Page 29 of Snowbound Regency Christmas
THEIR YULETIDE REUNION
Joanna Johnson
For all who would like to stumble across their own Duncan beneath the mistletoe
Chapter One
Fresh snow soaked the hems of Jane Stockwell’s skirts and cloak as she walked slowly back to Great-Aunt Deborah’s now quiet house. Every front door she passed was crowned with a holly wreath, candles glowing in windows and great boughs of frosted greenery wrapped around railings, but no such festive cheer warmed her heavy heart. There was nobody left now to share a cup of mulled wine with or join at the piano for carols, and as she drew closer to the grand house she’d once called home she felt her raw throat contract.
She’d been barely eighteen when her father’s unwise investments had thrown his family into dire financial straits and her life as she’d known it had changed for ever. Keeping all five Stockwell children at home had proven impossibly expensive, and so Jane had been duly dispatched the fifty or so miles from Bristol to Wilton to throw herself on the charity of her wealthy, long-widowed great-aunt.
With only a disappointing and perpetually absent son of her own, Deborah had accepted her nephew’s youngest daughter as her companion and, although it had taken a while for the decided old lady and shy girl to come to understand each other, their relationship had developed into a deep affection nothing could shake. If it hadn’t been for her great-aunt’s kindness in taking her in, Jane had no idea how her family would have survived, and after their closeness for the past six years she could hardly believe the indomitable Deborah Franklin was gone.
The freezing December wind tugged at the black veil concealing her face and she straightened it without breaking her weary stride. At least at the funeral she’d had a legitimate reason to wear the dark lace she never left home without, although there had been only a handful of mourners there to whisper among themselves about Miss Stockwell’s choice to always hide her face. The snow had been falling thick and fast for the best part of a week and the blocked roads meant the town was cut off from the rest of the world, no carriages able to get in or out and the residents trapped in a prison of sparkling white. Great-Aunt Deborah had deserved a far grander send-off than the poor weather and her son’s apathy had allowed, and the thought made Jane’s already dangerously moist eyes prick again as she reached the impressive front door of Maybury Place.
It was warm in the house as she stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind her. A maid appeared to take her sodden cloak and, despite the weight sitting on her chest, Jane was touched to notice that the other woman had pinned a black ribbon to her apron to mark the unhappy day.
‘Some more cards came for you while you were out, ma’am. I’ve put them on the desk in the parlour. I’ve stoked up the fire in there and sent down to the kitchen for some tea. You must be wanting some after the chill of the churchyard.’
‘Thank you, Ellen.’
Jane tried to smile, although of course the maid wouldn’t have been able to see it through the veil even if she’d succeeded. She’d take it off in a moment but only once she was sure she had the tears that still wanted to escape under strict control. ‘I’m sorry you’re having to do the work of three people. I’d hoped my cousin Franklin would have allowed all the staff to stay on when he takes over the house, but sadly that wasn’t to be.’
‘I understand. Mr Franklin must do as he will.’
Ellen would never presume to express what she thought of the new master’s determination to eradicate all traces of the previous owner he’d thought so little of, although there was a suggestion of a downward turn about her mouth. ‘I don’t suppose you know when he might come, ma’am?’
‘I do, in fact.’ Jane’s jaw tightened. ‘He intends to take possession just after Christmas. He told me only a few hours ago, as we stood beside his mother’s grave. He’s been gracious enough to allow me to spend the rest of this week and Christmas Day here, but I must be gone before he arrives on the twenty-seventh.’
The maid’s careful discretion suffered a momentary slip. ‘Forgive me, ma’am, but surely you won’t stay here for Christmas? In this great house, all alone?’
Ellen’s dismay echoed Jane’s own, but all she could do was shrug. ‘I don’t have much choice. The snow has made the roads too dangerous for me to travel back to my family in Bristol. I’ll pass a quiet Christmas in this house…the last one I ever will…and then…’
She broke off. The idea of spending even one more day at Maybury Place without her great-aunt was almost more than she could bear, but what else could she do? She had nowhere else to go, although even if the snow didn’t melt she didn’t trust her second-cousin not to throw her out onto the street regardless.
He’d only bothered to make a single fleeting visit after being told that Deborah was dying and even that had been to inspect the property he was so eager to inherit rather than to provide comfort, his poorly concealed impatience for his own mother’s demise something Jane would never forgive. It was that casual cruelty that had made it necessary for her to make the decision that had spoiled all her hopes of future joy, her fear of what would surely have happened to Deborah if she’d been left alone to her son’s care meaning Jane had been left with only one choice…
‘Excuse me. I think I’ll go to read those cards.’
She turned for the sanctuary of the parlour, determined to reach it before her composure fled completely. All inside was as the maid had said: a hearty fire leapt in the grate, its orange ribbons reflecting off the teapot waiting for her on the table beside the sofa where she sat most evenings, although now, of course, she’d have to do so alone.
A pile of condolence letters and cards sat neatly on the mantelpiece but she didn’t pick them up as she moved closer to the fireplace. Instead, the large mirror hanging on the wall above it showed her veiled figure approach the glass and hesitate before reaching up to unpin the bonnet from her head.
As always, it came as both a relief and a trial to remove the mask of stuffy lace, and she saw her reflection show the same as she pulled the bonnet off entirely and met her own gaze.
She still had the thick chestnut hair she’d often been complimented on and wide-spaced blue-green eyes Great-Aunt Deborah had always said were kind. She could claim a straight nose, a slightly pointed chin and an endearing scattering of freckles—in sum, a countenance she’d had no reason to despair of before fate had intervened.
Jane sighed.
Slightly tilting her chin, she inspected the left side of her face for what must have been the thousandth time. She knew every inch of the scarring splashed across it by now, so there was no reason for her to turn her head to follow its progress into her hairline other than to torture herself more than her grief already did. The carriage accident three years ago had left her with a permanent reminder of the agony she’d felt as broken glass had rained down on her, slicing through her skin and only missing her eye by the scantest hair’s breadth. A ridge of pink bisected her eyebrow, curving down to join the raised welts on her cheek, each scar like an angry island set adrift upon unmarked flesh. They no longer caused any pain but they would never disappear, just as she would never forget the stares that had followed her before she’d taken to wearing a veil every time she set foot outdoors.
Setting her bonnet down on the mantelpiece, she carefully traced a fingertip over the worst of the red streaks coursing across her cheek. It was hardly surprising that children had been wary of her, but she might have expected adults to better attempt to cover their horror. It had made her feel ashamed to see the pity in their eyes, pity that had sometimes bordered on disgust, and she had long since reconciled herself to the fact that no gentleman would ever again look on her with desire. No man would want a wife who couldn’t show her face, she knew without any trace of doubt, and so to remain with Great-Aunt Deborah had been her only path…although now even that single door left open to her had been slammed irreversibly shut.
Her heart felt as though it was folding in on itself, trying to curl up as small as possible to hold the least amount of pain.
No Auntie and certainly no prospect of a husband. There’s nothing to be done but to go back home and try to pick up the pieces of my life there—if such a sad, empty thing can be called a life.
At the very back of her mind, in a shadowy corner she always tried to avoid recognising, something stirred.
