A Midnight Clear

Roxana Winston tied the strings of her chip-straw bonnet under her chin and gave one final look around the attic she shared with her three sisters. She would never return, and she would not miss this cramped and cold space.

Bent over like an old crone to clear the low-hanging thatched roof, she skirted around the straw ticks on the floor and made her way to the ladder that led down to the cottage’s kitchen.

This tiny house had once been the groundskeeper’s residence, but was quite a come-down from Wingate Hall, where the Winston family had lived for the first twelve years of Roxana’s life. Now they could look across the ungroomed lawn and see their family seat, but the hall was let to Mrs. Porter and her so-called “daughters.”

Roxana’s mother stood at the bottom of the ladder. Perpetual worry carved lines in Lady Winston’s forehead and grooves along her mouth. “You will be all right, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, Mother.” Roxana was more worried about the rest of them while she was gone.

Worry was familiar to her. Worries that her father would learn that she was stealing up to Wingate Hall, worries that he would return home and make their life miserable, worries that she could not produce the next meal, and worries that they would not have enough firewood to keep warm were constant companions. She was numb to worry. Yet a herd of horses seemed to have established a racetrack in her stomach. Anticipation and—dare she think it—hope weakened her knees and made her hands shake. In a few minutes she would be free of this place.

Roxana’s sister Katherine turned from where she peeled potatoes, as if she had heard the false bravado in Roxy’s voice. But Katherine was bravely pretending she could manage the household and take over the chores that Roxana managed.

The four potatoes were shriveled, with black spots. Katherine was careful to peel only a narrow layer of skin away. Their food supply dwindled, while spring planting remained a long way away. A month ago a fox had broken into their chicken coop and left only bloody feathers, cracked eggs and scattered straw. These four potatoes would supply the day’s meals.

Roxana had to be successful. If she failed, seventeen-year-old Katherine would be the next sacrificial lamb sent out for slaughter. Katherine would never be able to withstand the pressure. Roxana would never allow that.

“Be good to the duchess. Do not do anything to anger her; you will need her help, if you . . . if you . . . if you are to be successful.” Lady Winston clung to Roxana’s arm with her damaged hand. Two broken fingers had never healed correctly and usually Lady Winston kept the hand tucked out of sight.

“Yes, I know, Mama.” Roxana tugged her mother’s slipping shawl up around her bent shoulders. For a woman of only a certain age, Lady Winston was so beaten down she could have passed for a woman of twice her years. Thank goodness she had retained ties to friends of better times. “I am mindful of the great favor that the Duchess of Trent and her stepson are granting me. I will do nothing beyond show my gratitude.”

Her mother frowned. “Your mouth has gotten the better of you at times. You cannot alienate a potential suitor with your sharp tongue. Your father. . .” Her voice trailed off.

Katherine ducked her head as if their father was present. Roxana’s chin tilted up with her habitual defiance.

“I shall restrain my tendency to speak my mind. In fact, I shall just keep my intelligence safely locked in a box.”

Her mother wore a vague look as if she was not quite sure if her daughter was serious or not. “A husband will expect a sweet and biddable wife.” Her mother leaned close and whispered, “You must fix a man’s affections quickly. You are very pretty, so if you have to . . . no one will doubt . . .” Her mother found herself unable to supply the words for the fallback plan. “It is a good thing you inherited your father’s looks.”

Roxana’s jaw tightened. Her dark hair, blue eyes and evenly matched features had come from her father, but she would have gladly traded them for Katherine’s wispy blond curls, upturned nose and freckles. Anything to look less like the man who had forced them into this poverty.

“You remember what I told you?” asked her mother.

Roxana nodded.

Lady Winston had turned beet red as she explained the contingency plan to her oldest daughter. A party lasting a little over a fortnight was not likely to produce a proposal, yet Roxana needed to garner one. So she had been given instructions that she may get compromised, thereby forcing a proposal or a settlement. A girl of her birth could reasonably expect a proposal.

“I know what I need to do, Mama,” Roxana said. Dissatisfied with her mother’s vague hints and innuendos, she’d asked the more worldly Mrs. Porter for a full explanation and pointers on how to prompt a man to take such a treacherous step. Mrs. Porter’s reluctantly given information had been much more illuminating.

While her mother offered it as a last resort, Roxana, with her more pragmatic nature, thought she’d do better to get compromised. A legitimate marriage proposal was unlikely and the worst thing that could happen. Roxana had other plans. They did not include marriage.

“Yes, do not set your sights on the duke, because he will do everything too correctly. My understanding is he would never . . . breach the bounds of propriety. A younger man is more likely to be swayed by his passions. You will need the duke to demand the proper recompense for you. And do not under any circumstance acknowledge our tenants.”

“Yes, Mother.” Lady Winston had managed to avoid calling Mrs. Porter and her girls by name for the last half-dozen years. Roxana should not even know about their sort of people. She gave her mother a perfunctory kiss on her cheek. “Good-bye, Mama.”

In the parlor that at night doubled as her thirteen-year-old brother’s bedroom, Roxana looked around ascertaining that every scrap of lace and usable button was packed. She no longer noticed the cracked and yellow plaster or the smoky, rattling windowpanes. Her poverty would not be evident in her wardrobe, at least. She closed the trunk in the center of the room. Her brother lifted one side and they carried it out to the waiting pony cart.

“I can ask around in town and get work,” said Jonathon as he lifted the trunk and shoved it into the cart bed.

Roxana’s eyes stung as she considered the idea of the future Baron of Wingate working as a common laborer. “Let me see what I can do, first.”

Her brother threw himself at her, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “It is bad enough that you have had to work as a seamstress. I cannot stand the idea of you marrying just to provide for us. If I were older I could join the army.”

Roxana rubbed her brother’s shoulders. “I like the sewing, and do not fret about my future. This could be the best thing to ever happen to me.”

A thick lump blocked her throat as she hugged each of her sisters.

As she held Katherine she whispered, “The Christmas gifts are tucked under the end of the mattress in the attic.”

Katherine leaned back. “You said we would not exchange gifts this year, that we could not afford it.”

“Yes, well, they are only small gifts, and I am selfish enough that I want you to think of me on Christmas Day when you open them.” Roxana touched her sister’s cheek and smiled even though it was painful and she had much rather cry, but Katherine needed her confidence boosted. “Besides, I am sure I will want for naught at the Trents’ house party. I hardly need any gifts.”

Katherine nodded.

Her heart heavy with not knowing when she would ever see them again, Roxana climbed onto the pony cart. She was to sell it and the rickety old nag in town to have the money to hire a post-chaise and outriders to reach her destination. Roxana had already determined she could ride the mail coach for less, even with paying extra to transport her ancient trunks.

The hope and fear on Katherine’s face, the quivering lip that Jonathon tried to control and the tearful kisses of her two younger sisters made an ache spread under her breastbone. She could not let them down. She would find a way to keep them fed and warm.

Her sisters deserved the chance to make decent marriages and Jonathon should not have to face the prospect of becoming a laborer. Roxana was determined to succeed with her own plans. This was her golden opportunity and her last desperate chance to save her family and herself from this hopeless existence.