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A Magical Regency Christmas: Christmas Cinderella / Finding Forever at Christmas / The Captain's Christmas Angel
Margaret McPhee
Elizabeth Rolls
Bronwyn Scott
Three Sparkling Festive Regency TalesCHRISTMAS CINDERELLAHandsome country rector Alex Martindale dreams of kissing the spirited schoolmistress and never having to stop… With the aid of some Christmas mistletoe, he may just get his wish!FINDING FOREVER AT CHRISTMASAt the yule ball, Catherine Emerson receives a proposal from the man she thinks she wants – but an interlude with his mysterious, darkly handsome brother unleashes a deeper desire…THE CAPTAIN'S CHRISTMAS ANGELReturning to England for Christmas, Sarah Ellison discovers gorgeous Captain Daniel Alexander adrift in the Atlantic Ocean. But nothing could have prepared her for the secrets he’s keeping!


Three of our best-loved historical
novelists wish you…



A Magical Regency Christmas
Christmas Cinderella
Elizabeth Rolls
Finding Forever at Christmas
Bronwyn Scott
The Captain’s Christmas Angel
Margaret McPhee


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#udd1cf89e-c470-5631-aa84-d96d0f5710df)
Title Page (#u96cdd40e-2049-5b30-9dd4-aa8e437a6555)
Christmas Cinderella (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#udb389513-3539-5d55-a37e-4f7efc7318fe)
Dedication (#u6ef72f16-7c0a-583d-8dea-8936bf7c9ed1)
Chapter One (#ulink_85190e06-5e4a-5fac-9d0b-ab59a8f63ad9)
Chapter Two (#ulink_74f5bc55-1171-5272-a376-4fc3a5a935d1)
Chapter Three (#ulink_2f3e1730-e4a1-5842-bedb-8755ddafc5e4)
Chapter Four (#ulink_69da4620-2645-5461-97d2-2ea8de6792f1)
Chapter Five (#ulink_6a313ec4-c226-550a-babe-09d259de843d)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Finding Forever at Christmas (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
The Captain’s Christmas Angel (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Christmas Cinderella (#ulink_21ce5a7d-28c6-5b26-9f30-443455c65ef6)
Award-winning author ELIZABETH ROLLS lives in the Adelaide Hills of South Australia in an old stone farmhouse surrounded by apple, pear and cherry orchards, with her husband, two sons, three dogs and two cats. She also has four alpacas and three incredibly fat sheep, all gainfully employed as environmentally sustainable lawnmowers. The kids are convinced that writing is a perfectly normal profession and she’s working on her husband. Elizabeth has what most people would consider far too many books and her tea and coffee habit is legendary. She enjoys reading, walking, cooking and her husband’s gardening. Elizabeth loves to hear from readers and invites you to contact her via e-mail at books@elizabethrolls.com (mailto:books@elizabethrolls.com).
For Trish Morey, Anne Oliver and Claire Baxter—you’re my touchstone.
Chapter One (#ulink_10af51a3-ffca-58e1-b6e0-44e8559ef87a)
The Reverend Alex Martindale looked down at the innocent babe in his practised arms and braced for the inevitable storm. Red-faced, eyes scrunched up against the holy water dripping into them, the Honourable Philip Martindale, heir to considerable estates and, far more importantly, apple of his parents’ doting eyes, roared his displeasure.
Having baptised every infant in the parish for the past two years, Alex was used to the noise. Nevertheless he shot a look over the aristocratic squaller to its father, Viscount Alderley. ‘Takes after you, Dominic—temper and all.’
The Viscount grinned. ‘Not me, cousin.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Must be Pippa.’
Alex snorted and continued blessing his little cousin, the child who—thank God from whom all blessings flow—had displaced him as Dominic’s heir. There was a tug at his surplice and he glanced down.
His goddaughter, the Honourable Philip’s elder sister, looked up at him solemnly. ‘You got water in his eyes, Uncle Alets,’ she explained. ‘Mama or Nurse better give him his next bath.’
‘Ah. Was that it?’ he said, preserving a clerical straight face. ‘Thank you, Emma.’
* * *
The christening party in the Great Hall at Alderley was a rowdy and cheerful affair. It was conspicuous for the absence of the guest of honour and his sister, both of whom had retired early to the nursery in the company of their nurse.
Alex toasted the heir to Alderley with as much, if not more, enthusiasm as the next man. He gazed around the Hall, noting that the party, attended by many of Dominic’s tenants, was winding down. A far less boisterous gathering of the local gentry, including himself, had been entertained in the drawing room, but Alex suspected that Dominic and Pippa, having seen the last of those guests off in their carriages, were just as happy mingling with the tenantry.
He made his way across to them. Dominic laid a friendly hand on Farmer Willet’s broad shoulder and shook his hand in farewell, saying, ‘I’ll find out about that bull’, and turned to Alex with a grin.
‘Staying to supper?’
Tempting, but— ‘No, thank you. Mrs Judd would kill me.’ His housekeeper was the sort of benevolent tyrant it was unwise to offend. Staying out to supper without notice would ensure his breakfast eggs were boiled, not poached, for a week.
Dominic snorted. ‘Why the devil didn’t you just tell her you’d be supping here? You must have known one of us would ask you.’
He had, of course. Dominic was his cousin and closest friend, but he preferred not to take his welcome for granted.
Pippa smiled at him, her oddly penetrating gaze suggesting that she knew precisely how he felt, and understood. ‘Tomorrow, then?’ she suggested. ‘We do need to talk about this village school you’re starting.’
He returned her smile. ‘Tomorrow. And perhaps you’ll return the favour next week.’
‘That will be lovely,’ said Pippa cheerfully.
‘Do you want the carriage, Alex?’ asked Dominic.
‘Thank you, but no. I’ll enjoy the walk.’
* * *
He did enjoy the solitary walk. Twilight had closed in and a rising moon glimmered on the frost crunching under his boots. Another year was nearly gone, four weeks until Christmas; tomorrow would be Advent Sunday and he should have been thinking about his sermon, but instead gave himself up to the crisp, cold moonlight that spilled over the fields he was crossing. The familiar path ran clear before him, an ancient right of way. Sometimes he wondered about all the people who had used this path before him, the ancestors of men and women he now served as their rector. Romans, Saxons, Vikings, Normans: all of them coming as invaders, but being tamed by this land until they all belonged to it under God, as much as it belonged to them.
Not for the first time he thanked God that he had been called to serve Him in such a place. A place he had known and loved all his life. The place that had been his home since his father’s early death. His uncle, Dominic’s father, had taken him in, along with his mother, and educated him as a younger son, making little distinction between his own sons and an orphaned nephew. Except that he had understood that his bookish nephew would do far better being schooled by Mr Rutherford, the rector, and had not sent him off to Eton with his cousins.
He had been very, very lucky. Blessed. And his widowed mother had been able to live out her days in safety and peace. He knew of other women, bereft of family and fortune, who had not been so lucky.
He will lead me to lie down in green pastures...
Counting his blessings was one thing, but if he lay down in this particular pasture right now he’d catch his death of cold and Mrs Judd would be more than annoyed at the waste of his good supper, so he hurried on.
* * *
He didn’t enjoy his solitary meal nearly as much as the walk. It wasn’t Mrs Judd’s excellent cooking, but the fact that there was no one to share it with him. He had shared the rectory with his predecessor and mentor Matthias Rutherford for several years before the old man’s death earlier that year.
Rutherford had resigned the living a year earlier, but stayed on in the rectory, increasingly frail, but alert. It had been like losing his father again. Worse, in a way, because this time he had known exactly what he was losing. He had known Rutherford far better than his own father. And now Christmas was coming, the first without the old fellow. Grief was no stranger; he had buried his mother and his elder cousin, Dominic’s brother Richard. It was part of his calling to comfort the bereaved. Sometimes he thought it might be nice for the comforter to be comforted...
He caught himself up at once, rising from his chair and deliberately sloughing off the melancholy that had crept over him. Grief was one thing, self-pity quite another. One of the more insidious sins. And he had comforters: Dominic, Pippa, even little Emma and Philip. He chuckled, remembering Emma’s critique of his handling of Philip.
Still, it would be something to have a companion. Someone to share the rectory with him. Someone with whom to talk on quiet evenings. Someone to share his now solitary post-dinner brandy and assist with the parish.
Now that he thought about it, the more he realised what an idiot he’d been not to think of it earlier. His gaze fell on the chess table, its armies frozen for the past ten months. It was obvious: he needed a curate, one who played a decent game of chess and could take up the post of village schoolmaster.
* * *
In the opinion of Miss Hippolyta Woodrowe, Cinderella was a complete ninnyhammer. Of course, Cinderella had been extremely lucky. But in Miss Woodrowe’s opinion it was a great deal better not to rely on luck. Let alone relying on Prince Charming to gallop up waving a glass slipper to save a damsel from destitution.
Having foolishly cast her cousin Tom in that role two years ago, Polly Woodrowe had learned her lesson. Prince Definitely-not-so-Charming preferred to forget your very existence, let alone your claim on his affections, once your fortune was gone.
She snorted. Easier to believe in the fairy transforming pumpkin, rat, mice and lizards into an equipage suitable for a princess, than that Prince Charming would still have loved Cinderella when he found her in rags.
‘Toss her down the Palace steps more likely,’ she muttered, as she walked along the village street. Of course, it seemed that Cinderella had been sweet-natured almost to a fault, because not only did she never become bad-tempered at her lot, but she actually forgave her beastly stepsisters in the end.
Clearly Cinderella had possessed a much nicer character than Polly Woodrowe could lay claim to. Cinderella had waited patiently, suffering in stoic silence, waiting for her prince. Polly felt like kicking someone. Several someones.
In the two years since her remaining trustee had explained that her fortune was gone, gambled away by his fellow trustee’s son, Polly had learnt to depend upon herself. She shivered a little and lengthened her step. Only the other day her younger cousin, Susan, had complained that, ‘Hippolyta walks much too fast. Ladies shouldn’t stride so, should they, Mama?’ Well, a lady who wanted to keep warm in a cloak of inferior quality, and reach her destination before her toes froze quite off, walked as swiftly as she could. Especially if she wanted the officially sanctioned errand to the village shop to cover her real goal.
And there it was—the rectory gate. Her stomach churned at what she was about to do. Perhaps Mr Martindale would not be home. He might be out visiting parishioners, or...or burying someone. Her steps slowed. He was bound to be out. She could return another time. Or not at all. He would think her forward. Pushy. Her aunt thought she was pushy now. When she had still been wealthy her father’s merchant status hadn’t mattered. Now apparently she gave herself airs, her father’s connection with trade abhorrent to her cousins...
She hesitated. Since when had she cared what a mere country rector might think of her? But she had always liked Alex Martindale. A much older schoolboy, he’d been kind to the little girl visiting her cousins. Sometimes she’d watched him going to and fro from his lessons at the rectory, dazzled when he’d given her a kindly greeting. The same friendly greeting he’d given to the village children, a smile in the grey eyes—the Alex Martindale she remembered was not one to look down on those less fortunate than himself.
People changed, though. Or perhaps as you got older you simply learned more about them. A great deal of it unpleasant. She knew a pang of regret for the innocent young girl who’d had a definite tendre for a handsome boy. Brought up to know her duty, she had obediently turned her eyes to her Cousin Tom, who she was assured by her aunt had a great fondness for her.
She snorted and kicked at a clod of mud. Alex Martindale had probably changed anyway. Everyone grew up. And her idea was a foolish one, especially since it would be bound to get back to her aunt and cause even more trouble.
Polly had half-turned away from the rectory gate when she realised what she was doing: giving in before she’d tried, bowing meekly to her fate instead of doing something about it as she had decided yesterday while her cousins were in church. Her aunt had decreed her bonnet and cloak far too shabby to attend church with the family—although apparently not too shabby to walk in to the village on an errand today—and there had been a pile of mending. So if Mr Martindale thought her an ungrateful, grasping, ill bred—that comment of Aunt Eliot’s had really stung—pushy baggage who gave herself airs, then so be it. That pile of mending had been the final straw in a week of slights and snubs.
Gritting her teeth, she stiffened her wilting spine and set her hand to the gate. He would either listen to her, or not. Think ill of her, or not. A lady with only herself to depend on could not afford scruples about being thought forward. And if she had not her own good opinion, then that of others counted for nothing.
* * *
‘Miss Woodrowe to see you, Rector.’
Alex looked up from the letter he was writing to the bishop, outlining his plans for the school and his intention to employ a curate. ‘Miss Woodrowe?’ For a moment he was puzzled. Then it came to him. Miss Hippolyta Woodrowe, of course. Niece to Sir Nathan Eliot, that was it. The wealthy Miss Woodrowe. Heiress to a mill-owner. Quite possibly the fortune had been exaggerated, but she had visited often with her widowed mother, a welcome and fêted guest, even as a child and young girl.
‘Show her in, Mrs Judd.’ He put his pen back in its holder and rose as Mrs Judd stood back to admit his visitor. He frowned. Perhaps it was the light. The day was gloomy and he’d only lit the lamp on his desk, but he could not reconcile his memory of the lively, well-dressed Miss Woodrowe, who had always had a shy smile for him, with this unsmiling young woman in the drab cloak with its mud-spattered hem. Perhaps he was remembering the wrong girl?
‘Miss Woodrowe—do come in. Mrs Judd, tea if you please.’
Miss Woodrowe came forwards and put back the hood of her cloak. Something inside him stilled. Hair the colour of fine sherry, confined severely at her nape, and those eyes, the exact colour of her hair, fringed with dark lashes...this was indeed the girl he remembered. He’d always been fascinated by the matching colour of hair and eyes. But, heavens! She’d been a child when last he’d seen her.
‘Good day, Mr Martindale. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
Girls grew up. He knew that. But—
‘No, no. Not...not at all.’ What the deuce did one do with a young lady when she called on one alone? ‘Er, won’t you come nearer to the fire?’
‘Thank you.’
He hurried ahead of her and pushed the chair closer to the hearth. It clattered against the fender and he suppressed a curse at his clumsiness. ‘You are visiting the Eliots?’ he said, and she nodded. ‘When did you arrive?’ He brought another chair to the fire.
‘A week ago.’
That chair clattered on the fender, too. ‘A week?’ Before he could think the better of it, he asked, ‘Why did you not come with your cousins to Alderley the other day for the christening?’
Her chin lifted a little. ‘I was not invited, sir.’ She began to undo her cloak strings.
‘Nonsense.’ He waved her explanation away. ‘Had Lord and Lady Alderley known of your visit, of course you would have been invited. You were friendly enough with Pippa as children. Here—let me take that.’ He reached out and lifted the heavy, damp cloak from her slender shoulders. A faint soft fragrance drifted about her and his senses leapt. He’d forgotten, if he’d ever realised, that she was so pretty. Of course she’d been little more than a child the last time he’d seen her...and now she most definitely wasn’t. She was taller, for one thing. Not much, she still only reached his shoulder, but she was definitely taller. Taller, and—his hands clenched to fists on the cloak. Now that her cloak was off, he could see that she’d changed in other ways. She’d...his mind lurched...filled out. Slightly stunned at the direction his thoughts were taking, he hung the cloak on a hook by the fire, fumbling so that he nearly dropped it. Good God! What was the matter with him? Firmly, he banished thoughts that edged towards unruly and turned back to her.
‘Will you tell me what I may do for you, Miss Woodrowe?’ There. That was better. He sounded more himself. Rational and logical.
She had not sat down, but faced him with her chin up and those tawny eyes full of something he could not quite name.
‘I wish you to employ me, Mr Martindale.’
He gulped. He’d been living alone for a while and had a slight tendency to talk to himself, but he didn’t really think his mind that badly affected. Or his hearing. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Woodrowe?’
She blushed. ‘I need a job. And I understand you are starting a school here in the village, so—’
‘Miss Woodrowe,’ he broke in, ‘is this some sort of silly joke?’ He didn’t bother to disguise the annoyance that clipped his voice. ‘A wager with your cousins, perhaps?’ It was precisely the sort of idiotish prank Miss Susan Eliot would think famous. ‘You are—’ He stopped short of voicing precisely what he was thinking: she was an heiress. And logically an heiress could not possibly need a job.
The blush deepened. ‘I’m not joking,’ she said quietly.
Something about her voice warned him. And he looked at her properly, looked beyond the bright tawny eyes with their fringe of dark lashes, beyond the disturbing changes in her, and saw her gown.
Alex was no connoisseur of fashion, but even he knew an old, unfashionable, cheap gown when he saw one. And that look in her eyes, as if she were braced against something—as if she faced a firing squad—ripped at him.
‘Sit down, Miss Woodrowe,’ he said. Even if she didn’t need to sit, he did.
Those bright eyes narrowed slightly and her mouth, soft pink, tightened. He cursed himself mentally. What was wrong with him that he could not even couch an invitation politely? Nevertheless, she sat. He sat down facing her.
‘Miss Woodrowe...’ he began. And stopped. Dash it! This was impossible! How did you ask a young lady what had happened to her fortune?
She saved him the trouble.
‘Mr Bascombe, the son of my father’s oldest friend, got into debt gambling and used my fortune to try to repair his losses.’ She said this flatly, as though it had lost the power to upset her. ‘He lost everything. His own money as well as mine. Then he took what everyone considered the honourable way out.’
Alex’s jaw tensed. To his mind there was nothing honourable about committing suicide to avoid the consequences of your selfishness. ‘When was this?’ he asked quietly.
‘More than two years ago.’
That explained why he hadn’t heard. A little over two years ago he’d taken a sabbatical and gone to the Continent for a few months. It also explained the shabby gown and cloak, but— ‘And you only came to your uncle’s home two weeks ago?’
Her face froze. ‘I took a position as a governess.’
Pride. He could understand that, but nevertheless... ‘Do you not think it might have been better to come to your uncle immediately?’ he asked gently. ‘Is he your guardian now?’
Her face blanked. ‘I’m one and twenty, sir.’
Of age now, but she had gone out into the world alone at nineteen? His jaw clenched. ‘And do you not think it better to remain in his care anyway?’ The idea of her fending for herself as a governess! What on earth was Sir Nathan thinking to be permitting it?
‘No.’
He cleared his throat, hoping he wasn’t going to sound stuffy. ‘Miss Woodrowe, even if I thought it proper to remove you from the protection of your relatives, it would not answer.’
‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘I have had experience teaching—two boys as well as a girl—and it was not for incompetence that I was dismissed—’ She broke off, biting her lip.
‘I need a schoolmaster,’ he said, tactfully ignoring her slip. ‘Not a schoolmistress.’ What on earth had she been dismissed for?
She scowled. ‘Why? I can teach reading, writing, arithmetic as well as any man would. And I can teach the girls sewing and other household skills, such as brewing simples, that would help fit them for service, and—’
‘You can’t live here!’ he said.
‘Here?’
‘In the rectory,’ he said. ‘The schoolmaster is to lodge here.’
‘But the cottage you are going to use has two rooms,’ she said. ‘I assumed that—’
‘No. He will live here,’ said Alex firmly. What use was a curate stuck away in the schoolhouse? And why make the poor fellow hire someone to cook and clean for him when the rectory was full of unused bedchambers and an unused chess set?
Miss Woodrowe’s brow knotted. ‘But, sir, will you not consider—?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Woodrowe, the schoolmaster is also to be my curate, you see.’
‘Oh. I see.’ All the bright determination ebbed and her eyes fell. ‘I...I did not realise that.’
Her hands twisted in her lap and his own clenched to fists at what he had seen in her face. She had, he realised, wanted the position. Desperately. Shaken, he said, ‘My dear, surely you don’t really need such a position? You have a family to care for you, and—’
She rose swiftly, reached for her cloak and swung it around her shoulders, even as he scrambled to his feet. ‘I apologise for disturbing you, sir.’ Her gaze met his again, shuttered, the soft mouth set firmly. ‘Please do not concern yourself any further. Good day to you.’
Alex blinked. He rather thought he had just been dismissed in his own library. Pride goeth before a fall, of course, but this girl had already taken the fall... ‘Miss Woodrowe—’
She was halfway to the door and he leapt to reach it first and open it.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said politely.
Dignity, he realised. Not pride. A scrap of memory floated to the surface; it had been known that Miss Woodrowe was intended for Sir Nathan and Lady Eliot’s eldest son, Tom, from the time they were children. Lady Eliot, he recalled, had mentioned it once. Or twice. She had viewed the match as a settled thing.
‘Miss Woodrowe—what about your cousin?’
She turned back, one small hand in its worn glove on the door frame. ‘My cousin? Which one?’
The coolness held a warning, but he ignored it. ‘Your cousin—Mr Tom Eliot. Was there not...’ he hesitated ‘...some understanding between you?’ Tom was a pleasant enough fellow, a little foolish, easily swayed by his mother, but surely a better choice for Miss Woodrowe than working as a governess?
Her eyes chilled. ‘Yes. There was an understanding. But it involved my fortune. Not me.’ She turned away, chin elevated a notch.
‘Miss Woodrowe!’ Surely she had not turned her back on her cousin out of pride! ‘If you have refused a good man out of wilful pride—’
She stared at him, something odd in her expression. ‘Refused my cousin, Mr Martindale?’ Bitterness rimed her voice and that mouth, which he remembered as made for smiles and laughter, curved into a travesty of a smile. ‘There would have to be something to refuse first. Tom never actually offered for me. Good day to you, sir. Thank you for your time.’
Alex drew a deep breath and realised that interrogating Miss Woodrowe on the clearly painful subject of her non-existent betrothal to Tom Eliot was not a good idea. Instead he saw her out politely, and went immediately in search of enlightenment.
Chapter Two (#ulink_89cbeea0-dd48-5ada-a685-d19f7e0ed19d)
Mrs Judd put him right at once. ‘Miss Woodrowe, sir? Oh aye. It was well known that she was to marry Master Tom. Lady Eliot had it all worked out from the time they was little. When old Mr Woodrowe died, she was that determined little Miss Polly should come to them, but Mrs Woodrowe refused and Sir Nathan didn’t push on it.’
Alex waited. There was never any need to probe with Mrs Judd. Once she was away on village gossip, there was no stopping her. He usually took care not to start her, feeling that, as rector, it ought to be beneath him to listen to gossip. Unless, as in this case, he needed information. Then she was a godsend and he did his very best not to view it as entertainment. In this case, as her daughter was cook to the Eliots, she was the best source he could hope for.
‘Course it’s all different now.’ Mrs Judd rolled out the pastry with great vigour. ‘That guardian or whatever he was turned Miss Polly’s fortune into ducks and drakes as the saying is. Didn’t leave her a feather to fly with, they say.’
She looked up at Alex over the pastry. ‘My Nan says Lady Eliot was fit to tie when the news came. Nan expected to see poor Miss Polly any day, but she never arrived. Then word came she’d taken a position teaching.’ Mrs Judd snorted. ‘Lady Eliot said it was just as well.’
‘And Mr Eliot?’ Alex’s jaw had clenched so hard he could scarcely get the words out. Two years ago. Tom Eliot was twenty-five now. He had been well and truly of age. What had held him back from fulfilling his obligations to his cousin? A girl to whom he had been as good as betrothed, even if he had never actually offered for her.
Ellie Judd banged the rolling pin down on the table and a tabby cat by the fire glanced up. ‘Reckon he did just as her ladyship told him. Like Sir Nathan. Less trouble that way.’ Mrs Judd sprinkled a little flour over the pastry and rolled it over the raised pie. ‘Nan reckons Miss Polly ain’t so very welcome at the Manor nowadays.’
* * *
Alex gazed unseeingly at the letter he had been writing to the bishop about the proposed schoolmaster. He supposed he could understand the Eliots’ outlook, even if he deplored the worldly attitude to marriage that it reflected. Tom Eliot and Miss Woodrowe had not been precisely betrothed, but it had been an understood thing that once she was old enough he would offer and she would accept. It kept her fortune safely in the family and provided a wealthy bride for Tom, easing the burden of finding dowries for Miss Eliot and Miss Mary Eliot.
But with no money the match was seen as unsuitable. He gritted his teeth. The Eliots would not have been alone in thinking that. And it might have been awkward housing Miss Woodrowe, but to let her go to be a governess—that was the bit that stuck in his throat. Two years ago? At just nineteen, dash it! Miss Hippolyta Woodrowe had been cast adrift to earn her keep.
He looked again at the letter.
‘...therefore I would be grateful if your lordship could recommend a man to take up these duties as soon as may be in the New Year...’
Miss Woodrowe’s determined face slid into his mind.
I can teach reading, writing, arithmetic as well as any man would...
He shoved the thought away. It was important to get a good man into the position. Many people disliked the idea of the parish schools the Church wished to set up, believing it dangerous to educate the poor above their station. The right man, one who could win respect, would go a long way towards breaking down those prejudices. The world was changing. No longer could children be assured of jobs on the estates they were born on. They needed schools to give them a chance.
Polly—Miss Woodrowe needs a chance.
He shoved the thought away. The school had to succeed. And if he put a woman in charge, a young lady...a lady’s place was in the home, not out earning her living...she was not made for independence...
And what if her home and fortune has been taken from her? What if she has no choice?
Then her family should take care of her!
That was how it had been for his own mother. Memories slid back. He’d been ten when his father died heavily in debt, old enough to realise his mother’s grief was edged with fear. Fear she had tried to hide from him as she wrote letter after letter to her own family. He had found some of the replies after her death. Offers to house her—in return for her otherwise unpaid services as governess, or companion. None had been prepared to take her child as well.
Only Dominic’s father had offered the widow a home along with her child. Offered to educate his brother’s son and provide for him. As a child Alex had taken it for granted. Now he knew how lucky they had been. Not all families could, or would, provide for an impoverished widow and child.
What would have become of his mother if Uncle David had not taken them in?
Miss Polly ain’t so very welcome at the Manor nowadays.
He could believe that if they’d allowed her to come asking about the position of village schoolmistress!
His kindly uncle had settled a small annuity on his widowed sister-in-law, providing a measure of independence along with a home.
Picking up the pen, he dipped it in the ink and continued, politely enquiring after the bishop’s health and that of his wife. A moment later he laid the pen down, glared at the letter and tore it in two. Mouth set hard, he took another piece of paper, picked up the pen and began, with considerably less care, another letter, this time to his cousin Dominic, Lord Alderley.
He had prayed for the right teacher for the school, and he believed that God always answered prayer. The trick was in recognising an unexpected answer.
* * *
Polly pushed open the door of the village shop, glad to be out of the wind again. It sliced through her old cloak straight to the bone. Mr Filbert popped up from behind the gleaming counter. He stared for a moment, then his gnome’s smile broke.
‘Why, it’s you, Miss Polly!’
She managed a smile. Mr Filbert was someone whose manner towards her hadn’t changed at all. ‘Good day, Mr Filbert. My aunt sent me in for some embroidery silks.’
He blinked. ‘Miss Eliot and Miss Mary were here just a few moments ago buying silks for Lady Eliot,’ he told her. ‘They didn’t say anything about your being with them.’
Probably because she wasn’t. She’d had no idea her cousins had been planning to visit the village. She could only pray they’d seen her neither entering nor leaving the rectory.
‘A misunderstanding,’ she said carefully. ‘Thank you.’
‘They went back to the inn,’ he said helpfully.
The already gloomy morning dimmed a little further. Her cousins had heard their mother set her the errand of walking into the village for new embroidery threads and had said nothing. What would have happened if Mrs Filbert had served her and she’d bought the threads again? She forced the bitter, uncharitable thoughts back. Perhaps they hadn’t decided to come in until after she’d left. They hadn’t passed her on the road, so it wasn’t as if they’d had a chance to offer to take her up.
‘Thank you, Mr Filbert,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I’ll find them.’
She hurried out of the shop and down the street towards the inn, just in time to see the Eliot coach turning out of the inn yard towards the manor.
‘Susan! Mary!’ Probably they hadn’t seen her...ah, John Coachman had. He was slowing the horses. She picked up her pace, hurrying towards the carriage. Susan frowned, leaning forwards, clearly giving an order. John responded, pointing his whip at Polly hurrying to the coach. Susan’s chin lifted, she spoke again, the words indistinct, but her tone sharp... John hesitated, cast Polly an apologetic look and urged the horses on.
Polly slowed to a stunned halt, staring after the departing carriage. Hurt fury welled up, scalding her throat, as she set out for home. The frost had thawed that morning, leaving the lane muddy. By the time she was halfway there, her skirts six inches deep in mud she would have to brush off, she had a new plan. Very well. Her aunt had refused to give her a reference. Mr Martindale had failed her. She braced her shoulders against the biting wind. She would ask Pippa, Lady Alderley, for a reference.
* * *
Polly had reached the manor gates before she heard the rumble of wheels slowing behind her. She didn’t bother looking around even as the gig slowed beside her.
‘Miss Woodrowe. What on earth are you doing?’
The familiar voice sounded furious.
She turned and met Alex Martindale’s scowl. ‘Sir?’
‘What are you doing?’ he repeated.
‘Returning ho—to my uncle’s house,’ she amended. A home was where you felt welcome, where you belonged.
His frown deepened. ‘But...you’re walking!’
‘I can’t fly,’ she pointed out reasonably. ‘An oversight, but there it is.’
For a moment he stared and she cursed her unruly tongue. Would she never learn to curb it? That was something that other Miss Woodrowe, the rich Miss Woodrowe, might have said. In her it would have been amusing, witty. In plain Polly Woodrowe it was impertinence.
Then he laughed and it lit the grey eyes which crinkled at the corners in a way that drew her own smile. ‘Touché. Stupid thing to say. May I at least give you a lift down the drive?’ He held his hand out, still with that lilt to his mouth. She hesitated, even as her heart kicked to a canter, remembering that his smile had always been just that little bit crooked. There was nothing remotely improper in accepting. Mr Martindale was the rector, and it was an open carriage. For the length of the carriage drive. Except...Aunt Eliot would think her designing, and there would be another row, when she still had not found a position—she quelled a shudder. ‘It’s out of your way, sir,’ she excused herself, ignoring the little ache of regret.
He shook his head. ‘Actually, no, it isn’t. After you left, I realised that I needed to speak to your uncle about something.’
‘Oh.’ Oh, dear God. Surely he wasn’t going to complain about her? ‘I’m...I’m sorry if you were offended that I asked for the teaching position.’ Somehow she choked the words out, fought to look suitably chastened. ‘There’s no need to mention it to my uncle. I won’t ask again.’
‘What?’ He stared at her, puzzlement in those grey eyes. She’d always been fascinated by the utterly black rims, and those dark, dark lashes... ‘You thought I was going to complain about you? No, Miss Woodrowe, I was not!’ Now he did sound offended.
She opened her mouth to apologise, but he forestalled her.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Not one word. Do you hear me?’
She nodded, fuming at the autocratic tone.
‘Right. Up you come, then.’ That was an outright command.
Seething, she placed her hand in his, felt the powerful clasp of long fingers as he steadied her and helped her up. The horse stood patiently while he flipped the driving rug off his own legs and over hers.
‘Sir—’
‘Not a word!’
That the Reverend Alex Martindale could sound so angry was a revelation. She sat in silence the length of the carriage drive.
* * *
Polly stood quietly while Aunt Eliot railed at her. Once she had been considered an intimate of the family, permitted to use the more familiar Aunt Aurelia. Once she had been a welcome guest. Not any more. There was quite a difference between the wealthy heiress of a mill owner and the impoverished daughter of trade.
‘The presumption! Calling out in that vulgar fashion, in the middle of the street!’
‘I thought they had not seen me, Aunt.’ She swallowed. Had she given it the least thought, she would have known that any not seeing had been deliberate. Susan and Mary took their tone from their mother.
Lady Eliot ignored this. ‘And where is the money I gave you for embroidery silks?’
She wondered what her aunt would say if she handed her a packet of silks instead. ‘Here, Aunt.’ She took the coins from her pocket and held them out. Lady Eliot took them with a sniff and counted them. She glared at her niece. ‘You’ll have to go back later. Miss Susan forgot the blues.’
It was the Miss Susan that did it...
Polly opened her mouth, fully intending a polite acquiescence.
‘No.’ It was said before she even knew it was there. She braced herself. It was out and it wasn’t going back. Not if she was now supposed to refer to her cousins as Miss Susan and Miss Mary.
Lady Eliot’s eyes bulged. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, no, Aunt. I’ve been once, and I’m not going again. Send Susan.’
‘Why you ungrateful, impertinent, little—’
Polly let the storm rage about her. Odd how it didn’t bother her now, when only a day or so ago she would have been close to tears, wondering how to placate her aunt. Now she simply didn’t care.
* * *
Alex followed his faintly offended host along the hallway of the Manor.
‘I cannot think that Lady Eliot will approve this offer, Martindale,’ huffed Sir Nathan. ‘Hippolyta has every comfort here, as well as the countenance and protection of her family.’
‘Of course,’ said Alex. He was half-inclined to make his excuses and leave. Clearly the Eliots were not, after all, trying to shove Polly out the door and he had misinterpreted the situation, placed too much credence in what was, after all, mere gossip. Polly—Miss Woodrowe was likely quite happy with her family and had approached him out of pride—not a sin at all to be encouraged, although he could understand her not liking to be beholden.
And if Sir Nathan’s nose was out of joint, that was as nothing to Lady Eliot’s likely response. At which unwelcome thought he became aware of a strident female voice carrying down the hallway. Someone—apparently a presumptuous, ungrateful viper—was in a deal of trouble. It sounded as though one of the housemaids was being dismissed. Sir Nathan, who was more than a little deaf, appeared not to notice anything unusual, but continued along the hallway to the drawing-room door.
Alex hesitated, but Sir Nathan said, ‘We shall see what her ladyship says,’ and opened the door for him.
‘Lady Eliot, here is Mr Martindale with a most extraordinary proposal.’
‘...ungrateful, shop-bred upstart—’
Lady Eliot’s diatribe was cut off as if by a knife slash.
Alex advanced into the room. Her ladyship sat enthroned in a high-backed chair by the fire, a firescreen embroidered with revoltingly coy nymphs and shepherds protecting her face from the heat. The tea table beside her bore a heavy silver tray with a teapot, creamer, sugar bowl, and a single cup and saucer.
Before her stood Polly, staring at him in obvious shock, and not a housemaid, let alone a miscreant one, in sight.
Alex took a savage grip on his own temper. Lady Eliot had been berating Polly. Shop-bred. Viper. Presumptuous.
Hot colour flooded Polly’s pale cheeks as she looked at him, yet she held her head high. Embarrassment then. Not shame.
‘Mr Martindale—how pleasant!’ said Lady Eliot, her voice executing a complete about turn. ‘Will you not be seated, and I shall ring for more tea.’ The effusive graciousness grated on Alex. Her ladyship turned to Polly with a smile. ‘Hippolyta, dear—I shall not keep you now. We may speak later.’
Hippolyta, dear? What had happened to the shop-bred upstart?
‘Actually, I should prefer Miss Woodrowe to remain,’ said Alex. ‘My proposition involves her.’
He barely heard Lady Eliot’s shocked ‘Indeed!’ for the flare of light in Polly’s eyes and the way her soft lips parted. Dragging his wits back together, he continued. ‘Ah, yes. That is, you are probably aware that my cousin, Lord Alderley—’ he loathed the necessity of making play with Dominic’s name, but the devil was in the driving seat here— ‘and I intend to establish a village school.’
Her ladyship sniffed. ‘He mentioned it at the christening. Naturally, I did not hesitate to offer my opinion.’
Naturally not.
She went on. ‘I cannot think it wise. To be encouraging the lower orders to reach above the station in which God has set them must lead to discontent. We must accept the lot to which He has intended us.’
Alex managed not to roll his eyes. She was far from the only one to think that way. Usually persons whose lot God had set in a very fair ground. ‘I am rather of the opinion, ma’am, that God moves in mysterious ways and that where He has seeded talent, it ought to be encouraged to flower.’
Lady Eliot looked anything but convinced, and Alex continued. ‘While my cousin and I initially intended to employ a schoolmaster, we now think it better to engage a woman.’ Dominic had no idea yet that Alex had changed his mind, but Alex was fairly sure he’d explained it clearly enough in the letter he’d sent over before coming here.
His gaze met Polly’s and his wits scattered again at the sight of her blazing eyes and those soft, parted lips. Lord! His heart appeared to have stopped and his breath tangled in his throat, while a distinctly unclerical question slid through his mind: what would those lips taste like? Ripe? Sweet? A hot, unfamiliar ache gathered low in his belly. Disturbing—because while it might be unfamiliar, he knew quite well what it was.
He cleared his throat, but the idea twisted it up again. What on earth was the matter with him? He was the rector, for God’s sake. Literally for God’s sake! He was meant to be an example and shepherd to his flock, not lust after the women in his congregation! He cleared his throat again, this time successfully enough to speak.
‘It has come to my attention that Miss Woodrowe—’ He let his gaze touch Polly again, felt again the leap of sensation and had to regather his thoughts. ‘That Pol—that is, Miss Woodrowe has some experience as a governess and I wondered if she might consider accepting the position.’
‘Really, Mr Martindale!’ Lady Eliot’s nostrils flared. ‘What an extraordinary idea! I do not think you can have—’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Polly’s quiet voice cut in. ‘I should like very much to discuss it with you.’
‘What?’ Lady Eliot glared at her. ‘Hippolyta, you cannot have considered the implications! And even if you had, you will of course be advised and ruled by those in authority over you!’
Polly’s mouth firmed. ‘I am of age, Aunt, and in authority over myself. I may be advised by my family, but I will be ruled by my own conscience and judgement.’
‘Now, Hippolyta—’ bleated Sir Nathan.
‘You will remain with your family connections, Hippolyta,’ snapped Lady Eliot. ‘Just this morning I have received a letter from my cousin Maria, Lady Littleworth. She is still willing to house you as her companion, despite your foolish decision to accept another post two years ago. There is nothing more to be said.’ She sat back. ‘It would present a very odd appearance,’ she continued, clearly not having listened to herself, ‘if a girl living under Sir Nathan’s protection were to be sallying forth to earn her living as a village schoolmistress.’ Her voice dripped disdain.
Sir Nathan nodded. ‘Very odd appearance. Indeed—’ this with an air of clinching the argument ‘—’tis not possible. How would she get to and fro?’
Alex braced himself. He didn’t approve, but he was starting to understand why Polly Woodrowe was so anxious to leave this house on her own terms if the alternative was an unpaid position with Lady Littleworth.
‘Naturally the offer includes Miss Woodrowe’s accommodation at the schoolhouse if she wishes it.’ Hoping Polly could remain with her family, he’d not mentioned that to Sir Nathan earlier and the fellow goggled like a landed trout.
Alex took a deep breath and incinerated every bridge. ‘If Miss Woodrowe wants it, the position is hers.’
‘Really, Mr Martindale!’ Lady Eliot’s mouth pinched. ‘We cannot possibly countenance such a—’
‘Thank you, Mr Martindale,’ said Polly calmly. Her face glowed as she turned to him. ‘If I may have a key, I will walk into the village tomorrow and decide what will be needed.’
He scowled. The deuce she would. ‘As to that, Miss Po—Miss Woodrowe—I have the keys with me now and would be delighted to drive you.’
Lady Eliot drew herself up. ‘I must make quite plain that this has not Sir Nathan’s approbation!’
Alex bowed to her. ‘I perfectly understand that, ma’am.’ He turned back to Polly. ‘Fetch your cloak, Miss Woodrowe. I will await you in the front hall.’
* * *
Polly stared about the second room of the schoolhouse in rising panic. She had not thought. She simply had not thought, had not known. But now the reality of the two-roomed cottage crashed over her like snow falling off a branch.
The schoolroom was in fine order. Neat rows of desks, a cupboard holding slates and other equipment. Books on a bookshelf, a desk for the teacher and a great fireplace. She had seen a huge stack of wood outside. Clearly teacher and pupils were not expected to freeze. The schoolroom itself had been freshly whitewashed and was more than acceptable.
This room, too, had been whitewashed. And that was it. There was nothing in it. Nothing. An alcove to one side, with a wide shelf clearly intended for a bed, was innocent of mattress and bedding. There was no furniture. There was nothing. She swallowed. Even if there were something, she realised with a jolt of shock, she would have no idea how to so much as cook her dinner. There wasn’t even a cooking pot in which to cook it, although there was an iron rod, with a hook to suspend a pot, that clearly swung in and out of the fireplace. She had seen such arrangements when visiting women in the village...but a cooking pot would cost money, and she would need a table, and chair to sit on, and bedding and...
And she was not going to give up! She had got the position and she was jolly well going to keep it. She had some money. Not much, but surely enough to buy a few simple things to furnish this room.
She lifted her chin. ‘I will need to—’
‘It won’t do,’ said Mr Martindale. He swung around on her, his grey eyes hard. ‘You can’t possibly live here! I must have been insane to suggest it.’
Her determination firmed. ‘Why not?’ All the reasons why not were buzzing frantically in her head. If she could swat them aside, why could not he? ‘It...it just needs furniture. A table and chair. Perhaps a settee to sit by the fire. Some bedding and a...a cooking pot.’
His glance skewered her. ‘Polly, do you even know how to cook?’
She stiffened. ‘Do you?’ She tried to ignore the leap of her pulse, the sudden clutch of her lungs at the sound of her name, her pet name, on his lips. For two years she had been Miss Woodrowe. Her aunt and cousins insisted on Hippolyta now. No one, not one person, had called her Polly since her mother’s death. And he shouldn’t be now.
‘I have Mrs Judd,’ he pointed out with a smile.
‘And I have a brain,’ she said, ruthlessly quelling the little flare of delight at his smile. ‘And I can buy a book. And...and ask advice. Please.’ Oh, curse it! She’d sworn not to beg.
‘You’ll be alone,’ he said. ‘A young woman, alone.’ His mouth firmed. ‘I don’t like it at all.’
‘Well, I do,’ she said. ‘My uncle is right. I cannot possibly go back and forth from his house.’ Better to make the break completely and establish her independence. Aunt Eliot would put every sort of rub in her way. But the bubble of panic rose again. Women were not intended for independence. It was wrong. Against the proper order. Unnatural. She swatted those thoughts away, too. Any number of people had probably thought it against the natural order when King John was forced to sign the Magna Carta. The sky hadn’t fallen then either.
Alex frowned, clearly thinking. ‘Perhaps lodgings here in the village—’
‘No!’ Her vehemence was as much at her own cowardice as at his suggestion and she flushed at his raised brows. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve lived in someone else’s home for two years. I...I should like to live by myself.’ Being under someone else’s roof, subject to their rules and arrangements had galled her. Certainly if she paid board she would not be a dependent, but... ‘I should like to try.’
He scowled. ‘For goodness’ sake, Pol—Miss Woodrowe! It’s winter, and—’
‘There’s a huge pile of wood out there,’ she said. ‘I actually do know how to light a fire.’ The governess had been permitted a fire in her room on Sunday evenings at the Frisinghams’, although she suspected this generosity had more to do with prevailing damp than concern for the comfort of a lowly governess. Since no servant had been responsible for lighting it, she had learnt how to manage for herself.
‘But by yourself—won’t you be lonely?’
She stared at him, surprised. ‘You live alone. Don’t tell me Mrs Judd holds your hand in the evenings. Are you lonely?’
‘That’s diff—’ He stopped and the wry smile twisted his mouth. ‘Very well. Yes. Sometimes I am.’
‘Oh.’ His honesty disarmed her. But still— ‘Well, no. I don’t think I will be.’ She might be alone, but that didn’t mean lonely. She was lonely now, surrounded by people who would prefer that she wasn’t there at all, people she had thought cared for her. Polly Woodrowe, poor relation and dependant, was a far different creature than Polly Woodrowe, wealthy cousin. But she couldn’t explain all that to Alex Martindale—it would sound self-pitying, utterly pathetic. So she said, ‘It’s different being a guest and family member to being a dependant.’
His brows rose. ‘The change in your circumstances is difficult for them, I take it.’
Something in her snapped. ‘Difficult for them?’ She snorted. ‘I’m sure it was difficult to discover that the girl you counted on bringing a healthy dowry into the family was ruined! Positively tragic. And...’ she was warming up to her subject now, ‘...if you are going to tell me that it is my Christian duty to accept the situation allotted to me by God, with humble piety, then you may go to the devil!’
He blinked and Polly realised what she had said. Oh, goodness. This time she wouldn’t have to get as far as being pawed around by the son of the house to be dismissed. This time she was going to be dismissed before she’d even started.
‘I was being sarcastic,’ said Alex mildly. ‘And if,’ he continued, ‘I had been so mind-bogglingly arrogant as to say that, you’d be welcome to kick me on my way.’ He eyed her consideringly. ‘You are sure, then, that you want this? There will be no going back, you know.’
She swallowed. ‘There is already no going back.’ She had already lost her place. In society, in her family. She would have to make her own place.
‘I suppose it will be safe enough,’ he said slowly. ‘Right here in the village. And Dominic owns the cottage, so only a fool with a death wish would cause trouble.’ His expression hardened. ‘Not to mention having me to deal with.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Very well, then. Fifty pounds a year, payable quarterly.’
‘Fifty?’ It came out as a sort of squawk.
The dark brows rose. ‘Not enough?’
This time she picked up the humour in his voice. ‘More...more than enough,’ she managed. ‘I—the cottage will need some things. A table, maybe a chair—if you could advance me a little and take it out of—’
‘Certainly not!’ He glared at her, grey eyes furious, all humour fled. ‘The place will be fully furnished and equipped.’
‘Equipped?’
He waved vaguely at the fireplace. ‘Mrs Judd will tell me what is needed. A...a cooking pot, I suppose. Some utensils.’ He levelled a searching gaze at her. ‘Are you quite sure this is what you want? What about Lady Littleworth?’
She swallowed. ‘And what will happen when she dies, or decides that I annoy her? She won’t be paying me, you know. I’ve thought it all out. I need to save enough for the future. Perhaps buy an annuity for my old age.’
His jaw dropped. ‘Polly—you’re twenty-one!’
And one day she would be fifty-one. With no money. Ignoring the little voice of fear, she countered, ‘Have you ever met Lady Littleworth?’
His mouth twitched. ‘Actually, yes. I take your point. Very well, the position is yours, Miss Woodrowe. When would you like to start?’
Chapter Three (#ulink_c05a7c85-0cc0-59e4-a4a8-a72da2ca9cba)
What 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.
Chapter Four (#ulink_b4812fe2-f3f3-5387-8165-322b393ef8ed)
Susan called the following afternoon, arriving in the carriage just as the children left. Polly greeted her politely and invited her in. Susan gave the living room a derisive glance, then swung around, a pitying expression on her face. ‘You poor thing, Hippolyta. I mean, living like this!’ She shuddered. ‘And you actually sleep in here, too? How can you? Really, you must be ready to see sense now. Mama says that Lady Littleworth is still looking for a companion, you know.’
Polly shrugged. ‘This is my home, Susan, and I’m perfectly happy here.’ She would be even happier if there wasn’t that sneaking suspicion that she looked forward to Alex Martindale’s daily visits far more than she ought to, that they had somehow become the high point of her day. And not because so often when he called, he had something for her. The woodcock yesterday, a pat of butter, or a small pot of jam that he claimed Mrs Judd had asked him to deliver.
Susan looked disbelieving. ‘Happy? Here? But it’s so—’ She waved her hands about. ‘It’s so squalid! I mean, there’s only that frightful settle, or whatever you call it, to sit on, and nothing to do except teach the village children! What on earth do you do in the evenings?’
Apart from wondering if Mr Martindale is going to kiss me?
Polly also refrained from telling her cousin that she went to bed early to save lamp oil. ‘I read. And any mending I do is my mending.’
‘Oh.’ Susan’s wrinkled nose suggested that she couldn’t think of anything more ghastly. Probably because she had never faced the thought of being Lady Littleworth’s companion, or mending the sheets.
‘Should you like a cup of tea, Susan?’ offered Polly, wondering if she could get away with re-using the breakfast tea leaves.
Susan looked slightly aghast as her gaze fell on Polly’s plain, earthenware cups. They were a far cry from Lady Eliot’s elegant tea service. ‘Oh, well. I shouldn’t like to put you to any trouble. It’s just, well, Tom is home, you know.’
‘No. I didn’t know.’ She didn’t much care, either. She’d see Tom at Christmas and that would be too soon.
Susan gave a conspiratorial smile and said, ‘Mama would be furious if she knew what I’m going to tell you, but I thought that it was only fair.’ She looked around, as though afraid her mother would pop up out of the floor, and went on. ‘Tom thought it better if I spoke to you first.’
Polly stared. ‘Tom thought what better?’ Surely he didn’t regret the way he had behaved two years ago?
Susan patted at her curls. ‘Well, you know he’s been staying with the Creeds? You remember the Creeds?’ Not bothering to let her answer, Susan rushed on. ‘He came home yesterday, terribly pleased. And you’ll never guess—he’s betrothed to Angelica! Mama is in alt, as you may guess!’
For a moment Polly was speechless, but Susan’s avid eyes, greedy for the least sign that her barbed news had struck home, stiffened her.
‘Oh. That is lovely news,’ she said. Susan’s slight frown gave her the impetus to forge a smile. ‘How nice for them. Aunt Eliot must be delighted.’
Susan stared at her. ‘You don’t mind, then?’
A little thread of amusement uncurled itself, mocking her. ‘Mind? Why ever should I? Please do wish Tom very happy for me. Although I suppose I shall be able to do that for myself next week.’ Christmas was so close now, and never had she looked forward to the festive season less.
Susan recovered somewhat. ‘You’ll still come for Christmas then?’
‘Why should I not?’ asked Polly. Was that it? Had Tom wanted her told, so that she might decide not to come, but not had the courage to tell her himself? To hell with him! If he had a guilty conscience, it was his problem.
Susan shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘Well, you see, Angelica and her parents are coming to stay. They arrive Christmas Eve.’
Which would make the manor uncomfortably crowded.
‘Oh. I dare say I shall only remain a couple of days, then,’ said Polly in very cheerful tones. ‘You might mention that to your mama for me.’
Susan glared at her and Polly tried hard not to smile. Her sweet little cousin wasn’t supposed to have told her anything.
‘You know everyone is talking about this, don’t you?’ burst out Susan.
‘About Tom and Angelica?’
‘No! About you! About how disgraceful it is that you’ve done this! You should have gone to Lady Littleworth!’
‘And not been paid,’ pointed out Polly. ‘Instead I have my independence.’
‘You would have been respectable!’ snapped Susan, as if it were a holy grail. She gestured at the room. ‘You think only of yourself! It’s selfish—living like this, you’re shaming all of us!’
‘How dreadful for you,’ said Polly sweetly. ‘Fancy not being able to hide the shame of a poor relation. And, yes, I am afraid that as a woman who must make her own way in the world, I do think of myself.’ No one else was going to do it for her.
Susan uttered a frustrated noise, turned on her heel and flounced out, banging the door.
With Susan gone, Polly sat slowly on the settle and stared into the glowing fire. Despite the warmth, a cold emptiness yawned inside her. Fool that she was to have thought even for a moment that Tom might have regretted his behaviour. All he regretted was her lost fortune. If she had married him, how long would it have taken her to see that? To see him for what he truly was? Would she have lied to herself day after day? Year after year? Pretended that all was well? That he was still the handsome, devil-may-care, big cousin of her childhood? How long could she have lied to herself and not become something beyond pity?
With a jolt, she realised that she didn’t care about Tom’s betrothal. That she had realised a long time ago what a lucky escape she’d had there. A queer thought came to her—if she could turn the clock back, regain her fortune, would it be worth the price of being married to Tom?
* * *
Alex winced at the yowl emanating from the basket as he walked through the village that evening. How such a tiny creature could make so much noise was beyond him. And what on earth was he thinking giving Polly—Miss Woodrowe, he corrected himself—a kitten without even asking her if she would like a cat. Although he doubted that she would like a cat less than that blasted great rat.
And even a cat would be company for her. He glanced down at the pup trotting politely at his heels. Not as good as a dog, of course, but better than nothing, and a great deal cheaper to feed. Especially if it dined largely on rats and mice. Still, if she preferred not to have the kitten, she could always say so. He didn’t much like cats himself, but he thought he could survive one more cat at the rectory if Polly declined.
Serve his housekeeper right! He still wanted to know how on earth Mrs Judd had known he’d visited Polly last night. The dratted woman had asked after Miss Polly when he’d come in, quite as if she had no doubt as to where he’d been, and before he’d known what he was doing, he’d told her about the rat. She’d produced the kitten at breakfast, informing him that it was from the smithy, its immediate antecedents renowned and celebrated ratters.
He should have come earlier, but he’d had to recite the Office and he’d had a sermon to write, not to mention adding up the various parish bills for the month. So there was no question of lingering to talk to Polly now. Quite apart from Mrs Judd’s ire if he were late to supper, there was Polly’s reputation to consider. There was no doubt that Mrs Judd knew exactly where he was this time. He squashed the flicker of regret.
The little cottage was nearly lost in the darkness, but a faint light crept out from behind the shutters, and the odour of wood smoke and something savoury drifted to him, reminding him that he was hungry. Another yowl from the basket suggested that someone else was hungry. Bonny gave the basket a wary sniff and backed off when it hissed.
Alex grinned. ‘Very wise of you.’ He’d back a cat, even one this size, against a setter any day. He rapped on the back door.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s just me. Alex.’ Too familiar. ‘Alex Martindale.’
Inside the bolts were shot back and the key screeched in the lock. He tried to steel himself, but at the first sight of her, the tawny hair spun to a golden nimbus in the lamplight, heat rose in his blood, and his heart and stomach twisted and clenched. Rather like his tongue.
‘Er, Miss Woodrowe.’ It was all he could manage. Wonderful. He’d told the woman her own name. He’d never understood that desire could tie a man in knots. Bonny apparently saw nothing in the least awkward in calling at this hour. She shoved past him up the steps and reared up, planting muddy paws firmly on Polly’s gown. Nor was her tongue in the least affected by shyness as she licked enthusiastically at Polly’s hands. Which weren’t trying to push her down, but rather were petting the silly creature, rubbing her ears and under her muzzle. His breath shortened and his mind seized. Such soft, gentle hands...
His voice came out as a croak. ‘Bonny—down.’
The pup sat, casting a sheepish look up at him, as her tail swept the step.
‘It’s all right, sir. I don’t mind.’
He snorted. ‘You will when she’s bigger.’
The basket gave another indignant wail.
Polly stared at it. ‘Your supper, sir?’
‘What? Good God, no!’ He held the basket out to her. ‘It’s a cat, a kitten really. For you.’
Silence spread out around them as she took the basket.
‘You brought me a kitten.’ There was a queer note of disbelief in her voice.
A stray curl had tumbled over her brow and he had to exert his will against the urge to stroke it back for her. Everything in him clenched as he imagined her silky hair sliding through his fingers, the velvet softness of her cheek under his touch...
Ignoring the rising beat of his blood, he said, ‘I thought...it must be lonely by yourself. And the rat yesterday—well, that can’t be pleasant.’
‘No. Will you come in, sir?’
He shouldn’t. Not at this hour. Not after dark when she was living quite alone.
Who on earth is going to know? Apart from Mrs Judd and she seems to like Polly...
He would know and he ought not to do this, but his feet were already over the threshold and she was closing the door behind them. The warmth of the little room enclosed them. Dancing firelight and the fragrance of her supper, her counterpane tossed over the back of the settle with a book propped in the folds.
Don’t think of her wrapped in bedclothes!
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.
Kneeling down to open the basket, she looked up as she lifted the kitten out. Her smile did odd things to him. ‘Yes. A woodcock from last night. It was lovely. Thank you again.’ She cuddled the kitten to her, murmuring to it as it batted her face with a tiny paw. It was a very small kitten, all black and gold patches laced with white.
‘You like cats, then?’ he got out. Lord! Her hands cradled the little creature so tenderly, touching a gentle fingertip to a ridiculous buff stripe on its nose... He shoved away the thought—the image, God help him!—of those hands touching him. He shouldn’t stay, but just being with her, here in the same room, was a joyous torment. Thank God she still had the lamp lit. The intimacy of firelight, with her bed there in the corner... His head spun.
‘Oh, yes. But cats made Mama sneeze, so we never had one. Is it a boy or a girl?’
‘Female,’ Alex got out. ‘Mrs Judd says tortoiseshell cats are always female.’
She rose and sat down on the settle beside him, the kitten in her lap. It was content there for a moment, but then, with a determined squeak, clambered down her skirts and began to explore the room.
‘Another independent female,’ he said.
There was a moment’s silence. Then, ‘Is that so very wrong?’
‘Wrong?’ he asked. In a cat? But, no, she was not speaking of the kitten. Something, someone, had upset her.
‘To want to be independent. Is it really so unnatural?’ Her voice was very quiet and full of an uncertainty he’d never heard in it before.
‘I can’t see that you had very much choice,’ he said. Who had hurt her? He was conscious of an aching need to reassure her, to pull her into his arms and just hold her. Perhaps rest his cheek on that tawny cloud and find out if it really was as silken as it looked. Just hold her. For comfort, of course. He groaned silently. Lord help him—he was even lying to himself now. His body, so well disciplined for so many years, was making up for lost time. Apparently he was not immune to the sins of the flesh after all.
‘My cousin Susan called.’
Ah. No doubt Miss Susan had expressed her mama’s opinion of Polly’s rebellion. ‘Is she well?’
‘Very well. We...we were talking about Christmas.’ She was bent down, detaching the kitten from where it was climbing her skirts, taking care with each tiny claw. Firelight glinted in the curls drifting around her temple, falling against her silken cheek so that his fingers ached to stroke them back, to tangle in them, tilt her face up to his and find out just how sweet her mouth was.
‘I can take the kitten to the rectory while you are with the Eliots,’ he forced out, closing his fingers to fists against the beat of temptation in his blood. What the deuce was wrong with him that he could scarcely get himself to act with disinterested chivalry?
She went very still. ‘Thank you, sir.’
There was something odd about her voice. As if she were close to tears. ‘Polly—Miss Woodrowe, is something wrong? Did Miss Eliot have bad news?’
Her chin lifted. ‘Bad news? Not at all. Quite the opposite. My cousin, Tom, is betrothed.’
That brittle voice splintered somewhere deep inside him and all that was left were the most useless, banal words in the language. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t pity me!’
The words exploded from her, and he bit back everything he would have liked to say. Pity? It was more like rage. Rage that there was nothing he could do to shield her from the pain she must be feeling. Rage that the Eliots, instead of protecting Polly, had cut her adrift. Rage that the world was like this at Christmas when such love was coming into the world that it could barely be contained.
‘It’s wonderful news,’ said Polly, still in that tight, controlled voice. ‘My aunt must be delighted. It’s Miss Creed, you know. A very eligible connection. She is an heiress.’
This time there really were no words. Instead, he reached out and took her small, cold, mittened hands, and just held them, contained them in the protection of his own. Sometimes words were inadequate things. Touch was better.
* * *
She thought if he had not done that, had not enveloped her cold hands in the warmth of his, she could have held herself together. As it was, the gentle strength shredded the threadbare cloak of pride, thawed the frozen place where she had interred all the pain, until her eyes burned and spilled over. She swallowed. Oh, damn! One powerful hand loosened and she wanted to cry out in protest, but his arm came around her and drew her close to rest against his shoulder.
Still he said nothing. No soothing words, no injunction not to cry. Just his solid strength to lean against for a moment, the sort of unspoken sympathy that made the wretched tears flow faster, and his arm about her. She knew he meant only to comfort, but her foolish, wanton body was dreaming of so much more than that. Dreaming of what it would be like if he truly took her in his arms, and not to comfort.
She must be a very wicked girl to entertain such thoughts. Wicked to feel this burn and dazzle in her blood at the gentle clasp of his hand. Wicked to wish that his arm might tighten, that his mouth... Well, it was a sheer miracle that a thunderbolt had not obliterated the schoolhouse with what she was thinking. But then it might have obliterated Alex and she supposed God would not want that.
I’m wicked to think such things.
He snorted. ‘I don’t think so.’
With a shock she realised that she had spoken aloud.
‘Wicked to be angry at injustice and hypocrisy?’ asked Alex. ‘Well, that makes two of us.’ He lifted their linked hands and the grey eyes smiled, full of understanding. ‘Linked in the heinous sin of disapproving of the social order.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Thank you, God, that he didn’t realise what I was really thinking.
The crooked half-smile—the one that turned her insides to jelly—twisted his mouth. ‘For what? Wanting to kick your cousins into the middle of next week for hurting you?’
He did? Her throat ached.
For being kind.
For understanding.
Her heart full, insensibly eased, she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said softly, and set one hand on his shoulder, feeling a flicker of muscle beneath the broadcloth. ‘For being you,’ she said and reached up to kiss his cheek.
* * *
For being you. As though he were a gift, when God knew he was nothing of the sort. His heart blazed, and his whole body tightened at her nearness, her fragrance—intoxication itself—and the light touch of her fingers through layers of cloth, the sweetest torment, a burning. The knowledge that she was going to kiss him—only on the cheek, but still the loveliest gift he’d ever been offered.
Then her lips were there, such peach-silk softness, a featherlight caress on his jaw that he should accept as it was meant—but somehow his head had turned—not at all what Christ had meant by turning the other cheek—and his lips had captured hers, his arms drawing her against the burning ache of his body.
Her startled gasp he took gently, even as for one soul-shattering moment she remained utterly still in his embrace. His conscience gave one last, feeble flicker. He must release her, apologise...but her lips moved hesitantly against his and he was lost.
Every nerve, every sinew and muscle leapt to flame as his arms tightened of their own accord, as his mouth returned her shy kiss and took more. Shaken to his soul, he tasted the fullness of her mouth—sweet, so sweet—and her lips parted. His mind reeled, his tongue dipped, found milk and honey, and tasted again and again, while his resolution dissolved, mind and body awash with delight as her tongue met his in hesitant wonder.
This. Just this.
This delight of a woman’s body in his arms, her lips and mouth tender under his, and this burning, this singing in blood and bone that could steal a man’s senses as surely as any siren.
Desire. His body recognised it and responded, hardening, tightening his arms around Polly, drawing her in to the consuming heat, cradling her closer. And she came, soft and willing, body and mouth yielding, melting against him. One hand found the supple curve of her waist, drifted higher against the swell of her breast and he tasted the surprise in her soft gasp.
Desire. A maelstrom threatening to sweep everything away. Sense, honour, both gone, and reason fast fading. One floundering scrap of reason found a foothold, a touchstone.
Polly. This was Polly.
Somehow he broke the kiss, drew back a little, breathing hard. A little more reason surfaced. He shouldn’t be doing this. In a moment he might remember why not...
You’re the rector, for goodness’ sake!
That hit him like a bucket of icy water. He stared down at Polly, dazed. She looked dazed, too. And her lips were damp and swollen. Pink and ripe. Because he’d kissed her. Even as he looked, all the reasons he shouldn’t be kissing her closed in, accusing.
Surely only a complete blackguard kissed a defenceless girl like that? When all she had offered was a sort of sisterly peck on the cheek.
‘I...I have to go,’ he managed. Because God only knew, if he didn’t, where this would end. His gaze fell on the alcove holding Polly’s bed and gave him back the lie. He knew perfectly well where it could have ended. That, right there, in that shadowed alcove, was the natural end for such a kiss.
Somehow he forced his hand to withdraw from the fall of her hair, now tumbled around her shoulders. Had he done that? His fingers shook at the silken caress. With even more difficulty he dragged the other hand from her waist.
‘Polly,’ he whispered. Lord, had he only just seen her? Seen what was in front of him. ‘I’m—’
‘No.’ The luminous golden eyes pleaded. ‘Don’t apologise. Please, just...just pretend there is a little bit of mistletoe above us.’
Mistletoe? God help them both if he’d had that pagan incentive above him!
He was the rector and Polly had confided in him, turned to him for comfort. He swallowed, brutally aware of aching need. Wanting to cast discretion and propriety, not to mention his vows, to the four winds.
He forced himself to release her and stand up, away from the warmth that was Polly. But his eyes—his eyes remained on her face, lost, and somehow found. Until her gaze fell and scarlet mantled her cheeks.
‘I’ll...I’ll bid you goodnight, sir.’
Polly. Her name lay unspoken on his tongue like honey, as sweet and intimate as her mouth itself.
He swallowed. ‘Miss Woodrowe.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’ll bar the door behind me?’ What the hell would he do if she said no? Refuse to leave until she did?
‘Yes.’
Thank God.
‘Well. Ah, goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
Bonny bounded up from the hearth as he headed to the door. He made a mental note that dogs appeared to be very poor chaperons.
Chapter Five (#ulink_c754efa4-57ec-5548-81e7-7167e1746b48)
As Polly secured the door, she heard his steps retreating, crunching on the frosty street. With a groan, she leaned back against the door, feeling the bar digging into her back. Her heart still raced and her hands trembled.
She hadn’t known a kiss could be like that. Full of wonder and need and delight. She had let Tom kiss her once years ago. He had seemed to enjoy it, but she had thought it horrid. All hot breath and pawing at her breast. This had been quite different. This had been something joyous and right.
Right? What was she thinking? She’d kissed the rector! No doubt there would be a letter dismissing her from her post in the morning. And this time she’d deserve it. Never mind that she’d meant it as a mere peck on the cheek, a...a kiss of gratitude. It somehow hadn’t ended up that way. How on earth had she missed his cheek?
Because you wanted to miss it?
Because some wanton part of her had wanted to kiss him, had wanted to feel his arms strong about her.
Her cheeks burnt. At best he’d think her shockingly forward, at worst a depraved hussy...although he had been kissing her back. With a great deal of enthusiasm. She pushed that aside. In these matters, from Eve’s temptation of Adam on, it was always the woman’s fault. But how did you explain to a man—let alone a man of God—that it had all been a mistake, that you hadn’t really meant to kiss him at all? Or at least not like that. Not like a wanton. Especially when your heart was still pounding and you could still taste him, wine-dark and gentle, in your mouth. When your breasts ached from being pressed against him and your body remembered exactly where those big, careful hands had touched.
* * *
God in heaven!
Was that what St Paul meant about better to marry than burn? He’d always assumed that referred to the fires of hell, of sin. Or perhaps St Paul had truly considered physical love to be sinful.
Alex’s steps crunched through the frost towards the rectory, as his mind spun dizzily. He hadn’t known. Simply hadn’t known that a kiss could be like that. Like...like an explosion, a beginning and ending all in one.
Better to marry than burn...
‘Evening, Rector.’
‘Good evening, Davey.’ He managed a smile for Davey Fletcher. Prayed the blacksmith hadn’t seen which cottage he’d come out of.
‘That Miss Woodrowe’s a right pretty lass,’ said Fletcher cheerfully, patting Bonny as she nudged up to him.
Yes, well. Not all prayers were answered quite as one might like. He knew that.
Fletcher continued. ‘My boy, Caleb, reckons she’s real nice too, the way she manages all them young ’uns. Teaching them their ABCs an’ all.’ He nodded. ‘Good thing for this village, an’ don’t you think we’re not grateful to you and his lordship for doing it.’ He doffed his cap and went on his way, whistling.
Of course, Fletcher probably thought he’d just been discussing the children’s progress with Polly. As he should have been.
Instead, he’d been kissing her. And there was only one possible remedy for that. At least, there was only one remedy for him in this situation.
He’d somehow always expected the decision to marry—and the choice of a bride—to be a rational, logical process, just like everything else he’d done in his life. Naturally his wife would be a woman he liked and esteemed, someone he could be comfortable with. But tumbling head over heels in love?
Oh, he knew people fell in love. He’d watched it happen to Dominic and Pippa. It had not looked logical at all. Although perhaps that was just their confusion. The actual result had been perfectly logical. He’d seen that before they had. But still, he’d never thought that it would happen to him. Not like that. But it had. Like a thunderbolt. He dragged in a breath, steadied his thinking, reaching for the calm inner peace he relied on. Just because he’d fallen in love didn’t mean it wasn’t necessary to at least behave as though he was thinking rationally. More importantly, he needed to behave with honour.
He groaned. Kissing Polly Woodrowe out of her wits was not the action of an honourable man. Not when she had no one to protect her, to guard her reputation, or to advise her.
Of course it would be different if they were betrothed.
Very different.
Kissing her would be quite unexceptionable. As long as he made sure it stopped at kissing. What worried him was that ensuring that it did stop at kissing looked like being a problem. He was a clergyman, for heaven’s sake!
Apparently he was a man before he was a clergyman. A man who wanted a woman. A woman he liked, cared for and respected. Logically, and thank God he was actually being logical again, that could mean only one thing: marriage.
* * *
The next day it was all Polly could do to keep her mind on her pupils and off Alex Martindale. No letter dismissing her had arrived during breakfast, the children all came to school on time and, apart from an awkward moment over Jemmy Willet’s arithmetic, the day passed uneventfully.
Until Alex arrived as the children were leaving.
They filed out, greeting him cheerfully as they passed. Polly listened as he greeted them by name, asking after parents, relatives, little brothers and sisters. He knew these people, she realised. Knew them and cared about them. They were indeed his flock.
And he was probably quite horrified to think that he had placed a wanton hussy in charge of the lambs.
She shut the door behind the children and faced him. ‘Mr Martindale, about last night, I’m—’
‘Yes. Last night. Miss Woodrowe—Polly—will you do me the honour of marrying me?’
Marriage. In the darkness last night, sleepless in her bed, she had allowed her dreams free rein. And had banished them in the chill light of morning. Alex Martindale could not marry a penniless schoolmistress, whose family did not want to know her.
Surely he knew that?
Apparently he didn’t.
* * *
He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but the mere thought of last night had scattered his carefully prepared speech.
‘Marry you?’ She stared at him as if he’d sprouted an extra head, or possibly horns and a tail.
He cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes. I’d like you to marry me.’ Rather understating the case, but—
‘Why?’
Dash it all! Wasn’t it obvious? ‘You can ask that? After yesterday?’
She stared. ‘This is because you kissed me? You feel honour-bound to offer marriage because you kissed me?’
‘No,’ he said at once. ‘I’m asking you to marry me because I want to be able to kiss you and know I don’t have to stop.’ Her jaw dropped and he followed up his advantage at once. ‘And because I want to kiss you again. Right now.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Right now?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re...not.’
‘No. Because I wouldn’t want to stop. And...’ he dragged in a breath, cast discretion, not to mention delicacy, to perdition ‘...because I might not stop.’ Oh, God! Now she knew, knew the truth. And she’d think him depraved.
‘But, sir—’
‘Alex.’ He didn’t want her calling him sir, or Mr Martindale, or anything else but Alex.
She flushed. ‘Alex, then. Don’t you see? I’m no sort of wife for you. I’ve no money. No connections. I would bring you nothing.’
She was biting her lip in a way that made him want to soothe it, kiss away the worry and then bite it himself. Even as the idea of her feeling unworthy infuriated him. ‘I’m perfectly well off and my own connections are more than adequate,’ he pointed out.
‘That’s just it!’ she said. ‘It...it would be most unequal.’
Ah. Here was the rub, then. ‘And would that bother you if our positions were reversed?’ he asked quietly.
‘Not now,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve learnt better. But before? When I was wealthy?’ Her cheeks flamed. ‘Probably, yes.’
Her bone-deep honesty and humility seared him. ‘Your aunt would have set the dogs on me, anyway,’ he said.
She managed a smile. ‘Yes. Warned me that you only wanted my money.’
He snorted. ‘Like your cousin?’
She flushed and guilt lashed him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have reminded you.’
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Not now.’
‘Then do I have your permission to court you?’ he asked.
She blinked. ‘My permission to court me?’
He smiled. ‘Who else should I ask?’
Courting was something a gentleman did to a lady. After asking her father or guardian’s permission. Only her father was dead and she didn’t have a guardian any longer. She had her independence and he had asked her permission.
‘You want to court me?’
‘Yes.’ Alex felt that he was on fairly firm ground here. ‘It’s what a man does when he wants a woman as his wife.’ He’d watched any number of courting couples over the years. Then married them. Rather often the christening was significantly less than nine months later in the village and farming community. He slammed a lid back on that pot of thought at once.
‘What does courting entail?’
Polly’s question had him mentally scrambling. ‘Ah, well, I call on you,’ he said. ‘At respectable hours,’ he added hurriedly. ‘I can bring you small gifts. Flowers in season.’ Please God, by spring they’d be beyond courting.
‘That’s all?’
He blanked out the image of leaving flowers on her pillow. ‘We can walk together.’ That should be safe enough for her. It was far too cold for tumbling maidens in the woods.

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