘Or nearly so. Anyone could come by!’
‘Someone just did,’ she observed, patting the dog.
‘Who?’ he growled.
She stared. What on earth had him all on end?
‘You, of course,’ she said. ‘Who else would have bothered?’
‘Who else?’ he echoed. ‘Polly—Miss Woodrowe—any tramp could come by and see the light. Perhaps decide to find out who lives here.’ His mouth flattened. ‘And you’re here by yourself.’
‘Oh.’ She flushed. Felt a complete widgeon. ‘I see.’
‘Thank God for that. Now, will you promise to bolt the door in future?’
All her family’s concern had been for how her actions must reflect on them, how demeaning it was. His furious concern for her safety was as warming as the fire itself.
She nodded. ‘Yes. If you believe it necessary.’ And when she saw the relief on his face she warmed even more.
‘Good.’ He hesitated. ‘I won’t stay. I just wanted to give you this.’
He held out a parcel and she took it with trembling hands. ‘Thank you.’
He nodded. ‘Are you sure you’re quite all right here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And there’s nothing wrong with that lamp?’
‘No.’ She flushed. ‘I didn’t want to waste oil.’
‘Oh.’ He looked a little disconcerted. ‘I see. Bonny—sit.’
The pup sat, her tail lashing, then, with a sigh, lay down and curled up beside the fire.
‘Bonny?’
He smiled. ‘An early Christmas gift from Lady Alderley. She thought a dog would be good company.’ He eyed the pup dubiously. ‘Which is probably true, as long as she doesn’t cost me my housekeeper. Mrs Judd is not entirely convinced and nor is her cat.’
Polly laughed. ‘But she’s lovely. And dogs are good company.’
‘True. You’re all ready for tomorrow?’
Her stomach twisted. ‘Yes. Everything is prepared.’
His head tilted. ‘Including you.’
‘Yes. Including me.’ She hoped.
‘No regrets?’
That steadied her as nothing else could have. ‘None.’ And suddenly it was true. She had no idea how this would turn out, but she had made her choice. The choice she had wanted to make. Even if it all came crashing around her ears in the end, for the moment she had her independence and that was golden. If loneliness was the price, then she was prepared to pay it.
‘May I open my present?’ she asked.
To her amazement, he flushed. ‘It’s not a present, exactly. Just something I had by me. You might find it useful, that’s all.’ He scowled. ‘It’s nothing. Nothing at all.’
Her hands were busy with the string and the paper which came apart to reveal a small, plain wooden box with a key in it. A small posy of inlaid flowers decorated the lid.
‘Oh.’ Her breath came out on a sigh of delight. Hands trembling, she turned the key and opened the lid to reveal two inner lids with little brass knobs. A slightly pungent fragrance drifted to her and she knew what he’d brought her.
She had to swallow before she could speak. ‘It’s a tea caddy. Thank you.’ It came out as a whisper, all she could manage.
He said, awkwardly, ‘It’s not a very good one. It’s just a hobby. But—’
‘You made it?’ Her hands closed on the little box as emotion choked her. She forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘Thank you, sir. It’s the loveliest gift I’ve ever had.’
She lifted one of the inner lids and saw the little wooden spoon, nestled in the tea. ‘And you made a spoon, too?’ She lifted it out, felt the silkiness of the wood under her fingertips, and swallowed the lump in her throat.
‘Two,’ he said, his voice gruff. ‘One for each compartment.’
Heat threatened behind her eyes as she replaced the little spoon in the fragrant leaves and closed the lid. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t! Carefully she set the caddy safely on the shelf by the fire with the teapot.
‘Thank you, sir.’ There, she’d sounded quite steady.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. The dark eyes watched her and her heart beat a little faster. ‘Is everything quite all right, Miss Woodrowe? You are sure you won’t feel lonely tonight?’
‘Quite sure,’ she said, her gaze going to the caddy.
* * *
Alex walked along the village street towards the rectory and his evening Office. Something rested, warm and glowing, near his heart. He’d made the caddy, just the caddy, last summer, intending it for Pippa, but it hadn’t seemed quite right for her and he’d set it aside. Seeing it on the back of his shelf the other day after showing Polly the schoolhouse, he’d known why he’d held on to the caddy; it was waiting for Polly. But he’d wanted to make something especially for her, and a tea caddy needed caddy spoons, didn’t it? That bare, bleak little room had haunted him while he carved them, but somehow, when he’d seen her face just now as she cradled the gift, the room had seemed full, glowing. Not bleak at all. He clicked his fingers and whistled for Bonny, who was exchanging greetings with the blacksmith’s old collie.
Davey Fletcher came out and called his dog. ‘Evening, Rector. Your Miss Polly all right, is she?’
‘Er, yes.’ No point denying where he’d been. His Miss Polly? It was natural that he should take an interest in Miss Woodrowe’s situation, wasn’t it?
‘Little bit of a thing to be setting up for herself,’ said Fletcher. ‘Still, it’s a good thing for the youngsters.’ He scratched the collie’s ears. ‘Reckon we’ll all keep a bit of an eye on her, eh, Rector?’
* * *
The scholars stood behind their desks, faces scrubbed and shining, gazing solemnly at Lord Alderley as he introduced Polly the next morning.
‘Miss Woodrowe has agreed to teach you and I know you’ll all do your best for her.’ He gestured Polly forwards. ‘In a way, she is like a Christmas present—one that you’ll have all year. We want all of you to learn to read and write, and do your sums so that you can get good jobs and do them well. And now I think if Mr Martindale will finish with a prayer, we’ll get out of Miss Woodrowe’s way and let her start.’
Alex stepped forwards and everyone bowed their heads as he spoke directly to God, thanking him for the gift of the children and—Polly blushed scarlet—for the gift of Miss Woodrowe, come at exactly the right time in answer to prayer for a teacher. She doubted that she was entirely what Alex Martindale, Lord Alderley, or even the Almighty for that matter, had had in mind. But here she was and here were the children, and she was going to do her very best for them. No matter that Aunt Eliot and her cousin Susan were standing stiffly at the back of the room with Lord and Lady Alderley. Polly had no illusions that her aunt approved of the situation—Lady Eliot was here because Lady Alderley had an interest in the school and would be present.
Alex finished with the Lord’s Prayer and stepped back, gesturing Polly forwards.
‘Sit down, children,’ she said quietly.
They all sat with a great scraping of chairs.
‘Can anyone read or write already?’
Surreptitious glances all round, but one small girl raised her hand.
‘Yes?’ Polly smiled encouragingly.
‘I can write my name.’
At the back of the room Susan Eliot tittered.
Polly didn’t bother to look at her, but focused on the child. ‘Excellent. It’s Maryann Perkins, isn’t it?’
The child beamed. ‘Yes, miss.’ And she spelt her name out painstakingly.
Susan tittered again. This time Polly did look at her. Susan looked back insolently and Polly’s baser nature got the better of her.
‘Very good. Once I knew a little girl called Susan who took simply ages to learn to write her own name. You’ll probably be quicker with your sums, too.’ Susan had been the bane of successive governesses.
Susan flushed as Lady Eliot turned an outraged stare on Polly.
Alex Martindale sprang for the door. ‘We’ll leave you to it, Miss Woodrowe.’ He sounded as though he were trying not to laugh.
Lady Eliot stepped forwards. ‘One word, Hippolyta—’
Alex forestalled her. ‘No, Lady Eliot. Miss Woodrowe is busy now. I’m sure she will be delighted if you call on her after school.’ He smiled at Polly, a warm smile that had her heart doing things it had absolutely no right to be doing. ‘Good day to you, Miss Woodrowe. After you, ma’am.’ And he ushered Susan and Lady Eliot from the room. Lord and Lady Alderley followed them.
Polly breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief, and, pushing all thought of her relatives from her mind, settled to her task.
* * *
By the time half past two came she was exhausted, three more children could write and spell their own names, they could all recite the alphabet, knew their scripture lesson for the day and had started on simple sums and counting. They had finished with a Christmas carol that most of the children knew already, but were more than happy to sing.
In brief moments throughout the day Lord Alderley’s words had come back to her: that she was a gift to these children. Certainly her previous pupils had not considered her a gift. Quite the opposite. And perhaps the converse was true; these children were a gift to her. Without them, she would still be in her uncle’s house, a resented burden. Now, looking at the children lined up at the door awaiting dismissal, she realised that she had something to give. Knowledge, perhaps an altered future for these children.
‘I’ll see you all in the morning, children,’ she said gently. ‘Class dismissed. Off you go.’ She swung the door wide, expecting them to make a bolt for it. Instead they trooped out one by one, all of them stopping to say goodbye and thank her.
Maryann Perkins, at the end of the line, explained, ‘Rector came to see all our families and said as how one of the best things we could do was to thank you each day because we’re real lucky to have you.’
Heat pricked at the back of her eyes. Gifts, it seemed, came in all sorts of unexpected guises.
* * *
She had worked out a budget. For food, fuel, and how often she could afford a pot of tea. Coffee was out of the question, but she preferred tea anyway. And she had decided that if she was prepared to re-use her tea leaves, a cup of tea after her class left was perfectly affordable.
A knock came at the back door as she waited for the kettle. Opening the door, she found Alex Martindale.
‘Oh.’ No doubt he wanted to know if he’d made a crashing mistake or not. ‘Come in.’
‘No need to ask how it went,’ he said, ducking his head under the lintel. ‘I met some of the children. They’d all enjoyed themselves and three of them repeated the scripture lesson to me.’ He grinned, and her heart somersaulted. ‘Caleb Fletcher repeated his sums. Well done.’ He put a small pot on the table. ‘Jam. Mrs Judd made rather a lot of blackberry last summer.’
She flushed. He was just being kind. It didn’t mean anything. ‘Thank you.’ She loved blackberry jam. ‘They all did well. They want to learn. Not like—’ She stopped.
‘Not like your previous pupils?’
She found herself smiling at the twinkle in his eye. ‘No. I wasn’t a very good governess,’ she admitted.
He snorted. ‘That I don’t believe. In fact—’
Footsteps in the schoolroom had them both looking around as Lady Eliot stalked in. ‘Ah. Hippolyta. I must protest—’ Her gaze fell on Alex and she frowned. ‘Mr Martindale. I cannot think it proper for you to be here with Hippolyta alone.’
‘I called to see how Miss Woodrowe had fared, Lady Eliot.’ Ice chipped Alex’s voice. ‘Just as I might call on any of my parishioners.’
Lady Eliot sniffed and looked unconvinced. ‘Well, I dare say it doesn’t much matter now. And I needed to speak to you as well about that disgraceful incident this morning.’ She speared Polly with a savage look. ‘Poor Susan is mortified. I believe an apology—’
‘Oh, no, Lady Eliot,’ said Alex. And Polly blinked at the bite in his voice. He continued, ‘As long as Miss Susan realises how very wrong she was to laugh at Maryann, I am sure no more is needed.’
Polly choked, Lady Eliot’s jaw sagged and Alex went on, ‘I am sure she understands that to laugh at a child’s achievements is not at all the behaviour you expect of her, so we shall say no more.’
The ample, velvet-shrouded bosom rose and fell. Lady Eliot’s lips pursed tightly. ‘I see. You do not think that making a mockery of her betters–’
‘—is any worse than mocking a child?’ said Alex. ‘No. I do not. And I am not entirely certain why you would consider Miss Susan as Miss Woodrowe’s superior.’ If his voice had been chilly before, now it could have frozen hell solid.
Hoping to change the subject, Polly said, ‘Should you like a cup of tea, Aunt?’ Regrettably, she’d have to use fresh tea leaves.
Lady Eliot looked around and visibly shuddered. ‘I think not, Hippolyta.’ The disdain in her voice brought a stinging retort to Polly’s lips. She choked it back somehow and Lady Eliot smiled thinly. ‘Good day to you.’ She favoured Alex with a chilly nod, ‘Rector’, and swept towards the door. Reaching it, she turned back. ‘Your uncle feels that it would look best if you were to come to us for Christmas and New Year, Hippolyta, despite this foolishness.’
Polly stared at the door her aunt had closed with something close to a bang. She had refused even to think of Christmas, had expected to spend it alone. She wasn’t entirely sure that mightn’t have been preferable...but, no—the Eliots were her only remaining family. Surely once they realised that she no longer depended on them, that she asked nothing of them beyond being her family...why could they not see that?
Because without your fortune, you’re nothing to them. Only a shop-bred upstart. Their inferior.
‘Sir Nathan’s great-grandfather made his fortune importing silk,’ said Alex meditatively. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. I never met your father, but my uncle used to speak of him as a very good sort of man.’
‘He did?’ There was a lump in her throat.
‘He did. Now, if that offer of tea could be extended to me—?’
Alex’s voice was very gentle. She turned to him and somehow the quiet understanding in those clear eyes calmed all the hurt rage. If she allowed the Eliots to make her feel inferior, it would be a betrayal of her father’s hard work. Alex’s quiet words had shown her that.
‘Yes. Yes, of course it could.’ She fetched the teapot to wash it out, and took down the tea caddy he’d given her. Her fingers tightened on it, as she consigned her budget to perdition. For him she’d use fresh tea leaves gladly.
* * *
To her surprise, Polly found that she settled quite easily into the rhythm of her new life over the next week and a half. The children arrived on time each morning and even those villagers who viewed reading and writing with suspicion made her welcome. Hardly a day went by when some small offering did not appear either with one of her pupils, or a father dropping by with something larger, such as the flitch of bacon delivered by Mr Appleby. ‘Give a bit of flavour to a soup,’ he said, hanging it from a beam.
Other parents called, or spoke to her cheerfully in the street. Pippa Alderley visited after school halfway through the second week and brought several books to lend to her.
‘Alex has some you’d like,’ she said cheerfully, smiling over the rim of her mug. ‘He brought some lovely sets of engravings back from abroad. Scenes of Venice and Rome.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘He went to Pompeii, too, but he won’t show me those.’ She sipped her tea and sighed. ‘Dominic refused to take me there when we went to the Continent after we married. He said they wouldn’t let me see the ruins anyway. Most unfair, I call it.’
Polly stared, trying to imagine Alex visiting the scandalous ruins of Pompeii. She couldn’t quite manage it, so turned her attention back to her guest. Pippa seemed quite unbothered by the less-than-grand surroundings of the schoolhouse. She had spotted the tea caddy the moment Polly lifted it down.
‘Did Alex make that?’
Polly flushed. ‘Yes.’
Pippa said no more on the subject, but an odd smile had played about her mouth as Polly made the tea.
* * *
When she rose to go, Pippa said, ‘You’ll come for dinner one day, won’t you? Alex comes quite often. He can bring you along. He’s rather busy just now, but perhaps once Christmas is over?’
Polly flushed. ‘If you think he won’t mind...’
Pippa looked amused. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think he’d mind at all.’
Polly wasn’t sure it was a good idea. Alex Martindale called daily, ostensibly to check on the children’s progress, and she looked forward to those visits far, far too much. It would be far too easy to let herself dream, believe that those visits and the caddy meant something more than a good man’s kindness.
* * *
Alex strode back into Alderford late that afternoon, his gun over his shoulder and Bonny at his heels. The sun had set, but scarlet and gold still blazed in the west. He’d made a couple of nearby visits on foot and walked back over Dominic’s land.
‘Afternoon, Rector.’ Jim Benson touched his cap and looked admiringly at the brace of woodcock that dangled from Alex’s hand. ‘Those his lordship’s?’
Alex smiled. ‘They were.’
Jim grinned. ‘Ah, well. Not like he’ll miss them.’ He nodded at Bonny. ‘Shaping well, is she?’
‘Yes,’ said Alex, looking down at his dog. ‘Very steady. Good nose and a lovely soft mouth.’ Which had fortunately now stopped chewing the rugs.
Jim nodded. ‘Aye. Looks like she’s earning her way.’ He touched his cap again. ‘I’ll be off to my supper. Reckon them birds will go right tasty in Miss Polly’s pot!’ And with a sly grin, he was off.
Alex stared after him in disbelief. How the deuce had the fellow known the birds were for Polly—Miss Woodrowe? Of course, he’d already given a bird to old Jem Tanner. And yesterday he’d given a brace of rabbits to the Jenkins family... Everyone knew he often gave game to his parishioners, but perhaps he ought not to be calling on Polly quite so often. Not daily, anyway. She was managing perfectly well for herself, after all. Now that he was assured of that, perhaps he could call once, or maybe twice, a week? Just to discuss the children’s progress with her.
Pondering this, trying to convince himself that it was a good idea, he approached the cottage, automatically going around to the back door to save Polly having to come all the way to the front door through the schoolroom...
‘Out! Out, you brute!’
Something exploded in a white-hot rush in Alex’s brain. He had no idea how he reached the door, but he flung it open to find Polly, broom in hand, poking under a cupboard.
A rat of monumental proportions broke from cover and hurtled across the room, Polly charging after it, brandishing the broom. Bonny let out a startled bark as the terrified rodent shot between her paws and vanished in the darkness.
‘You let it escape!’ panted Polly, clearly furious.
Alex’s heart steadied. ‘Did you want it for a pet?’ he asked, bemused. A rat. God! He’d thought—his stomach churned.
‘Of course not!’ she snapped. ‘I was going to hit it again. Try to kill the wretched thing, so it doesn’t come back! It was up there eating my bacon.’ And she gestured to a large flitch hanging from a beam.
‘You knocked it off?’ Somehow it didn’t surprise him. According to Greek myth Hippolyta had been a warrior queen, after all.
‘Well, of course I did! That’s my bacon!’ Her eyes were slitted with indignation and her cheeks pink. ‘Come in and sit down.’ Several curls had escaped her loose braid, coiling wildly around her face. They looked abandoned, and—he swallowed—voluptuous, as if they’d curl around a man’s fingers in welcome...
Trying to ignore this unprecedented leap of imagination, along with the unclerical leap of his blood, Alex walked in and sat down at the table, placing the woodcock on it. ‘Conventional wisdom,’ he said, disciplining himself to rational thought that didn’t involve half-naked Amazonian warrior maidens, ‘dictates that a young lady confronted with any rat, let alone one that size, is supposed to shriek and faint dead away.’
Polly snorted as she closed the door. ‘And let the brute nibble his way through my bacon? I don’t think so!’
He grinned. He simply couldn’t help it. And her eyes answered, brimming with laughter. His heart hitched, his breath jerked in, her name on his lips.
Polly.
Time slowed, stilled, and he rose and took a slow step towards her, quite why he wasn’t sure.
Her breath jerked in. ‘I’m not a young lady anyway.’
He stopped dead, the spell shattered. ‘The dev—the deuce you aren’t! What put that maggot into your head?’
‘It’s not a maggot,’ she told him. ‘It’s the truth. I work for my living, ergo I am no longer a lady.’
Several responses, none of them utterable by a man of the cloth, let alone before a lady, occurred to him. He bit them all back and said, ‘I work for my living. Does that mean I’m not a gentleman in your eyes?’
She frowned and he was conscious of a sudden desire to smooth the tiny frown lines away, banish them utterly. ‘That’s different,’ she said slowly. ‘The rules are not quite the same for gentlemen, are they?’
No. They weren’t. Nor were they always fair, or even sensible. ‘You’re still a lady,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Has someone treated you as though you weren’t?’ Because if they had—his fists clenched in a very unclerical and unchristian fashion. When he’d heard her cry out—his heart had nearly stopped, and he’d been prepared to tear anyone frightening her limb from limb. ‘You’re still a lady,’ he repeated. ‘No matter what your relatives may think.’
She leaned the broom back beside the cupboard. ‘Maybe. It doesn’t really matter. The children did well today.’
He listened as she outlined their progress, forced his brain to concentrate hard enough to make a few suggestions. And wondered if her hair was really as wildly alive as it looked, her lips as soft...
At last he rose to leave, no longer sure he could resist the temptation of finding out. ‘I should go. You aren’t worried about the rat coming back?’
She grimaced. ‘No.’
He didn’t believe her, but what could he do about it? He could hardly stay to defend her. The offer hovered on his lips—she could come back to the rectory for the night...Mrs Judd would be there, and— He stopped himself just in time. ‘Goodnight,’ he managed instead.
She went with him to the door and opened it. ‘Goodnight, sir. Thank you for your ideas about the scripture lesson. They were very useful.’
Hearing he’d said something useful about scripture amazed him. He couldn’t seem to think at all around her.
‘A pleasure. Goodnight.’
He breathed a sigh of relief that was near to a groan as the door closed behind him and he heard the bolts shoot home.
* * *
Halfway to the Rectory, he heard flying footsteps behind him.
‘Mr Martindale!’
He turned. She was running after him, holding the brace of woodcock.
He scowled. ‘Polly! What on earth are you doing? Where’s your cloak? You’ll catch your death!’
‘You forgot your birds.’
She held them out and his hands closed over hers. ‘No, I did not. They were for you. Now go back home to the warmth before you catch a chill.’
Before I kiss you.
Her mouth quivered and temptation beckoned. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said softly. ‘Thank you.’
He was an untrustworthy scoundrel apparently, because all he could think was how sweet her lips would taste, what it would be like to feel them tremble under his and, if they were at all cold, warm them for her. His hands tightened on hers, felt them tremble as he heard the soft, startled intake of breath...
‘Not at all, Miss Woodrowe. Goodnight.’ He released her, turned and walked away before he did something about finding out, right there in the dark village street.
Clutching the woodpigeon, Polly stared after the tall, lean figure. Her breath hitched, heart thudding against her ribs. For one startling, blinding moment, she had thought he was going to kiss her.
