One Snowy Regency Christmas. Sarah Mallory

a silk waistcoat.’ He darkened again, as suddenly as he had brightened. ‘A silk waistcoat made by hands that slaved for pennies so that he might ride high and mighty like a prince.’ His eyes lit at the sound of his own words. ‘I must write this down. It will be the basis of my next speech.’

      ‘You do that, Father.’ Barbara hurried to the little desk in the corner, setting out paper, uncapping the ink and trimming the nib of the pen. Then she pulled out his chair and took time to settle him there. It seemed to give him comfort, for he sat down and began writing industriously, staring out of the window before him into the sleet-streaked sky as though the next words were written on it and he could pluck them from the air.

      ‘Come into the kitchen, Barbara. Let us see what you have brought back from the market.’ Her mother turned quickly, but not before Barbara could see the trembling of her lip that was the beginning of tears.

      ‘A moment, Mama.’ She hurried to the sewing basket, to conceal her mother’s Christmas gift. Then she followed her out of the room.

      By the time she had reached her in the kitchen her mother was more composed, though clearly worried.

      ‘What are we to do, Mama?’ she whispered. ‘He is like this more and more.’

      ‘There is little for us to do. There is no changing him.’ Her mother gave a brief, bitter laugh. ‘He changes often enough on his own. Like the tides, he goes to extremes at both ends.’

      If he continued thus there would be no chance of him returning to employment, and they would end their days living off the dwindling inheritance her mother had received from her own family. Barbara thought of the pennies in her purse again, and gave quiet thanks to Mr Stratford. Even if he was the devil, he had saved her the bother of a wet walk.

      Her mother seemed to be thinking of him as well. ‘Tell me about this Christmas invitation you have received. It does seem to be a lone bright spot in the day.’

      ‘I told him it was improper,’ Barbara said, frowning. ‘For I did not think Father would approve.’

      ‘Your father is lucky to remember from one minute to the next why he hates the man. We will tell him that you are gone to see Mary. For if there are gentlemen there, as he said …’ Her mother was thinking forward, hoping for a bright future in which a wealthy stranger would appear with an offer and solve all their problems.

      ‘But I refused,’ Barbara said, dashing her hopes.

      ‘Oh,’ said her mother, properly disappointed.

      ‘He offered again—including the family. When I told him that there was no way Father could manage such a gathering, he offered a selection of books as Christmas gifts—to keep him home and quiet over the holiday. He said he would send something written, so that I would know he spoke with sincerity.’

      ‘A written invitation to the manor?’ Her mother positively glowed with the prospect.

      ‘I doubt he will remember,’ Barbara said hurriedly. ‘I am sure it was said only in passing, to make conversation. It was just an effort to be social.’

      ‘A most curious effort, then.’ Her mother was looking closely at her, trying to determine what she might be concealing. ‘He has made no attempts at civility to the rest of the village. And yet he singles you out. A gentleman would know better than to make promises he cannot keep—especially when he is courting another.’

      ‘One can hardly call him a gentleman, Mother. He is in trade. He admitted to me that he was a weaver’s son.’

      ‘Really?’ Her mother’s eyebrows arched. ‘You speak like your father, my dear. It is idealistic to set men of business firmly below us and to act as though birth is all. Perhaps realism would be a better path, considering our circumstances. It is possible to be a gentleman and poor as a church mouse, while the weaver’s son dines and dances in a manor. The world is changing. While we might not approve of all the changes, we must make the best of them. Let us hope that Mr Stratford is as good as his word.’

      And his offer proved true. A short time later, while her father still pondered his latest diatribe, there was a knock on the door. Outside, the same coach that had deposited her waited for the liveried servant who held a properly sealed and decorated invitation and a package of books.

      Before her father could say otherwise, her mother had snatched it from the poor man’s hand and instructed him to wait upon the response. Then she pushed her husband’s work aside and reached for paper and pen.

      ‘As usual, Satan sends his handmaidens in fine garments to tempt the unwary,’ her father barked.

      The footman looked rather alarmed and peered behind him, unaware that he was the handmaiden in question.

      ‘Nonsense, dear. It is an invitation to the manor. Nothing more. It can do us no harm to accept, surely?’

      ‘Well, then.’ Her father beamed. Then he waved a hand at the man who waited. ‘My regards to Lord Clairemont, his wife and his daughters. Tell them to be wary, just as they are merry.’ Then he opened the first of the books and immediately forgot the source of his discomfiture.

      The man gave a hesitant nod, and waited upon the hurriedly scribbled response from her mother before returning to the carriage.

      Mother and daughter returned to the kitchen.

      ‘You cannot mean for us to go, Mama,’ Barbara whispered. ‘Look at Father. There is no way for us to keep the pretence that it will be as it was. And no way to predict, once he is there, what he will say in front of Mr Stratford and his guests. It would be better if we refused politely and stayed home.’

      ‘It would be better if your father and I stayed away. But there is no reason why you cannot go,’ her mother said firmly. ‘While I like dinner and a ball as well as the next person, I am content to sit here with your father and allow you to get the benefit of an invitation. He said there might be gentlemen?’

      ‘Friends from London.’

      ‘Stratford means to marry Anne. She and her parents will be there to recommend and chaperone you. I am sure, if you wrote to her, she would offer you a space in their carriage so that you needn’t walk to the manor.’

      ‘That was what Mr Stratford suggested as well. He said he would speak to them. But I do not think they would like it very much. Perhaps there is another way.’ Although Barbara could think of none.

      ‘I will not let you walk to the manor in dancing slippers. Nor will I allow you to refuse this invitation,’ her mother said, giving her a stern look. ‘I will write to the Clairemonts about it. I will choose my words with care. Perhaps, after six years, you should not blame yourself for something that was no fault of your own, and they should find it in their hearts to forgive you.’

      It was not nearly enough time, Barbara was sure. It had been just this morning that she’d met Lady Clairemont walking down the street and seen the way the lady looked sharply in her direction, and then through her. ‘Please, Mother, do not.’

      ‘There is no other way. This is an opportunity that you dare not turn down. If there were other suitable men anywhere in the area I might think twice. But if there is a chance of a match amongst Mr Stratford’s guests we must seek it out for you. One of your old gowns will have to do. But we can trim it up with the lace you bought this morning and I am sure it will look quite nice.’

      ‘Mother!’ Despite her best efforts, her mother had seen into the shopping basket. ‘That was intended as a gift.’

      ‘For someone who has less need of it than you,’ her mother said, laying a hand on hers, ‘it would do my heart good to know that you are out in society again—even if it is only for a day or two. I will write the letters, and then we will see what can be done with the gown. You must go where you are invited, Barbara, and dance as though your future depended on it. For it very well might.’