Page 33 of Snowbound Regency Christmas
His stomach clenched. As much as he wanted to spare himself the suffering he’d have to endure if she came to stay with them, abandoning her to a Christmas of lonely grief was far worse. Even now, long years since she had rejected his proposal and unwittingly sentenced him to a life spent alone, he still valued her wellbeing above his own, and to cut her off to spare his unrequited feelings wasn’t something he could bring himself to do.
He realised he was frowning and stopped quickly before his mother could notice. It would be selfish for himnotto ask Jane to join them…but would it also be selfish if he wanted her to accept, which some masochistic but undeniable part of him certainly did? He was torn: there was no good outcome whichever way he turned; no way in which he could entirely stop the past from following him into the present, and as he was doomed, no matter what he did, he supposed he ought to do what was right.
‘I’ve no objection, Mother. This is your house. Who you invite into it is entirely up to you.’
‘Excellent.’ Mrs Fitzjames nodded briskly, still pale beneath her cap but a little of her usual animation returned. ‘If you’ve finished spilling coffee all over my tablecloth, perhaps you’d be good enough to call on Miss Stockwell.’
‘Of course.’ Duncan tried to smile, although he feared his face was too rigid for it to be particularly convincing. ‘Being your errand boy was something I enjoyed so much the first time. Why not again?’
A criss-cross trail of footprints followed Jane as she walked another lap of Maybury Place’s snow-covered garden. Her feet were beginning to get damp but she hardly noticed, too distracted to pay attention to anything so trivial.
His hair’s longer now. There are a couple more lines on his forehead, and he didn’t look quite so careworn last time we met.
A wet branch brushed her bare cheek, making her shiver. She wasn’t wearing a veil in the privacy of the garden and under other circumstances she might have enjoyed feeling the cold air on her skin. Today, however, she had far more important things to think about: every tiny detail of Duncan’s appearance was seared into her brain, flickering through it as she walked, and although the first flush of shock had subsided, that didn’t mean her mind was at ease as it replayed the moment of finding him standing on her doorstep once again.
He was as handsome as ever, she’d noted the first instant she’d realised it was him on the other side of the door, her mute amazement mingling with an instinctive thrill. No other man had such broad shoulders or intelligent brown eyes, or a mouth that was so expressive even when closed. The years had only changed him the smallest degree—which was more than she could say for herself.
A familiar sense of shame curdled within her. What must he have thought when she’d opened the door with her face enveloped in black lace? He must have known why she was veiled—probably his mother had mentioned it, she and Great-Aunt Deborah having been such friends—and she shrank from the knowledge that he would have wondered what lay beneath. Her ruined countenance was no longer the one he’d professed such admiration for, or even loved, before she’d been forced to turn him away…
‘Don’t think about that,’ she rebuked herself harshly, her voice as sharp as the icicles that hung from the windowsills, but it was already too late.
She could still remember every moment of their first meeting—one far more magical and filled with hope than their last—and although it made her mouth twist with pain, she couldn’t help but recall how butterflies had erupted in her stomach when he had smiled at her from across his mother’s parlour. He’d asked to be introduced and she had been delighted to spend the rest of the card party at the same table as the dashing lieutenant, her heart beating so quickly she’d half expected to faint. Duncan had been so interested in everything she’d had to say, asking questions and making her laugh until she was sure she’d never encountered a more charming man in her life, an opinion that had deepened over the next six months into a love she’d fully expected to take to her grave.
‘But I couldn’t marry him.’ This time her voice was quieter, much of its strength lost to unhappiness and regret. ‘I couldn’t leave Auntie all alone. She was already so unwell, and if I’d gone to Southampton with Duncan instead of staying here to ensure she was looked after, Cousin Franklin would have deliberately let her fade away.’
Her numb hands curled into fists, anger suddenly licking at her like an open flame.
Franklin hadn’t even tried to hide his disdain that day she’d met him, quite by chance, as she’d returned from walking in the park. Deborah had been having one of the bad spells that so often plagued her and so opted to stay at home, and her son’s reaction upon being told of his mother’s current discomfort had sickened Jane to her core.
‘Ill, but still persevering, I see. I can’t help but think your company must be the only thing keeping her alive.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It’s hardly a compliment. I can’t say I approve of the older generations insisting on lingering over their fortunes while others are waiting to inherit. There’s something so undignified about making themselves a constant nuisance when they ought to stand aside.’
‘By stand aside…you can’t mean die? You wouldn’t wish for your own mother…?’
‘It’s the way of the world, Jane. She’s had a good life. It’s about time I had my turn, rather than this continuous throwing away of money on doctors that only keep her clinging on. I’ve half a mind to put a stop to her seeing them altogether.’
The memory of that fateful conversation was no less revolting even after the passing of three years and still it made her lip curl as she trudged across the frozen grass. What kind of man openly confessed his desire for the death of his mother, just so he could possess her wealth? In that moment the scales had fallen from her eyes: she couldn’t leave Deborah undefended, not once she’d realised the depth of Franklin’s contempt and neglectful intentions. After everything her great-aunt had done for her, taking her in when her family had been in distress, there was no way she could have abandoned Auntie to such malice, although the price for her devotion had turned out to be higher than she ever could have known.
Jane’s face crumpled. Of all her regrets, not being able to tell Duncan the real reason she had rejected him was the biggest. Great-Aunt Deborah would have been horrified to learn Jane had refused him on her account, but it had been the only thing to do. The old lady would have suffered otherwise, her own son caring for nothing but the inheritance he valued far more than his ailing mother, and although it had crushed Jane’s heart into dust to let Duncan slip away without a proper explanation, she’d refused to take the selfish path.
He’s probably glad I let him go. I can’t imagine any man wanting to be tied to me now.
The thought was devastating and yet she couldn’t deny its accuracy. Duncan must have celebrated his good fortune in escaping now he had seen her again, relieved to have been spared a wife he could take so little pride in. He was free to choose another woman with whom he wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen, and although his solitary presence at his mother’s house for Christmas suggested he hadn’t yet wed, Jane was sure he couldn’t be alone for long.
She stumbled slightly, blaming the snow but knowing it was really despair that made each step an effort. After three years apart, Duncan was unexpectedly within arm’s reach, yet as untouchable as if he’d still been at sea. The desire to see him again was suffocatingly strong…but wouldn’t she just be hurting herself if she sought him out, causing herself even more grief on top of what Deborah’s death had already heaped upon her like a heavy mound of earth?
She only realised she was crying when the tears made her cheeks feel cold. The house loomed over her as she trailed across the garden, now a forlorn, empty shell of the home it had been when her great-aunt was alive, and all of a sudden the idea of going back inside it filled her with dread.
Now they’d begun, it seemed the tears didn’t want to stop. They made her throat ache, the freezing air joining forces with them to make it difficult to breathe, and it was only the sound of boots crunching through the snow behind her that helped to stem the flow.
Hurriedly wiping her face with the flat of her palm, she turned around. ‘Yes, Ellen? Was there something—’
The rest of her sentence died in her mouth.
‘My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.’
