Seated near the welcome warmth from the hearth in the small drawing room, Amelia observed the children. While their elders digested Christmas dinner, they sat at a table making gold and silver decorations. Did the children never tire? Supervised by Miss Harrington, they chattered. Occasionally, Amelia heard bullet pudding mentioned, but could they still be hungry?
“What are you thinking?” asked Saunton from his seat opposite her.
“Your sisters have extraordinary appetites if they can eat bullet pudding after a hearty meal.”
Despite his slight smile, why did he look at her with a mixture of incredulity and pity?
From her chair, next to Charlotte’s on Saunton’s right, Hortense tittered.
“Mamma,” Charlotte protested. “Why should Miss Carstairs know what bullet budding is?”
“It is a game which the junior Saunton brigade are eager to take part in. Mamma deplores the mess it entails, but she will permit them to play it as well as Snap Dragon,” Saunton explained.
Amelia shuddered at the idea of raisins soaked in brandy and set on fire. Afraid of burning her fingers she would refuse to participate.
“Miss Carstairs?” Saunton murmured.
How handsome he looked in his black superfine coat, immaculate linen, and black pantaloons.
“Yet again you are lost in thought,” he persisted.
“I beg your pardon. Although I have never played Snap Dragon, I know what it is, but this is the first time I have heard of bullet pudding?”
“It is an essential part of Christmas at Longwood.”
Charlotte waved her hand at him. “Not for me. And I am sure Miss Carstairs would not enjoy it.” She faced Amelia. “Allow me to explain. Saunton will sink a bullet into a bowl filled with flour.”
Amelia raised her eyebrows. “Why?”
“For each player to cut a slice,” Charlotte explained. “Careful not to breathe in any flour, the person who dislodges the bullet must seek for it with nose and chin and try to slip it into his or her mouth.”
Amelia stood. The game would make her look ridiculous. Something she had always feared. She pretended to yawn. “I shall retire.”
“A moment, if you please, Miss Carstairs,” Saunton said. “Please stay, you are neither obliged to hunt for the bullet nor snatch burning raisins.”
She sank back onto her chair calmed by his reassurance.
“After the children go to bed we shall play cards,” Hortense announced. “Saunton.”
“Yes, Mamma?”
“Will you hunt tomorrow or is the snow still too deep?”
“Too deep, but, if possible, I shall enjoy a short ride. With your permission, ma’am, I will ask my sisters to join me.”
“Very well, but don’t forget we must agree on the final arrangements for the duke’s arrival.”
* * *
Dressed in a quilted, chintz banyan and an ankle length linen nightgown, Saunton sat down by the hearth. Firelight cast tall shadows on the walls but did not reach the corners of the cavernous bedchamber. When he took up residence at Longford Place after his father’s demise, he baulked at the idea of sleeping here. His mother and elderly retainers insisted it would be unthinkable for him to occupy any room other than the one tradition allocated to him. He submitted, although he preferred simplicity to ostentation. Every night, with reluctance, he slept in his ancestors’ large, comfortable bed beneath a canopy supported by four intricately carved posts, topped by simpering gilded cherubs he disliked. He never allowed his valet to draw the heavy midnight blue curtains around the bed. By day his responsibilities threatened to suffocate him. By night he refused to be stifled.
“A glass of brandy?” his valet suggested.
He shook his head. “It is late. You may go.”
“Goodnight, sir.” The door closed behind Dawkins.
Saunton lingered on his chair thinking about his unfortunate ward, whose previous circumstances he began to understand. Until she came to Longwood, she never participated in even the simplest Christmas pastimes he and his siblings enjoyed during their childhood. He smiled. This evening, even Mamma had succumbed to persuasion to slice the bullet pudding.
Nostalgia gripped him as he remembered past Christmases when his mother, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, loved all the old-fangled festivities, games and traditions. This evening, while she reminisced until the children went to bed, he caught a glimpse of her in years gone by. He sighed. Neglected by her husband, riddled by debt and worn out by frequent childbirths, few, if any, traces of the vibrant young mother he remembered, remained. Perhaps he could coax her out of the dismals and encourage her to take more interest in and responsibility for his sisters. She should be the one to find out the reason why Cassie entered Satan’s stall without a responsible adult in attendance.
He vowed that when he married he would ensure his wife’s happiness and swore most of his children’s care would not be consigned to nurses, governesses and tutors. Moreover, he would not tread his sire’s path to ruin.
In need of refreshment, he changed his mind about the brandy and poured a glass. Back in his wing chair by the fire, he sipped slowly. What of his ward? Why had Mrs Bettismore deprived Miss Carstairs of friendship with other children? More than anything else Miss Carstairs needed to break free from the old tyrant, whose dictates and opinions still influenced every aspect of her granddaughter’s life.
Saunton crossed the room to the window, where he parted the worn velvet curtain. Good. Unless more snow fell he would see if he could charm Miss Carstairs sufficiently to persuade her to ride with him and his sisters. Their horses would walk along a bridle path protected from the worst of the weather by a canopy of branches overhead.
Hardened to extremes of climate during some years of the long campaign against Napoleon, which began when he was eight-years-old, neither searing heat nor bone-chilling cold daunted him. He banished the memory of narrow mountain passes from which treacherous heights man and rider could tumble to their deaths.
Moonlight glittered on the frozen ornamental lake beyond the lawn shrouded in pristine snow. He wondered if Miss Carstairs knew how to skate. If she did not, he could teach her. What of his sisters? So far as he remembered Charlotte, Margaret and Elizabeth knew how to but doubted the youngest did. If the weather permitted, they could learn.
At a little distance from the house, the candle in the snow ball glowed. Damnation to Missishness and bread and butter manners. He would deconstruct his ward’s self-imposed barriers to ensure she took part in his family’s activities and enjoyed them.
Someone knocked loudly on the door. He opened it.
Charlotte, a paisley shawl wrapped around her linen nightdress, glanced up and down the corridor, obviously hoping she would not be seen.
“What the devil are you doing here at this hour of the night?” he demanded.
She chuckled. “Tut, tut, Mamma would scold you for using bad language.”
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Dash it, Charlotte, it is nearly midnight. You should be asleep in bed.”
She dodged around him. Settled on one of the wing chairs by the fireplace, she reached her hands out to the fire and rubbed them together. “I could have frozen to death on my way here. Lud, what a draughty old place Longwood is. You would do better to allow it to fall into ruins. A comfortable house like the one we lived in with Papa and Mamma before we moved here would suit us better.”
“I will never give up my heritage.”
Charlotte looked around his bedroom. “Good lord, Saunton, why don’t you get rid of that bed. It is a monstrosity.”
“I have slept in much worse on campaign.”
“Those days are over. Even if your pockets are almost to let, there is no reason to live in discomfort.”
“If our mother heard you use any vulgar phrase like pockets to let or worse she would scold you.”
“Shall we agree you will not swear and I shall refrain from vulgarity?” The firelight enhanced the amusement in his sister’s large grey eyes and added a glow to her face. She waved a hand at his bed. “You should get rid of it in case our ancestors’ ghosts give you nightmares.”
Sometimes, he despaired of ever restoring the house but his sister’s suggestion that he should abandon Longwood shocked him. At his insistence Christies auctioned most of its treasures. It saved his father from bankruptcy, which would have resulted in winding up the entail and compulsory sale of the property. He clenched his fists. If he could avoid it, he would never part with an acre of his land.
“I don’t think there are any ghosts at Longwood, but I am sure you did not come here to discuss that.”
“No, I did not. I don’t want to be discourteous but I understand why you terminated your betrothal to Amelia.”
“You are mistaken, Charlotte. When I told her, I expected her to follow the drum, she refused to marry me.”
“Ah, I guessed it you engineered her refusal for you are too much the gentleman to renege on a promise to marry.”
He opened his mouth to speak but she forestalled him.
“Whatever my faults may be, Saunton, I am not a fool. Marriage to a young woman who lacks backbone would not have suited you. No, don’t scowl at me. I shall not tease you with impertinent questions.”
“I am relieved to have been spared them.” When he spoke, he realised Helen, whom he previously hoped to marry, harboured too much backbone beneath her air of tranquillity to have suited him. What of Miss Carstairs? A spineless young lady would not have pretended to need fresh air while he escorted her back to her grandmother after they danced together. He recalled his anger after he led her onto a balcony where she pretended to faint. Like a fool he had caught her in his arms and been discovered in a compromising situation. Faced with Mrs Bettismore’s wrath and a number of interested witnesses, to save Amelia’s reputation, he had asked her to marry him.
“Saunton?”
“Is there anything else you wish to say concerning my ward?”
“Yes, both of us are twenty-years-old so I hoped we would become friends but we have not. Oh, it is difficult to explain. No matter how hard I try to become better acquainted with her, she remains encased in a shell of commonplaces which I cannot penetrate. Although Mamma says Amelia is beautifully-behaved, besides being very wealthy, in my opinion she is a disagreeable guest. She dislikes the games we play at this time of the year and she also dislikes the countryside. Perhaps she might prefer to return to London.”
“Should we ask her?” he asked at his most haughty. “I fear the implication we would prefer her to leave would be, to say the least, uncivil.”
His impulse to defend Amelia took him by surprise. No, he reprimanded himself, he should think of her as Miss Carstairs, not by her Christian name which he did not have the right to use.
Charlotte sighed. “I suppose it is unthinkable to suggest she leave Longwood before twelfth night. But, Saunton, Amelia seems to have no opinions other than her grandmother’s, and if she mentions Mrs Bettismore once more I shall be hard put not to scream.”
Again, his impulse to protect his ward amazed him. For a few moments, he regarded Charlotte in silence. Although eight-years of age separated them, they were very fond of each other. From the day he joined the army she wrote to him every fortnight. At the worst of times, her letters reminded him he fought to protect his country and preserve its ancient laws and privileges.
“Charlotte, please understand my ward is to be pitied.”
His sister raised her eyebrows. “Why?”
He leant forward. “Yes.” He spoke decisively to emphasise his statement. “Her father died prior to her birth and she has never met his family. Her mother died soon after she returned to her grandmother’s house.” He grinned. “I understand why you think you will scream if you hear Mrs Bettismore’s name once more. Nevertheless, please try to understand my ward. The old woman kept her in a proverbial ivory tower, surrounded by luxury, and cut off from the companionship of other children. A prince did not come and ask her to let down her hair so he could climb up it.” He shrugged. “After Am- I mean Miss Carstairs made her curtsey in polite society no dragon could guard its treasure more zealously than Mrs Bettismore guarded her. The woman’s stranglehold on my ward continues after her death.”
“’Pon my word, Saunton, it seems your intention is to play the part of a prince who will rescue Amelia.”
Charlotte’s emphasis on his ward’s Christian name left him in no doubt she had noticed his faux pas. “It is my duty to guide and protect her.”
His sister laughed. “In your old age I hope you will not become an odious prig.” She stood. “Thank you for your explanation of Amelia’s circumstances. I shall renew my efforts for us to become friends. Goodnight.”
Before he could defend himself with the explanation he must act in Miss Carstairs best interests Charlotte left the bedroom.
Could he imagine himself in the role of a knight in armour with a sword in hand prepared to help the innocent? He stood and caught sight of himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. His reflection mocked him. Time to go to sleep. Damn it, Charlotte gave him good advice, he should replace the bed. Saunton shook his head. His sister was perceptive about much more he admitted to himself.
* * *
In the morning, after Amelia finished her bread and butter, and drank hot chocolate she got out of bed and went to the dressing room. “Has the weather improved?”
“A little, Miss,” Blythe replied. “No snow fell during the night. I’ve laid out your black fustian gown and-”
Someone knocked on the door.
Her dresser admitted Charlotte, who wore a royal blue riding habit.
“Good morning, Amelia. Saunton sends his compliments and requests you ride with us before breakfast.”
She pressed her hand over her heart. “Please decline his invitation on my behalf.”
Riding crop held in her gloved hand, Charlotte shook her head. “My brother anticipated your refusal. In his exact words, he asked me to remind you he is your guardian and to inform you he commands your obedience.”
Outraged her breath caught in her throat. Courtesy compelled her to control her anger. “I am not obliged to obey him.”
Charlotte studied a vase of greenery brightened with holly berries. “I fear you must. He said if you do not join him wearing your riding habit he will have you dressed by force and escorted downstairs.”
“Lady Charlotte!” Blythe protested. “I can’t believe-”
“Well, I did not believe him at first,” Charlotte retorted, “but I fear that if he is driven to it my brother is ruthless. Amelia, I shall tell him you will join us in half an hour.”
“Do you think he would use force, Blythe?” Amelia asked, after Charlotte left the dressing room.
“If he tried he’d have me to answer to, but I think you should agree to go riding.”
Half an hour later, booted, attired in a black riding habit and a warm cloak, Amelia joined her guardian, his sisters and Miss Harrington.
“Good morning, my lord,” she addressed him in an ice-cold voice.
“Good morning, Miss Carstairs, your stormy face looks charming. I admire spirited ladies.”
She pressed her lips together to prevent herself from expressing her indignation.
The wretch laughed.
A footman opened the front door. Through it she glimpsed grooms walking horses and ponies.
“My lord, why do you want me to join your…excursion?”
“For the pleasure of your company. Why else?”
“I don’t know.” She clasped her gloved hands tightly together. “Please, Saunton, I am not a skilled horsewoman. I cannot ride in such weather. I might lose my seat and be injured. Why do you want me to take such a risk?”
In an instant Saunton reached her side. A finger tilted up her chin. Dark eyes gazed into hers. “I promise you will be safe with me. With your permission I shall control your horse on a leading rein, but ride you will and, to your surprise, might enjoy it. Trust me.” He stepped back and held out his arm.
Amelia stared at it as though he offered her a foreign object, realised she did trust him, and put the tips of her fingers on it.