The Earl’s Mistletoe Bride

Chapter Fifteen

From her place near the centre of the drawing room, Beth let her gaze travel round, counting heads. It was almost six. Nearly all the guests were assembled for dinner. Only the Berncastles were not yet down. For the first few evenings, they had been just a small party and conversation had been rather difficult. But tonight there would be twenty people sitting down to dinner. With so many guests, they should make a merry party, surely? And better still once the Reverend and Mrs Aubrey finally arrived.

Beth was trying to avoid looking up at the chandelier in the middle of the room and the large sprig of mistletoe that hung there. It seemed to draw her eye, even while it horrified her. It was full of sinister pearl-white berries. Their pallor was waxy, like the skin of a corpse. The very sight of them made her feel nauseous, and strangely guilty. But why should she feel guilty at the sight of mistletoe? What did it mean?

She shivered a little and backed away a step, straight into a man’s arms. She knew immediately, without turning, that this was not Jon. This man’s touch, and his scent, were repellent.

The man was not about to let Beth go. ‘A kiss under the mistletoe, sister,’ he cried gleefully, pulling her under the chandelier. It was George, of course, Jon’s disreputable brother. Beth tried to slide out from his embrace without seeming to struggle, but it was useless. He was quite determined on his prize. His mouth descended on Beth’s, his lips thick and wet. Where Jon’s every touch was wonderful, George revolted her.

She began to struggle in earnest, but George was holding her so tightly that she could not even pull her mouth away from his. Then his tongue tried to force its way between her lips. She clamped her jaws and teeth together as tightly as she could. She would not allow this…this beastly invasion.

At last, defeated, he let her go.

‘A great institution, mistletoe,’ he said with a lascivious grin. ‘Gives a man-and a gel-a chance to see what they have been missing.’

Beth could not suppress a shudder.

‘I think you should perhaps ensure your partner is willing before you indulge in such activity, brother.’

Beth whirled round. Jon was standing in the doorway. He was white with anger. For once, he had ignored the presence of the other guests. He was challenging George directly.

But George was not in the least put out by Jon’s rebuke. He casually reached up to pluck a berry from the sprig of mistletoe. ‘Plenty more where that came from, eh, sister? And plenty more kisses for us both to enjoy, too, I’d say.’ He dropped his voice to murmur in Beth’s ear. ‘You don’t want to give ’em all to my prude of a brother, you know, m’dear.’

Beth gasped.

Ignoring her reaction, George turned to face Jon. ‘The ladies will have kisses a-plenty, for I have rarely seen mistletoe with quite so many berries. It is an invitation to Christmas mischief, and merriment for all.’

For a moment, Beth fancied that Jon was going to plant his brother a facer. There was a stunned silence in the room. But then Miss Rothbury broke it, stepping under the chandelier and reaching up to pluck mistletoe berries, one after another, counting them into her hand. ‘Look, Mama.’ She beckoned to Lady Rothbury who was standing by the fire, slack-jawed in astonishment. ‘They are just like jewels. I do like jewels so much, don’t I?’

Her mother rushed forward to grab her daughter’s hands and hold them still. ‘Enough, my dear, enough. The berries are to be picked one at a time, one for each kiss. And when they have all been picked, there can be no more kissing under the mistletoe. That is the tradition, you know.’

‘I may not pick them?’ Miss Rothbury sounded like a small child, deprived of a favourite toy.

Beth stepped forward to join the pair. ‘I am sure we can find plenty more sprigs of mistletoe if you like them,’ she said gently. ‘Shall we put a sprig in your bedchamber?’

Miss Rothbury’s beaming smile was all the answer Beth needed. She nodded to the butler, standing impassively just inside the door. Goodrite would see to it. For now, Beth needed to distract her guests from these odd happenings until dinner should be announced. She sensed Jon’s large, reassuring presence only a few paces behind her. Yes, she could do this.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, shall we decide now on what we wish to do after dinner? Since it is Christmas, his lordship-’ she nodded towards Jon ‘-has a predictable fancy for telling ghost stories, but we would be happy to accept more energetic suggestions. Charades, perhaps?’

With a feeling of relief, Beth shepherded the ladies along the corridor to the drawing room. The dinner had gone remarkably well, helped by Jon’s excellent and plentiful wine. One or two of the older ladies were swaying a little and would probably soon be asleep in their chairs. No matter. The younger ones could play games at one end of the room while the older ones dozed.

How long would it be before the gentlemen joined them? Beth rather hoped they would not play charades after all, for drunken gentlemen could be difficult during such games. George had been downing bumper after bumper. That kiss under the mistletoe had been bad enough. What might he do now?

She told herself that Jon would ensure his brother behaved. If necessary, Jon would throw him out until he had sobered up. At least, she hoped he would.

When Beth entered the drawing room, she saw that Mrs Berncastle was holding forth from the centre of the room. She too had taken rather a lot of wine. She was not drunk, of course. No lady was ever drunk. But she had certainly become more and more talkative and uninhibited as the evening wore on. Some of her earthy comments had put Beth to the blush.

At Mrs Berncastle’s side, Miss Rothbury was giggling, pointing up at the chandelier. Beth tried to ignore them and especially the mistletoe she so dreaded. Surely Goodrite would bring in the tea tray soon?

‘Mistletoe is lovely,’ Miss Rothbury crooned. ‘The berries are just like the finest pearls, don’t you think, ma’am?’

For a moment, Mrs Berncastle looked thunderstruck. ‘Mistletoe! Of course, that was it!’ She spun round and pointed accusingly at Beth. Her arm wavered slightly, but her voice was steady enough and full of outrage. ‘I knew you were familiar! I recognise you now. Under all that finery, you are nothing but a dirty little thief! You are that Clifford woman, who was companion to my great-aunt Marchmont. You stole her priceless mistletoe jewels, and then you fled the county to avoid being hauled off to gaol and hanged, as you deserved.’

Beth stood like a statue, transfixed by that accusing finger. Clifford! The name pounded in her brain. The barrier cracked. Her name was Clifford. Of course it was.

The room and everyone in it seemed to melt into a hazy, indistinct blur. She felt she was floating, revolving in a cloying mist. It was a mist of memories, and guilt, and unbelievable pain. A moment later, the mist dissolved as if drenched by a shower of sheeting rain.

She remembered it all now, every last mortifying moment of it. She could feel the shivers convulsing her body as if she were still ploughing on through that freezing, howling gale. She closed her eyes for a second, but when she opened them again, nothing had changed. She was still freezing, still shivering. And the house guests were still staring at her as if she had sprouted devil’s horns.

Near the open doorway, Jon stood frozen, his face ashen. He must have heard it all. He had learned he was married to a thief, and the revelation had shocked him to the core. Such an honourable man would surely never touch her again. Beth could not blame him. She was to be an outcast. All over again.

Pain engulfed her. The familiar tunnel began to close in. She picked up her skirts and fled from the room while she could still see.

The headache had lessened but Beth had not slept.

She swung her bare feet to the floor and crept across to the window to peep out. Still much too dark. In half an hour or so, perhaps. At least she would not have to climb out of the window this time, as she had done from old Lady Marchmont’s house. This time, the key was on Beth’s side of the locked door. For the moment, she was still in control of her life.

She returned to the bed, checking yet again that everything was ready. She had laid out her simplest, warmest clothes. Her stout boots were on the floor alongside. And her little valise contained the few essentials she would need. She could dress in these clothes without Hetty’s help, and she would be gone long before anyone in the house was aware of it. Hetty would mourn, of course, and not only for the loss of her place. The girl had tried so hard to help and console Beth last night, even though she had not understood the cause. She would understand everything by now. The news of the mistress’s disgrace must have spread like wildfire below stairs.

And Jon? What was Jon thinking?

It had been cowardly to lock him out of her bedchamber, to refuse to see him or speak to him. But truly, Beth had been unable to bear the thought of it. Jon had been plainly horrified to learn that his wife was a fugitive from the law. By now, his horror would have turned to disgust, perhaps even hate. Beth knew she could not remove the slur from her name. Nor could she undo their marriage. The most she could offer him was her absence, in hopes that, eventually, the scandal would die down and the gossips would leave him in peace. He would remain bound to her, however, and the brother he distrusted would be his heir. He would blame Beth for that. Rightly. She was guilty of so much.

But she had not known! She would never have married him if she had known the truth of her own past! She had tried so hard to warn him, but he had refused to listen. He had been so sure that the rank he offered was enough.

She dropped her head into her hands, but the cold metal of her wedding ring jarred accusingly against her skin. Why was she wearing it? She was taking almost nothing that Jon had given her. Her fine clothes remained in the dressing room, and her jewels were in their cases. He would have no cause to reproach her there. She would take a little money, but only just enough for her journey. Her wedding ring, however…

She turned it on her finger. Last night, she had taken it off and laid it aside, but then she had put it on again. She had told herself that, if she was claiming to be a poor widow, she would need a wedding ring to prove her status to the world. But of course that was not the whole truth.

She twisted it off once more and laid it by the letter she had written to him. She had asked him not to follow her. But why should he want to, after all she had done? More likely that he would be glad to be rid of her.

There was no time now to start composing another letter. This one had taken hours, and many tears. With a sigh, she picked up the ring and slipped it back on to her finger. She could not leave it behind. It was the only thing she would have from him.

Time to dress now. Soon, it would be time for her to go.

‘Could you please cease this pacing, Jon? You are making my head spin.’

Jon sank on to the end of her chaise longue. ‘I am sorry, Mama, but I have to talk to someone about all this, and there is no one else but you. Beth has locked herself in her bedchamber. She refuses to admit anyone. I have been pacing my own floor for hours and it is driving me to distraction. I cannot think straight.’

His mother sighed. ‘You saw what happened, my dear. We all did. Beth fled from her accuser, without saying a word in her own defence. That had all the appearance of guilt.’

Jon ground his teeth. He had come to ask his mother’s help for Beth, not to hear yet more condemnation. He believed-no, he was certain-that his wife was innocent and good, but everything was so confused that he was incapable of working out how to defend her. ‘Mama, I-’

‘In the end, it may be for the best,’ his mother continued quietly. ‘Indeed, you would be better off without her, were it not for the child. You could-’

‘What do you mean child, ma’am?’

‘There is no need to play the innocent with me, Jon. I know that she is breeding, and I know that she used it to entrap you into marriage. It is a sorry business, and if the child should prove to be a girl after all…’

For a moment, Jon was struck dumb. Then he began to laugh. He laughed until his whole body was wracked with pain. His mother looked by turns indignant and then hurt. Jon ignored her. At last, when the pain became too much, he dropped his head into his hands. His laughter cracked and stopped dead.

Jon felt the brush of his mother’s silken wrapper against his leg. Her soft hand reached out to cover one of his. ‘Jon?’ Her voice was low, the thread of worry clear. ‘I do not understand. It is as if you were bewitched.’

Jon flung himself to his feet and began to pace again. He could not endure her touch. There was only one touch he needed now.

‘Jon?’

He stopped abruptly and turned to face her, planting his feet firmly and his fists on his hips. ‘You are wrong, ma’am. You could not be more wrong. You tell me that Beth is breeding, that she seduced me into marriage.’ He gave one last shout of bitter laughter. ‘If only you knew the lengths I had to go to, in order to persuade her to accept me.’

‘I do not understand.’ Her usual confidence seemed to have left her.

‘Beth did not entrap me into marriage, Mama. What made you think such a thing? It seems you have a very low opinion of my character.’

‘I am sorry, Jon. All the physical signs pointed to pregnancy-her tiredness, her sickness. Miss Mountjoy was quite sure of it.’

Jon clamped his jaws together. Miss Mountjoy again! But she was dealt with. He would not lecture his mother about her now.

‘And the fact that you, who are so very conscious of your position in society, should have rushed into marriage with a woman with no name and no family… How else could I explain it, but by your need for a legitimate heir?’ When Jon did not reply, she swallowed hard and added, in a small voice, ‘I have tried to like her, Jon, but I found it impossible to overcome my disgust of what she had done to you. Except that now you tell me it was not so?’

‘No, Mama, it was not so. She refused me.’ The Dowager frowned up at him. ‘Twice,’ Jon added, with deliberate emphasis. ‘And when she was finally persuaded to accept me, she added onerous conditions that I had to fulfil. If there was entrapment, ma’am, it was my doing, not Beth’s.’

The Dowager let out a long breath. ‘Then she is not breeding?’

‘She was certainly not breeding when I took her to the altar, ma’am,’ he responded stiffly. ‘The symptoms you mentioned are a great embarrassment to her. She feels-felt guilty about her missing past. That, and open hostility, can bring on the headache. Sometimes, she can barely see, and she has to take to her bed. That, not the guilt you thought you saw, is why she fled. I am sure of it.’ He held his mother’s gaze for a moment before turning away to stare out of the window.

‘Your ladyship!’ The Dowager’s dresser rushed into the room without knocking, followed closely by Hetty. ‘Miss Martin says-!’

The Dowager’s gasp of outrage was drowned by Hetty’s anguished cry. ‘She has gone, my lord! In the dark! She will die out there, my lord!’

Jon spun round. He ignored the tears coursing down the girl’s pale face. ‘How long ago did she leave? Where is she going? Tell me what you know, Hetty. Quickly now.’

The girl seemed bewildered, and Jon’s barked questions were not helping. He would have to coax the information out of her. He forced himself to curb his impatience and ask one careful question at a time. Her mistress, Hetty offered at last, must have fled at some time during the night. She had taken only a small valise. She had left everything else behind-clothes, jewels, money, everything. And a letter.

Jon dismissed the two servants with a stern warning about discretion. Without even a glance at his mother, he turned his back and tore open the letter. It was barely three lines. She was leaving him in order to purge the stain on his honour; she would never return; and Jon should not try to seek her out. That was all. There was not a word about her guilt or innocence.

He crumpled the sheet in his fist and stared out into the darkness. There was no moon, but the sky was clear. It wanted more than an hour till sunrise and, even then, it would still be exceedingly cold. Beth was alone, somewhere, fleeing in order to protect Jon’s honour. She had nothing, and no one, to protect her. She might freeze to death out there, without ever knowing how much Jon loved her.

The realisation shuddered through him. What a fool he was! What an arrogant fool! He had been in love with her almost from the first, but he had convinced himself that she was simply a friend, a restful companion, a willing participant in their mutual passion. Because of Jon’s failings, she might die, out there in the dark. Alone.

He groaned aloud. A red-hot blade was twisting in his gut. He deserved every shred of the pain that knifed through him.

A gentle hand touched his upper arm. ‘Jon? What is it, my dear?’

‘I love her. And I have driven her away.’ The words were torn out of him against his will, as if they had a power all their own. In that moment, staring vacantly into the far distance, Jon understood that he loved Beth more than life itself. If he did not find her, if he did not bring her back, warm and alive, his own life would be worthless.

He glanced down at his mother. He wanted to shake off her restraining hand, to berate her for the mischief she had done. But one look at the pain in her face chased all those angry notions from his mind.

She stroked her fingers gently down his arm and dropped her hand to her side. ‘Will you go after her?’ When he nodded, she said crisply, ‘Let me deal with your guests. And with everything else here. What matters is that you should bring your wife-your Beth-back safely.’ She was trying to smile encouragingly.

Jon’s mind was tumbling, racing, planning for action. ‘Make sure that none of the guests leaves while I am gone, Mama. And no letters, either. There must be no scandal-mongering. As for this wicked accusation against Beth, I will deal with it when we return. In the meantime, let no one know we are gone.’

His mother nodded. ‘If I may be allowed just one word of advice before you go…’

Jon pulled himself up very erect and frowned forbiddingly. He did not want any advice from his mother. Her coldness and hostility had led Beth to believe she was friendless in this house.

His mother’s eyes were glistening. ‘When you find her, tell her that you love her,’ she said hoarsely. ‘It will make you vulnerable, like baring your breast to the sword and saying “Strike here”. But love cannot be demanded, it can only be offered. If you want to win Beth’s love, you will have to risk your own.’

Jon was shocked into immobility. His own mother, the starched-up Dowager Countess of Portbury, believed in love?

She laid her hand on his arm once more. This time, she pushed him towards the door. ‘Please bring her back, Jon.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘When you do, I promise that I will welcome her as the daughter I never had.’

Jon needed no urging. He already knew he had not a second to spare. He must ride out after Beth, the woman he loved. He must bring her home.

It was cold. So very cold.

Beth bent her body into the wind and trudged on. This time, there was no sheeting rain to soak her. This time she was more warmly clad, and better shod. And this time there would be no knight in shining armour to rescue her from the beckoning darkness.

There must be no rescue at all. Jon was noble enough to come after her, but he must not find her. He would expect her to walk the eight miles to Broughton to board the coach for the first stage of her journey. He would assume that she was making for Fratcombe. He would be wrong.

In truth, she had no idea where she should go, except that it must not be Fratcombe. The Aubreys could not be asked to harbour a thief. Besides, they would be bound tell Jon where she was. No, she must go somewhere she was not known. Bristol, perhaps, or even Cornwall.

The wind was whipping at her skirts. Did she dare to follow the second part of her plan? To her left was the long flat road that would bring her, eventually, to Broughton and the coach office. To her right was the two mile path up over the moor. There was light enough now for her to see her way. And no one would think to look for a countess there.

Beth’s little valise had been getting heavier. She transferred it from one hand to the other and began to climb the lonely path. The slope was easy enough, at first, though the air swirling around her seemed to become colder with every step she took. She continued doggedly. She could endure worse than this. Before Fratcombe, her life had been very hard. As Lady Marchmont’s companion, she had been no better than a menial, wearing cast-off shoes and gowns that even Jon’s servants would have rejected. Lady Marchmont was exceedingly rich, but her household lived like paupers while she hoarded her money and her jewels. Especially her jewels. That mistletoe clasp-intricate, heavy gold for the stems and leaves, and berries made of priceless pearls-had been the old witch’s pride and joy. Until the day it vanished.

Lady Marchmont’s maid had claimed to have seen Beth sneaking into the mistress’s bedchamber. On such flimsy evidence from a jealous servant, Beth had been pronounced guilty by Lady Marchmont and all her guests. Including the Berncastles. If Beth had not climbed out of that locked room, she would probably have ended up on the gallows.

The path seemed to stretch for ever, steeper than she recalled. No matter. It was only the first of many challenges she would have to face. At least the wind seemed to have dropped. It was no longer cutting through her cloak and biting at her skin. She tried to smile up at the sky. She would cling on to her innocence, and to her love for Jon. She was doing this for him. She would cherish the memories of their times together, of how he had held her, and kissed her, and loved her. Nothing could deprive her of those.

She plodded on with even greater determination, clutching the memory of him like a talisman. She might find another village that needed a schoolmistress. She would be Mrs Clifford, the poor widow of an army captain tragically killed in the French wars. There were many such. One more would not be noticed.

She was shivering again. It was not the wind this time, but cold, penetrating damp. She glanced up at the sky. Was it starting to rain?

She could not tell. She could not see the sky. Suddenly, there was ghostly grey mist swirling all around her. It had come out of nothing. But it hid everything. She could see barely a yard in front of her feet.

She refused to allow herself to panic. She had no cause. The path over the moors was straight enough. She had only to keep going and she would soon reach Broughton. She must not allow herself to be afraid.

She stretched her free hand out in front of her, just in case there might be some obstacle in the path, and continued to walk into the forbidding grey wall, though she could not prevent her steps from becoming shorter, and rather timid. Surely she had already passed the halfway point? She must reach her goal soon.

The path was becoming much more uneven. She stumbled to a stop and strained to make out the way ahead. Were there loose rocks here to make her lose her footing? She must take care. If she were injured here, no one would find her.

The mist had become so thick now that she could barely see her own feet. She took a few steps more, but stopped. She could see nothing. She was no longer sure she was on the path at all. Perhaps she should sit on the ground and wait until the mist lifted? But if she did so, she might freeze. Besides, she would lose precious time. She must reach Broughton, and catch that first stage before anyone from Portbury discovered her flight. She dare not delay. She must keep on, in spite of the mist.

Taking a deep breath of the thick air, she made to stride out again.

A hand caught her waist from behind. She screamed. The sound was swallowed up in the swirling mist. Then another hand clamped across her mouth. She was pulled sharply backwards into a man’s body. It reeked of sweat. The hand on her mouth was so filthy she could taste it. She fought to free herself, trying to kick and stamp with her heavy boots.

Her captor was too wily to be caught by such feeble female struggles. He held her fast and dragged her backwards into the enveloping mist.