Marry Christmas. Jane Goodger

around the beautiful grounds that swept down to the sea.

      “Where are you?” she whispered, writing Henry’s name over and over before crumpling the paper up. It wouldn’t do for a maid to find the revealing paper, then show it to her mother. Henry had said he’d come to visit her. He’d said he’d write. Two weeks had passed since their engagement and she hadn’t heard a thing.

      A quiet knock she recognized as her governess drew her away from her tortured thoughts. One look at Susan’s face and Elizabeth knew immediately that something was horribly wrong. Susan’s eyes were red-rimmed and her nose bright red from crying.

      “Your mother has dismissed me,” Susan said, taking a lace-edged handkerchief and angrily dashing away a tear.

      “But why?” Elizabeth asked, feeling the shock of those words pierce her.

      “She told me I wasn’t needed anymore. That you’d be a married woman soon without need of a governess.”

      It was probably true that Elizabeth, at nineteen, was far too old for a governess, but Susan was more than that and always had been. Susan was one of her dearest friends, the person she trusted most in the world. She was the only one who knew Elizabeth was engaged, who knew she was deeply and forever in love with Henry. Not even her closest friend, Maggie, knew that.

      “I’ll tell you something your mother swore me not to tell, but it doesn’t make any difference now. Not one bit of difference,” Susan said bitterly. “Your young man has been to the house every day for a week and your mother has Swanson send him away.”

      “He has?” Her deep relief that Henry had not forgotten her was immediately followed by the anguish of knowing he’d been sent callously away. And no one had bothered to tell her. The servants’ loyalty to Alva was absolute, for they’d seen too many instances of employees sent to the streets for infractions far smaller than flouting her direct orders. Her maid, the footmen who guarded the doors, even Susan may have given her sad looks, but no one had dared countermand her mother.

      “And he’s written, too. A stack of letters. All burned. I just don’t understand your mother, how she can be so cruel. And now I’m sacked. Just like that.” She looked nervously at the door as if Alva would materialize. “She doesn’t know I’m up here with you, if she did…I have to go, my dear.”

      “No,” Elizabeth said, panic hitting her hard. She could not lose Susan, not now, not when she needed her more than ever. “I’ll talk to my mother. I’ll tell her she can’t fire you. This is impossible.”

      “I have to go,” Susan said, clearly distressed. “You don’t know what she’s capable of. Don’t cross her, Elizabeth.”

      Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face and was suddenly afraid she might actually faint. “What are you saying?”

      “You cannot marry Henry. She’ll do something awful. You didn’t hear what she said to me, how much she’s against your marrying anyone but that duke.”

      Elizabeth shook her head. “But he hasn’t asked yet.”

      “He will,” Susan said woodenly. “I have to go. I don’t want to. You know that.”

      Elizabeth threw herself against the older woman, clutching her as if she were her only hope. “Please, Susan,” she said. “I’ll talk to Mother.”

      Susan pulled away. “I’ll be praying for you.” She headed for the door and Elizabeth suppressed a chill that ran down her spine. She’d never known Susan to pray for anything and wondered precisely what she was trying to protect her from.

      “Where will you go? How can I reach you?”

      “I’ll write,” she said, but her expression told Elizabeth she was probably unlikely to receive the missive.

      “Mark it from my father,” Elizabeth said. “She’d never think to cross him.”

      Susan gave her a small smile, then disappeared through the door.

      Elizabeth paced frantically in her room, wondering if she could sneak out of the house during the night to meet with Henry. She didn’t know where he was, with whom he was staying, or if he was staying at a hotel. Certainly she couldn’t wander about the streets of Newport in the dark calling his name. It was hopeless. Her body throbbed with impotent anger. She had to stop her mother from this madness. She must.

      Elizabeth stormed out her door, ready to finally confront her mother. Alva Cummings was still in her drawing room, diligently working on her correspondence, no doubt giving her regrets for dozens of invitations for her daughter. The thought that her mother had most probably read the letters to her from Henry further incensed her.

      “Mother, you cannot fire Susan. I will not tolerate it,” she said, proud at how forceful she sounded. Her mother didn’t even glance up, made not a single motion that she was even aware her daughter was in the room. Elizabeth refused to repeat herself for she knew her mother heard her. The longer she stood facing the silent woman, the more her power drained away, until desperation began seeping past her newfound strength.

      “Susan is my friend,” she said. “You cannot dismiss her from my life so easily. You cannot.”

      Alva continued scribbling away, but her face was slightly ruddy, which Elizabeth took as a sign of her anger. Good. She didn’t care if she exploded from anger.

      “And I’m not marrying the duke. I cannot because I am already promised to another. Henry and I plan to wed—”

      “You will not,” her mother shouted, standing so abruptly, Elizabeth let out a startled cry. “How dare you make such an agreement without my consent. Or your father’s. You have no right.”

      “We love each other.”

      Alva’s face nearly turned purple. “Have you any idea the sacrifice your father and I have made in order to arrange your marriage to the duke. Do you? Love,” she spat. “Marriage has nothing to do with love. And if you think, my dear, that Henry Ellsworth loves anything more than your money, you are very sadly mistaken. I would never allow you to put this family in such a humiliating position. It will not be tolerated. I would have him murdered before I allowed such a man to ruin my daughter’s life.”

      “Mother, I—”

      “Get out of my sight. You disgust me,” Alva said. Her face was ruddy, but the skin around her lips was stark white. “Get out!”

      Elizabeth hurried away from her mother, down a long hall, and to her room where she threw herself onto her bed. Behind her, the door closed, the obvious result of the efficient footman. Two hours later, when she tried to go down for dinner, she was told by the same man that she was not allowed to leave her room and that her meal would be sent up shortly.

      Elizabeth whirled around, her eyes frantically going to the high windows that were completely inaccessible. It was almost as if Alva had foreseen the future when she so thoughtfully designed her daughter’s oppressive bedroom. It had become her prison.

      The next few days were a nightmare for her. Her meals were brought in by servants who dared not say a word to her. The house seemed abnormally quiet, as if someone had died. Indeed, Elizabeth felt as if she were dying inside. How could she go on when her entire life was over? She longed to see Henry, to explain what was happening, to let him know that she loved him still.

      On the third day of her isolation, the door opened and her mother’s dearest friend, Mrs. William-Smythe walked in. Elizabeth was a mess. She hadn’t changed from her nightgown or bothered to brush her auburn hair, even though it was long past noon. What did it matter what happened now? When she saw Mrs. William-Smythe, she felt a glimmer of hope, for she was always such a warm and reasonable woman.

      “Elizabeth,” she said, her gray eyes taking in her dishabille with slight distaste. “Do you know what you have done to your mother with your callous indifference to her feelings? She has suffered a heart attack, brought on by your ridiculous rebellion. Have you a notion what it means when